Friends, brothers, lovers.. I’m back to reprise you all of my latest tale of love and betrayal, an account filled with heroism and deception, a saga schmeared with cream cheese upon tender wheat thins (ever try ‘em? its an orgasm in your mouth). That’s right people… this story echoes far across the seas and stretches past the plains of middle earth… our setting? None other than SaintsNation… home of the tumultuous hand grenade, the feral hurricane, and a slew of southern Baptist girls who believe anal sex bypasses losing one’s virginity. That’s right gents, I’m referring to none other than Nawwwlins!
Now I’m not going to go into the specifics of my entire week there; it’d take nothing short of a novel to explain how my buddy Vass got wheel chaired out of a huddle of eight cops while fitted in Spartan garbs covered in blood (and no he’s not handicap). Regaling of my buddy G-Money’s $5000 escapade at Rick’s Cabaret would take at least two HBO special presentations just to make sure we didn’t skip a boob… I mean beat! Not to mention recalling the attempted theft of Dick Ross’ cell phone and how our own subordinate group of CIA agents sprung into action and successfully tracked down the perp via ‘Find My iPhone’ with no more than the aid of a scooter cop would take about as much storytelling as Walt Disney on a speedball. No no no my friends… if you’d like to hear the entire legend of warriors, then saddle up next to me at a bar sometime, allow me to pour you a shot of that Mexican gasoline and together we’ll share the laughs of a thousand Bill Cosbys. I will however break you off a piece of the rarest Kit-Kat bar to ever hit the shelves, this occurrence taking place on the holiest nights of our trip. The evening when testosterone was at its highest and our deductive reasoning at an all-time low. When heartbeats pumped like 69 gas station attendants and impulses more reactive than a 12 year old’s science fair project. I speak of none other than the time we met Quinten van den Berg... or how most of you know him as.. Quintino.
The story takes place two days after Halloween night, November 2nd 2013. We had just left one of the suburban parts of New Orleans having spent some time standing outside this hole-in-the-wall dive bar. Predicated around their cheap beer, live music, and chicks with gaps between their teeth, this place was as ‘Who Dat’ as it gets. Since all of us were simply the BIGGEST BLUEGRASS FANS IN THE WORLD, it’s so easy to see how we all ended up there………… yea... right. I know as much about bluegrass music as I do about Christianity and me being a total pecker-nosed Jew and all, that ain’t much! The real reason for our presence here was that a member of our group (we’ll call him Dan for anonymous purposes) whose appetite for the accordion is completely insatiable, had a hunger that night for the only thing that could match this sandwich looking instrument...and that my friends is a little thing I like to call pussy.
Ooh the vagina... nature’s rubix cube. The mere promise of this can blindly lure a group of estranged men each into a 6-foot hole marked with their own grave. Like any other night, our dearest friend Dan, whose hankering for this bean on a biscuit was at an all time high, made that very promise to all of us... and like time and time again we followed thoughtlessly into the night. Upon our arrival at Twiteener’s Bar and Grill, the appeal of this powerful vice had dissipated once we realized the situation we were in… trying to scalp tickets to a sold out show to see 4 guys make music with instruments you could find underneath your kitchen sink. The talent of females in attendance was more like an auditioning for who could play B. Rabbit’s mother in 8 Mile. Standing outside for about 15 minutes contemplating our next move, hopes of getting in began to dwindle and reality sank in…why the fuck are we here?! We just spent the two days prior meandering up and down Burbon Street getting facefucked by cleavage shooters and our chests licked by every plebian in town, a night in Jack the Ripper’s alley was just not cutting it. Suddenly, Dick Ross had an idea so groundbreaking it made Hurricane Katrina look like a puddle of mud… why not ditch this charade and go to Harrah’s Casino where none other than the Dutch master Quintino was playing?? BAD KIDS, might I pose a question to you all…what would you do in this situation? Yea… that’s what I thought.
It took all of about 5 seconds for the group to decide where to go. For $20 cover and a chance to see one of our favorite DJs shred in uncharted territory, the offer was harder to pass up than a private showing of Kate Upton doing the Cat Daddy (actually on second thought…). We immediately hopped in a cab and made our way to the casino. What we failed to realize however was that our driver, Vern, whose inability to convey an articulate message due to his southern drawl made it damn near impossible to hear what he had to say. Phrases such as “Youns fellas got rocks?” or “That glayus winda right der youn might go trew” shoulda raised red flags had we been natives to this boot-shaped land, but instead we naively laughed at every spoon-fed word he spat us. After three red lights ran, seven lane changes without signaling, two hopped curbs, and one clipped pedestrian, we miraculously found ourselves stumbling out of the taxi and onto the pavement outside of Harrah’s Casino. Never had we been more excited for what lay ahead, let alone to finally have two feet on solid ground. Did you know that on every identification card in the backseat of New Orleans’ taxis it reads in big bold print “Killing of a taxicab driver may be a First Degree Murder offense in the State of Louisiana, punishable by death” …I now understand why.
