Lessons Learned the Hard Way at Winter Music Conference

The author enjoying Avicii-branded ice cream outside of the Avicii-branded hotel. Photo by Michelle Lhooq.

It's 75 degrees and sunny down here at the Winter Music Conference. My tank top tan is out of control. I've accumulated seven wristbands and two press badges, which I wave at angry security guards who tell me I'm not allowed in this or that elevator. I've been carrying a bathing suit around in my backpack the entire time but haven't actually had time to get into a swimming pool. Nobody swims at pool parties anyways.

I've gone to about 11 different hotel rooftops, most of which were DJ'd by New Yorkers I could see on any given Friday in Brooklyn. I've yelled "TURN UP" more times than I can count, and I can hear the same relentless tech-house bassline I've been listening to for 72 hours looping in my head, over and over and over and over…

Right now I'm running on Cuban coffee, complimentary hors d'oeuvres, and a couple Rolaids. I've already interviewed half of the Top 40 Beatport chart, most of whom were way more charming than you'd expect—especially Steve Aoki. At some point I will go to Ultra and do tequila shots with Borgore or something. Pray for my sanity please.

Anyway, here are six lessons I've learned the hard way at the Winter Music Conference in South Beach, Miami.

GET OFF YOUR IPHONE, STUPID
Wednesday night my flight from New York sat on the tarmac for two hours so I didn't get into South Beach until one in the morning. Walking up to check in at the neon-contoured Catalina hotel I could hear the tinny whisper of far-off EDM bleeding from every bar, club, hotel, bodega, taxi, boombox, and beach party on the strip. Of course, I was staring down at my phone when a mobile Martin Garrix video mounted on a truck nearly killed me as it whizzed down Collins Avenue.

The scene outside of the author's hotel room, which was sponsored by Hype Energy Drink

LITERALLY EVERYTHING IS A CLUB
When I landed I texted our publisher, who was on his way back from a drum & bass rave at a liquor store. "There were, like, ten people in there and all the lights were off and they had a huge sound system. I swear to god," he yelled in my ear as we winced our way through the lobby, where a DJ with a Ron Swanson moustache was playing to nobody. He played trance records until five in the morning and my bedframe softly shook me to sleep. When I woke up I think there might have been a four-minute interval during which I heard absolutely no kick drums or hi-hats but then I opened the window in our bathroom and you could already hear the beach party starting next door.

RICHIE HAWTIN CHEATED (AND HE'S STILL RAKING IT IN)
The God of Minimal Techno himself was billed to play a midnight set at the Red Bull Guest House basement in South Beach. Of course we showed up an hour early because, well, it's Richie Fucking Hawtin—but by the time I finished my second gin and tonic his manager was already packing the equipment and a stout Eastern European was at the controls. Thanks for the half-hour set Richie. My heart is broken.

WEIRD IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT
I swear to god I saw two African lemurs high-five while riding in a bicycle basket. I saw Carl Cox eating a salmon filet prepared by Matthew Dear at a Red Bull-sponsored luncheon (or was that an energy drink-induced hallucination?). I rode in an Avicii-branded golf cart but couldn't get into the Avicii Hotel, which costs $175 for general admission. Jess Jubilee texted me at 3AM to tell me that Daniel Beddingfield had somehow snuck into her DJ booth. Who let him out of his cage?

Professional dancers from aboard the party bus that never moved…

THE PARTY BUS IS ALWAYS LATE
Wednesday night we crawled out of a club at around 4AM and were shepherded onto a tricked-out Greyhound bus headed for an after party at a bank vault. There were free knock-off Zimas and two tech-house DJs, who were freaking out about how many people were on the vehicle. By the time 4:45AM rolled around the bus still hadn't gone anywhere so we decided to call it a night. We ended up sitting on the beach at six or so, staring in awe at the vast dark expanse and the tiny, blinking lights that dotted the horizon.

SPEAKING OF WHICH, DON'T FORGET THERE'S A BEACH HERE
Most of the people I've met in Miami are frantic publicists and artist managers fiddling with their Blackberries and politely reminding famous DJs that they need to leave in five minutes or they're going to miss their Billboard interview. And every few minutes I'll receive a text message from someone telling me which dance parties they intend to hit over the next six hours or so, and it usually involves about four more destinations than anyone has time for. Throughout all of this, these people seem to forget that Miami has, like, the most beautiful beaches in the continental United States. And these pasty, chain-smoking New Yorkers could use some sun, yo, for real.

@maxpearl