Hang the DJ
I think I loved Rash so much because of its grime. The scrappy atmosphere. The way things didn't work, but did. The aesthetic of the place was unclear. A beaded curtain guarded the entrance to the bathrooms, always getting caught in my hair. There was a long leather couch along the lounging area which was snuggled in by an acrylic table, scratched and scarred. Behind, a thick glass partition, quilted of glossy squares separated the lounge from the dance floor. Next to the couch, a large floor-to-ceiling mirror, covered in squiggly graphics resembling cartoonish reflections of light, like a fun house mirror. I’d be waiting in line for the bathroom watching, people take pictures of themselves or play with their reflections while they thought no one was looking.
Man set fire to LGBTQ bar with staff inside, an early Friday morning article from the Washington Post reads, in bold black font. Jaclyn Peiser recounts the event, one of the bartenders that night, “joined a customer [who was] having a cigarette outside.” Moments after they left the bar, “the security guard, who was standing near a side door, noticed a man pouring liquid onto the floor. The guard asked him what he was doing, and the man responded saying it was water and that he was a cleaner.”
Then he lit the puddle on fire.
I think I’ve outgrown Rash. I wrote most of this piece nearly a year ago when I’d never been to a club because of the music. I just went to clubs to get drunk. And I had never really danced to music either. So, very easily and very suddenly Rash became my sacred grimey gross place where I’d go to there find friends, experiment with people, and have long drawn-out nights that seemed endless. It was where I would hear new music and meet artists. A place I went to relieve stress, exercise, and sweat. It was a space that allowed me to get in touch with my body in a way you only can when you release yourself to just move.
The first time I went to Rash I was with someone I barely knew, Chase, who offered me an extra ticket to a concert in Philadelphia. The day was crammed with a Greyhound ride there, exploring the city, and the show. And then a light doting and flirtatious tension that unfurled on the drunken bus ride back to the city. After a drowsy train ride into Brooklyn, we walked through Bushwick and headed towards our respective apartments.
And then, heavy bass and fog rolling out of an open club door were curious. The black void was calling. We both took notice and silently agreed to go inside. Only for a second. The club was nearly empty, a few shadows sitting at the bar. We went to the back room, where the music was coming from.
It was loud, bass bumping hard, the kind that makes your eardrum vibrate. Sometimes my ribcage would rattle. There were only a couple of people on the dancefloor, lost in their world, with independent rhythms. And so we did the same. I shuffled my steps, floated my hands above my head, closed my eyes, and rocked back and forth. I had never heard music like this, let alone felt like I knew how to move to it. But something just made sense. I opened my eyes back up to strobing red lights that pulsed like a heavy heart. Chase twirled towards me, gesturing poppers into my hands. A tiny red bottle reading Rush. I took a whiff of the gnarly chemical cleaner and sank into sound. Thumpthumpthump, heavy in my chest.
The fresh high from deteriorated brain cells soon wore off and we leaped off the floor, out of the club, and back into the real world; the fake fog trailing off our heels. It all seems so dramatic because it was.
When you’d enter the club, and step onto the black-painted wood floor, the bar is the first thing you’d see. Small cylindrical chandeliers swayed from the ceiling. A scrolling LED sign reading RASH over and over again in stippled lettering hung overhead. The sign had that same red burning light that would surge and grow fuzzier as my nights there would trickle into the morning hours. And the inside of Rash was painted entirely black, the only light coming from the bar, the bathroom, strobes from the dance floor, and the occasional car light dripping in from the windows. It was completely disorienting and time-escaping. For better or for worse I could dance for minutes that would feel like hours, or dance for hours, and then the sun was coming up and not know the difference.
One night I went, and the place was nearly empty. I sat at the bar, a little more stoned than I had planned to be. It was to help with the nerves, I told myself. I was freshly going out alone, which was daunting. I was still finding legs in confidence.
Before the bartender, I took note of the acrylic bar top and the shabby accouterments in an unorganized mess. I liked that. He poured me a gin and tonic, and we started chatting. All the usual questions trailed into longer conversations and more genuine laughs. When the bar had a lull, we stepped out to share a smoke. Blonde curls and a cherubic face made his age hard to guess. We took slow sips from our drinks paired with slow drags from our smokes. The cold air chilled our backs while the music echoed, fanning out into the street corners. I work every Wednesday, he said, but I never saw him again.
When I first heard about the fire, I was in disbelief. I saw videos circulating on the internet. Some videos of fire trucks wailing with their emergency lights flashing. Some think the fire was a queer hate crime. There had been similar attacks, stabbings, and bomb threats made at other clubs beating with queer nightlife. I never guessed it could've been a crime of malice. I hoped someone flicked a burning cherry too close to the building and embers struck. But, the motive is still unknown, even now a year later.