We approached the casino with little skeptic and the aspiring luck of the Irish. Clearly Quintino was our main objective but who doesn’t go into a casino and not partake in the local customs? As we made our way through the maze of slot machines and cheap hookers, the entrance of the Masquerade club rose up before us like a Phoenix from its ashes, however something quite startling took us all by surprise… not only had entrance fees been dumbed down to free admission, but there was no line whatsoever to get in… where the fuck were we?
As we dance-walked inside shaking our tail feathers to the house DJ warming up the crowd, we were stunned to see absolutely nobody on the dance floor or for that matter, inside the club. It was about a half hour til Quintino came on so we assumed the rave ghouls that generally come out of the woodwork at night would start flooding in but none of them seemed to manifest. This show being an official after party for Voodoo festival (which just so happened to be going on that very weekend), we thought the very least it would draw those house faithfuls who can never seem to go to bed after a show… to our surprise the only people ready to dance with the devil at this hour was our rumblin stumblin A-squad.
Ok, quick side note before I carry on any further… apparently people in New Orleans DO NOT LIKE ELECTRONIC MUSIC let alone even know what the hell it is… shocking I know. The super sleuths that we are did some immediate investigative reporting amongst the crowd and were able to deduce that they were only present because, “we like music!” and “cool atmosphere!” For those of you that have never been to New Orleans, allow me to enlighten you... when you walk up and down Burbon Street I shit you not, you’ll run into a street performing band strumming an ol’ banjo, playing the spoons on their laps, or even nails on a washboard more often than you’ll hear even the faintest sound of a pulsating bass echoing from somewhere in the distance. Its the craziest, most backwards thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life! I was under the impression that EVERY club you go to whenever a headliner like Quintino is playing is packed tighter than a mouse’s asshole, something like Pacha on a Saturday night... ya feel me? Oh contraire! Quite the opposite!
Anyways, if you think this drastic and sudden change of culture was going to dictate the way we get down, you don’t know Frank (Jack is overused). Me and my seven other allies walked into Masquerade that night with bigger dicks than Ron Jeremy on dick steroids. We immediately hit the dance floor to test out the local wheels… not a car on the lot. If there were 600 people in the club, maybe 8 of them were on the dance floor… for those of you that can’t read, there were 8 of us total. Subsequently as any born raver does… we surveyed the scene, recognized the club-prudes (people on the dance floor that want to dance but to afraid to make the first move), fueled the tank (drank like a fish), and then resumed to do what we do best... get down with the GetDown. We took to the dance floor like the Mighty Ducks took to the ice… with grace, ease, and synergy. We were walking on sunshine... assuming sunshine was made out of 2 inches of waxed lumber that occupied a dance space no bigger than 20 by 30 feet. We were skating on timber and reeling in girls with our imaginary rods… no joke... I caught a 110-pound flounder, quite the fight.
Things were going well, jams were blasting, booties were shaking, but the best had yet to come. About 10 minutes before Quintino came on we all started to get a little urge… the urge to splurge. As you may have forgotten (because midwriting this I sure as hell did), but the entire time we were space-quakin, we were neglecting one massive part of the club… oh I dunno, maybe the part that was inside a motherfuckin casino! We reached into our pockets to see how much money we had and once we realized we all had an equal amount to piss away, we decided why the fuck not! Now bear in mind, this was not our first thought process... like any young gun at a casino with a pocket full of cash we had this awesome idea that “hey! If we put all of our money on black and hit, we could be up double of what we all have!” Great idea right?! Yea, we thought the same thing… until we lost! We left the club located in the direct middle of Harrah’s and trotted into the casino like ancient Greeks on horseback believing we were about to conquer an empire, the only problem was... we had no weapons and only ginormous assholes. The New Orleanais that we took to arms not only said no to our black, they took out their massive New Orleans dongs and butt fucked us until we left in shame and misery. The battle had been fought and won... just not by us.
As we stumbled into the club with our pants around our ankles and nothing to show for it, a faint sound could be heard in the distance. What it was… not quite sure... all we knew was that we liked it and that nothing else at this very moment in time could help fill the hole dug deep within our loins better than this rhythmic lull could. As we walked closer to the dance floor, with every step we took our hearts began to beat faster, our blood started to rush quicker, and our schlongs began to rise harder. Before we knew it we were on the dance floor and our frowns had suddenly been turned upside down… and in the darkness of everything that had just occurred emerged a light, a calm, a beat… a beat capable of pulling the most grief-stricken individual out of the hole of shit they were once in and immersing them into a world of euphoria and peace. Let it be known that 30 seconds before we walked into that club, we were in the deepest darkest place one could possibly be… within half a minute of entering Masquerade we had all been instantly pulled out of the gutter and thrown onto a bed of pillows filled with women jumping up and down with double D titties… that my friends is what house music is all about.
I don’t feel it needs to be said but I’ll clarify it anyways… if you don’t already know who it was that was capable of eliciting that kind of emotion out of eight guys who were three sheets to the wind at two in the morning less than 48 hours after Halloween, let me be the one to enlighten you... it was Quintino. For the next 2 hours we danced our fucken asses off, whether it be eight guys or 30 others, we pulled, lassoed, coerced, manipulated, antagonized, allured, however you wanna call it… we turned that dance floor into a field of Mexican humping beans gyrating at above GForce speeds.
