10 Hours in Amsterdam

I got off of the plane at midnight and started looking for the unknown individual who was escorting me into town. I had just flown in from Lisbon, and was a little fuzzy from having only had three hours of sleep after my gig the night before (more to come on that). But my lack of sleep was quickly falling into the background as excitement for what was to come gradually took hold. It was my first gig (and first time) in Amsterdam.

It was actually just an overnight lay-over, between Portugal and Portland, OR. I had about 10 hours to spare, hours that I certainly didn't want to waste sitting in Schiphol Airport for my last night of my two weeks in Europe. So I had contacted my good friend, Paul Sparkes, a very talented British DJ/Producer living in Amsterdam, a few weeks before to let him know I'd be in town and to inform him that I was a) appointing him my tour guide, and b) going to make sure that he didn't get a wink of sleep until I got on my plane. His response? That it happened to not only be his birthday, but that it was also the very same night that he hosted his monthly event, Floorplay, at the very hip Club NL in Amsterdam, and would I like to DJ?

I said I guessed, you know, supposed I would. I also squealed like a little girl in excitement. Thankfully, the exchange took place over email, so Paul was saved the pain of my high-pitched falsetto.

I was eventually collected by Paul's intern, after we both realized that we were the only two looking around in confusion for someone we didn't know. We boarded the train into town, and I was welcomed to the Netherlands by a train car full of singing Dutch beauties. Seriously. They piled on right before the train pulled out, filled the car with their un-Americanly tall selves, and immediately began singing at the top of their lungs for the entire 20-minute trip into downtown. It was like summer camp, but drunker and a whole hell of a lot hotter. It was surreal, and undoubtedly the best way I could have asked to start off my one night in this beautiful city.

We made it into the club at roughly 12:45 a.m, and I awkwardly jostled myself and my luggage up to the DJ booth where I was immediately taken up in a tight hug by the brit, dropped my bags, and was handed a glass of champagne. We toasted his old age (and I snickered at the evident grey hairs), in between his mixes, and then I started to take stock of the club.

It's an intimate place, Club NL. Initially opened some years ago as a swanky lounge that has served drinks to a number of international celebrities, including Madonna, it was then turned into a dance club. Paul explained to me that many of the venues in Amsterdam are of the smaller sort, so this was pretty typical. When you first walk in, the red lighting illuminates the way down the bar. This is the slimmest part of the club, with the bar on your left, running lengthwise until you reach the dancefloor, where it opens up to your right about 30 feet, with the DJ booth immediately on your left at the end of the bar, and the dance floor continuing to the back about another 30 feet. The whole place is decorated and illuminated in the red theme, including the plush seating that makes for a place to rest your feet or sip champagne in the right and left corners.

Paul was playing some deep, techy brilliance that possessed a great, moving vibe that clearly the dance floor enjoyed. He played until about 1:30, allowing me time to get situated (ie, drink more champagne), dig through my tunes, and get a feel for the place. My evaluations led me to the conclusions that the Dutch were a beautiful people who clearly loved good, underground music. I was definitely looking forward to playing.

In Portland, I mostly find myself playing a mixture of downtempo in lounge venues, or big-room styled music as the opening DJ for larger named acts. I viewed my upcoming hours behind the decks in Amsterdam as an opportunity to play a sort of music that I don't often get to play in Portland, but that I nonetheless love to hear, dance to, and be a part of. I was armed with an arsenal of deep, reverberating, tribal tech-house that I knew would leave skid marks in the underpants. I don't think I disappointed.

What followed was two-plus-hours of some of my best times behind the turntables. I've been known as a DJ that is in constant motion in the booth, always moving to the music. But this night I danced as much as they danced, smiled as much as they smiled, and enjoyed as much as they enjoyed. I was having one of those moments when it makes sense. Everything that I've ever done, every track that I've ever bought, every lame and totally not-lame gig that I've ever played, they all led up to that one perfect moment. And it's not that I was surrounded by 1,000 or more dancing bodies -- that's happened on a number of occasions -- but just that it all fit so well, and the perfect synchronicity between DJ, music, and dancer, where the communication and understanding is almost infallible, made for one of those experiences where nobody could deny the electricity in the room.

I made fast friends after my set with a stunning Dutch model, named Jamila, who had been dancing the entire night, and was a vortex for energy on the dance floor. After my set, we danced the remainder of the night away to Paul's closing tracks. Then Paul, Jamila, and I, as well as a few others, stuck around for some after-closing drinks and over-all enjoyment of a night gone well.

Around 5 a.m., it was time to leave the club. I said my farewells to those that I had just met, and piled into an "illegal" cab (individuals who aren't licensed to operate, but charge less than a regular taxi. You have to know someone to get their contact info), and made off to the airport with Paul and company. Paul was in possession of a magnum bottle of champagne (a birthday gift to Paul from an illusive and enigmatic individual named Rachel), so upon arrival at the airport, his roommate, Lidemarie (a smart ass if I've ever met one), he, and I continued the celebration in true Amsterdam style, drinking directly from the bottle in the middle of the airport. After finally being told by one of the security -- quite politely, I might add -- that we couldn't drink that there, we deposited the rest of the bottle in the trash and made our way quite noisily to the airport bar where I made damn sure that I was going to be cross-eyed while going through security -- possibly not one of my smarter choices.

I finally boarded the plane after semi-successfully making it through security (I had to repeatedly and confusedly search my carry-on before I discovered the bottle of liquids, my shaving cream, that they kept telling me they were seeing on the x-ray), and in a properly beffudled fashion, found my seat. There, the three hours of sleep in two days caught hold, and I woke up ten hours later in Portland.

Paul has recently been tickled by the idea of sending me emails claiming that the Dutch authorities are charging him a 300 dollar fine for drinking champagne in the airport and leaving me voicemails in Dutch, pretending to be said authorities (while Lidemarie sniggers in the background). But, as I recently told him, no matter what language he's speaking, he still sounds like a limey.

Overall, the night, I'd say, was a roaring success. Thanks, Paul.

In honor of that ever-so-sweet set, I made a stream-able and downloadable version:

10 Hours in Amsterdam by evanalexander

And a few choice photos from the night:

Me and Paul