Norman Jay at the Delano, or Why I Should’ve Been at Nerve for Frankie Knuckles...
Although I’m not rich, pretty, or cool, I’ve enjoyed numerous nights at the Delano hotel. I have many fond memories of sitting with my wife on Donatella’s sofa, listening to DJ Shannon, and sipping overpriced club soda with lime.
Despite being popular with trendy travelers who prefer style to substance, the Delano’s lounge has always offered tourists and locals alike an elegant and surprisingly egalitarian escape from the downscale decadence that typifies so much of SoBe.
Recently, Deb and I returned to the haute hotel to see the legendary Norman Jay spin at an early evening X-Type event. I was in a rather foul mood when we finally arrived, largely due to a series of automotive misadventures.
Our urban assault vehicle had already hemorrhaged power steering fluid all over the highway; crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, without any air conditioning, looking for an available parking space, wasn’t exactly the ideal pre-clubbing experience.
My wife, of course, had remained rather philosophical throughout it all, which only added to my childish frustration. She can be oppressively optimistic at times.
Stepping into the Delano’s luxurious lobby was a welcome respite from my real world worries. The white, billowing curtains gently surrounded us, and the room was almost overflowing with shiny, happy people. Everyone was smiling, and I did my best to fit in. A comforting house beat filled the air, displacing the honking and yelling outside. Maybe there was hope for the evening after all.
As we made our way through the upbeat, upscale crowd, we passed socialites devouring sushi, business men playing at billiards, and lots of well-dressed drinkers.
It wasn’t an unpleasant scene, really, but the laid-back music wasn’t sufficiently engaging to keep us from venturing out back, past the enormous and impressive Quartz swimming pool and “water salon,” to see Norman Jay.
The Delano’s lush, landscaped garden courtyard was filled with Tiki torches, a giant chess set, and even more perfect party-goers. It must’ve been a very European crowd, because even the ocean breeze couldn’t dissipate the cigarette smoke wafting past the cabanas.
It was particularly difficult to navigate through the clusters of beautiful people surrounding the bar, but we eventually made our way through the throng and onto the sand, where Norman Joseph, MBE, was holding court under a large umbrella.
Ever since I first read about the Good Times sound system, I had been looking forward to hearing Norman Jay spin. He was the first DJ ever to be honored by the Queen, and his radio show and festival appearances are well-regarded by the dance music cognoscenti.
The Delano crowd, however, seemed largely indifferent to his performance. Most people were simply standing around and drinking. It was an odd scene. Perhaps it was cool to be here, but not cool to pay attention to the man behind the turntables. I’ve seen people pretending to have fun in certain SoBe clubs before, but this was like they were pretending to be bored.
After listening to Norman Jay’s set for a while, I began to suspect that maybe they really were bored. The Delano’s speaker-on-a-stick sound wasn’t bad, but it didn’t provide nearly enough low end.
I know it takes a lot of power and multiple subwoofers to deliver decent bass in an outdoor environment, but some added thump might’ve moved the masses without inhibiting their all-important conversations.
The energy ebbed and flowed, but without any discernable purpose. Jay appeared to be picking records at random, and he kept interrupting the music with pre-recorded vocal interludes that were probably meant to be funny. I’m sure at least a few people thought it was clever, but I’ve heard that sort of thing from too many battle DJs to be impressed.
Frankly, Norman Jay and the crowd seemed equally oblivious to each other. When Jay played a drop that started with the sound of a needle skipping violently across a record, the reaction was minimal. The lack of response was more startling than the noise itself.
Eventually, Jay played the obligatory “Milkshake” remix, which prompted a brief bout of half-hearted dancing. Admittedly, beach sand does not make the best dance floor, and it’s a challenge to shake one’s booty with a Cosmo in one hand and a cigarette in the other, so perhaps it wasn’t as sad as I thought at the time.
While observing this puzzling panorama, we literally bumped into a few acquaintances, two of whom had once attended the high school where my wife teaches. Whenever we go clubbing in south Florida, we inevitably encounter former students (and sometimes, much to our dismay, current students with counterfeit licenses).
Apparently, seeing an English teacher outside of her classroom is cause for celebration. Hugs and kisses are always exchanged, and then I get introduced. Now I know how Guy Ritchie feels.
Anyway, we all chatted for a while and compared notes on Norman Jay’s set. They were enjoying it, mostly, but quickly invited us to join them at Nerve to see Frankie Knuckles. It was tempting, especially given the situation.
Deb was willing, but I was hot, tired, and anxious about the long drive home in our ailing truck. Of course, effecting a field-expedient repair on high-pressure hydraulic hose is pretty much impossible, regardless of the hour, but that didn’t occur to me at the time. We reluctantly declined their offer, and then trudged back to our sport futility vehicle.
Maybe it was my bad mood, or maybe it was the crowd, or maybe it was just Norman Jay, but I was definitely disappointed. Still, the Delano is undeniably lovely, and the Saturday night X-Type beach parties draw a nice crowd. We’ll be back. As soon as I replace that power steering hose.