The night was ours and not a care in the world was preventing us from making the most out of it. Quintino played jam after hit after banger. Sultan and Ned Shepard’s mix of “Locked Out Of Heaven” brought people to their knees in order to sing those high pitch notes that you can never fucken hit, and then Tiesto’s “Pair of Dice” mixed with Zedd’s “Clarity” brought you right back up or as Vass so emphatically exclaimed “this pulls us back in!” But nothing could compare to when Quintino dropped his Sistine Chapel, his ninth symphony, his sliced bread, the one… the only… EPIC. Not even the kids who refuse to dance at prom were standing on the sides of the cafeteria for this one. Every dude and dudette in that bitch had made their way to the dance floor to try and uproot that sucker the best they could. By this point in the night I was perched on my buddy’s shoulders at head bobbing level with the puppet master himself no more than 5 feet away. While movin to the grovin I was conducting the crowd with my fist pumps and forceful arm points, just livin the dream my friends... livin the dream.
Never in my entire life have I been to a show that was as intimate as the one we were at that night. I can’t even count how many times I’ve been to a rave where the DJ is on a fucken 20 foot platform that’s fenced off another 10 feet away from the pit. Here Quintino was on a 4 foot stage that we were posting up against for an occasional cigarette break, even hopping onto a couple times to give the master Dutch pancake turner a couple high fives. Say what you want about going to a show with barely anybody there, but if you got a headlining DJ like Quintino who you know for 100% is going to throw it the fuck down no matter whose in attendance, its going to be a legendary time no matter what. You disagree? How about having the DJ give you a shoutout right before playing the last song of the night for keeping the dance floor on lockdown the entire time… that my friends is what I call—‘finally being congratulated for all the hard work we do when we go out there night after night and dance our fucken faces off.’ You think Quintino is the only one putting on a show? Listen up BAD KIDS, we don’t go to raves to play games... we mean business… and all Quintino did was recognize that, about time someone fucken did! So on that note, thank you Quintino… much appreciated.
Alright so now that I coaxed my ego a little bit, back to being a crazed fucken fanatic cause holy shit does this story get a whole lot better… don’t worry this post is almost over I swear. So the night was over and our eight man wrecking crew was all wrecked out. As we headed for the exit, we walked past the stage and scanned the vicinity for any last minute Quintino encores. Nothing. Just when we thought all hope was lost this big euro dude flashes us a picture gesture and points to Quintino… ladies… gentlemen… I cannot emphasize anymore how a group of adult men instantly transformed into a flock of preteen girls at a Backstreet Boys concert. It’s sickening and incredibly embarrassing the more I recall it, but who the hell cares… it was motherfucking Quintino! In tandem we all sprinted to the other side of the stage and met Quintino as he was walking off. In that split second I was trying to remember every Quintino show I’ve ever been to and then spitting them out left and right telling him that every single one was unforgettable because to be completely honest, they were (EDCNYC2012 Quintino’s closing set at the CircuitGrounds… go listen and live a little why dontcha). We gabbed for a couple seconds, snapped a pic for the scrapbook, and that was it… or so we thought.
We walked out of the club into the casino on cloud 9 slapping hands and retelling the story of what had just happened over and over again. In walks Dick Ross who was just—I don’t fucken know where but whatever he was doing it just made him miss out on getting in the picture with us and Quintino. Struck with rigor mortis Dick Ross couldn’t believe what had just happened, and then suddenly as if someone had stuck him with a B12 shot the kid was off and running to hunt Quintino down. We instinctively ran after him and helped aid him in the hot pursuit of the lone Dutchman. As we scoured the casino looking for the one they call Quintino, Dick Ross decided to leave the group again and take a little peepee break as if the last 30 seconds of his life just didn’t happen. He does this a lot. Sure enough the second he leaves we spot Quintino making a break for the exit with his tour manager. Just then Vass bolts into the bathroom and starts screaming “Dick! Dick! Dick!” at the top of his lungs in hopes of finding our dear friend. Unbenounced to all the men in the bathroom at the time, Dick is merely our friend’s name and not the male organ that Vass seemed to be so desperately in search of. As a couple of men ran out of the bathroom with the most puzzled and guarded looks on their faces, Dick Ross finally emerged. All together again, we ran down Quintino and asked him for just one more picture. Totally not stalkerish or anything. I’ll tell you right now though, I’ve met a handful of DJs in my day and Quintino by far was the most chill one of them all. Not only was Quintino more than willing to take another picture with us, but after we told him we were all from New York the dutchmasterflex INVITED US AND OUR FRIENDS to his show DECEMBER 6th at PACHA and that he’d put us all on his PERSONAL GUESTLIST… which brings me to the conclusion of this rather long yet extremely gripping tale (drumroll please)…
This Friday me and my fellow A-squad members will be at Pacha in the DJ booth with none other than Quintino, however it wouldn’t be a party without some BAD KIDS now would it?! Which is why I’m offering a couple spots on this guest list to whichever crazy ass mofos wanna gimme a shout in the comments below and tell me how BAD they wanna rage their tits off! First come, first serve. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!