Techno purity

Central Square leaves techno to the purists
By DAVID DAY  |  July 24, 2007

inside_dj_hell_bernard_bena
DJ HELL: Dance luminaries in Phoenix Landing.

“I have to run to Dunkin’ Donuts,” says Eric McLaughlin (a/k/a DJ Eric Grey) late on a Wednesday night. “I’ve been up since 6:15 am.” “I’ve been up since 6 am,” counters Eddie Odabachian (a/k/a Triton), “I went rowing this morning.” “Oh yeah, I actually went rowing too,” replies McLaughlin, “at 5:45 am! I am training for a triathalon.” “Oh, well,” says Eddie with a laugh. “You beat me!”Arguments of top health are not usually overheard at techno parties, but this is Techno Wednesdays, the new Central Square weekly for high-end beats. Hours earlier, the Phoenix Landing was a restaurant, with tables spread out on the floor, Red Sox on the TV, and Irish nationals at the bar. “I said to my dad, ‘I just called mom on my mobile!’,” says waitress Amanda Giambrone, who had just returned from the Emerald Isle. “And I now call 11:30 half-elevenand all boys lads,” she says to a laugh from the Irish regulars. Kompakt label owner Michael Mayer has called the Phoenix Landing “the coolest Irish pub in the world,” and dance luminaries from DJ Hell to Audion have dropped sets in its comfy confines, but you’d never tell from the couple making out at the end of the bar or the sports on the numerous televisions. Although once a patron graciously switches the new Internet jukebox from John Fogerty’s god-awful “Centerfield” (George W. Bush’s favorite song!) to a lengthy techno track from 808 State, the environs become a little more clear. After McLaughlin returns with his coffee, the opening DJ, resident Sergio Santos, takes the decks. Slowly, a small crowd starts to gather, including dance-night princess Betzy Morales, who is constantly around this crew. “I love the music and I love my friends,” she says to me. “And the music makes me shake my ass!” The gang stands fairly still until Santos drops the dance-floor bomb “Enoi” from German group-of-the-minute Âme. Its recurring foghorn-like wail commands the dancefloor. And the buzz of techno continues to keep McLaughlin and his people awake and thriving . . . until rowing the next morning, that is.
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