On busy nights, hoards in all black clung to the walls staring at the others around. It is hard to say what kind of group Rash would bring in, though. I’ve walked to the club on weekdays, ill at ease and wanting to move, to find chatty bartenders and sober dancers. Groups supporting their friend’s set. Sometimes ravers left from the night before dancing off a high. On weekend hours, the doors are overspilled with all types of people. Painted eyes and lips, strappy raver gear, fishnets, lots of black and intricate up-dos. Other times it would be filled with old punks, rocking frayed and studded leather. This space welcomed a variety of people, all wanting to get drunk off of some type of beat. And I wanted to meet all of them. I never went to Rash with friends because it was a place be no one, but could become whoever. The rules of the night were up to me. That, and most of my friends are not into Techn, always sheepish at the club door.
Rash opened its doors in October 2021, co-owned by two young artists Jake Sillen and Claire Bendiner. I couldn’t find much about them online, seeming to be nearly as young as I am with not much experience in bar-owning, but I imagine they opened the club in the hopes of creating a unique space for music lovers of all kinds.
Rash mainly hosted techno or house music DJs, all small names that would have people dancing with dedication. They would host metal, jazz, and punk shows, too. I once strolled in and the dancefloor swamped with a green light. Younger kids, dressed in grungey cut-up clothes, surrounded one person and their microphone. They screamed into the mic with their whole body and the others bobbed in solidarity. It was an intimate screamo show. It reminded me there should always be a space for any type of music, no matter how small the crowd is.
But, I have always been attracted to the heavy bass-thumping ear-bleeding shit. A beat I can feel in my palms, on the crown of my head, and one that twists deep inside my chest.
The dance floor was simply a black box at the end of a short hallway leading away from the bar. On sparse nights, the room felt cavernous, yawning in its corners. I could twirl and revolve around the room amongst the few others. Wave my arms around like a little techno ballerina. The perimeter was lined with a shallow shelf, and on the weekends it was piled high with coats, spilled drinks, and the occasional little baggie. The once cavernous black box couldn’t become smaller, feeling only a few feet wide. The floor would be packed with sticky bodies, the smell of sweat, and spilled beer. When passing through, you couldn’t help but get caught in long hair, rub up against torsos and asses, or interlock with a few fingers. Sometimes dancing, I’d close my eyes and it would feel like I was alone in that room. Just me, my body, and sound. Moving till my legs collapsed beneath me.
And after a long night of dancing I, of course, needed to step outside for a smoke. The outside of Rash could be described as less than atmospheric, although the crowd always made do. The building, located at 941 Willoughby Ave, is painted entirely black, with inky chips peeling off the brick layers onto the cold concrete. Above the building is a bridge that the subway passes on every few minutes interrupting the conversations. I’d watch people passing by, intrigued but the rumbling building and dramatic patrons standing outside. Some passersby would laugh pointing, what is that place? Others would look at each other, intrigued, and agree to step inside, but only for a second. Just like I did.
On nights of solitude, I’d sit outside of Rash observing after intervals of dance, and watching the cliques of people huddle together. If I was feeling brave, I’d walk up to a group or individual who seemed inviting, or just wait for someone to approach me. Which someone always did.
This is how I met Larissa and Lisai, two bright smiling beauties who approached me on a buzzing evening. Dressed in the very popular look of the club-goer; they wore drapey black tops, cargo pants, scarves and sunglasses, even in the pitch black of night. Lisai was petite with a pixie cut of wispy black tails and big eyes that always broke eye contact. She had a low voice and a hearty chuckle. She always had a cigarette in her hand, even on the dance floor, smoking up the room, ash falling with every beat. Larissa was the more theatrical of the two, with a black shawl tied around her head, and shiny beads raining on her forehead. She laughed like a hyena, a high-pitched shriek pouring from her mouth any time I would say something witty.
The two of them came up to me as I sat waiting for someone to do just that. We chatted about the last DJ’s set, bummed cigarettes off each other, and poked fun at the others around us. I got their numbers and promised I would see them again. And did soon after.
Now, we occasionally check up on each other, trying to find new stomping grounds. But we haven’t met up since Rash closed, nowhere else really feeling the same as our origins. I wonder if we will ever meet again, or if our friendships could only exist in that black box or chain-smoking til morning's birds coo.
As many times as I’ve sat outside taking rapid drags from a one-too-many cigarette, I’ve never noticed the apartments above. 941 Willoughby Ave carries a three-story apartment building above the venue. I’ve tried searching more of its history, but as far as I know, it has only housed residents willing to live above a bar or a restaurant, a revolving door of commercial renters calling the space below home. I imagine they must feel the heavy stomps of the bass below and attempt to drown it out with headphones or a pillow over their head. Or maybe, they were dancing with me too and I’d never know.
The club is still closed, and the fire’s destruction going to take many months to repair, but it will likely open again this year with community support and mutual aid. Since its loss, I try to emulate the feeling I would have twirling, spinning, and vibrating through the nights there.
For now, I’m just in my living room with my headphones on, dancing by myself.
Words: Vanya Suchan
