The majority of parties in Vancouver are designed to appeal to one group in the city. Or, if they’re not specifically meant for a group, then a certain type of person becomes attracted to the party and the party embraces them forevermore (see: the ravers in the basement of Club 23, the hip kids at the Astoria on Tuesday). This mentality is necessary in a city with a still-young and small scene, so event nights can attract a crowd and stay afloat.

But, on August 15 at the Anza Club, one cool word magazine broke the Vancouver nightlife rules. The architecture of the party was such that a wide array of social types could rock their socks off until 2am, and not want to knife their neighbours. The place, the music, and the people were all magically eclectic, and managed to hold hands until the end.

I walked into the party at around 9pm and was handed a copy of the magazine; everyone who paid cover got a magazine, which meant that we all immediately had a hard copy of the thing that brought us there. A symbol of our common ground. Some reassurance that even if we don’t see someone wearing our style of dress, we might still belong.

The upstairs of the Anza Club is big and its empty spaces beg you to walk around. Even at 9pm, the room buzzed with activity. I sat at a table with three boy strangers and discussed the genre of the first act, Piper Davis, and her equally lovely backup singer. They said trip hop. I thought funk-folk, but I’m sure that’s not a real thing. Piper’s understated jazzy sound gently pulled attention to the front of the room. For the first quarter of the night, the duo of girls anchored the crowd’s eyes.

Until, in a burst of motion, five people dressed in decadent gypsy rags, bangles, and torn tuxes swept onto the dance floor and waved their arms in all directions. They convinced us all, at a ridiculously early hour, that dancing is fun and great.

Those five gypsies ended up being the second band, Muzyka, and when they climbed onstage they took us somewhere different. Like, 180 degrees different. Ari Lazer stood at the mike and regaled us with a folk epic that was backed with music, including a wailing cello. Around the perimeter of the Anza people sat with their mouths agape, not really knowing what they were experiencing. But they listened to every word. And it somehow seemed to fit. The crowd discussed magazines and art and storytelling, and noses never turned up into the air over something different. Muzyka’s dedicated following, mostly wearing cropped loose pants and flowing skirts, danced their fucking feet off and were joined by anyone with an ounce of folksiness.

The dancers didn’t leave when Hayfa Makes Music came on with their east-coast inspired rock. The sound was a bit harder and drew the perimeter dwellers to the centre. There were all types moving around the dance floor — hipsters, hippies, gypsies, and parents — all the things you want for a people-watching evening, the factors that you think will make it interesting. But the ones that amazed me the most were the regular people, in running shoes and blank t-shirts, doing extraordinary things. Throwing themselves around like they haven’t gone out on a Friday in years. The regular people, who haven’t specialized in their fashion, who no club caters to, made the night fester and grow. The place was packed — and it’s a huge place. A quick walk around the room proved that anyone not dancing was talking about something awesome and sometimes important, or at least drinking too much beer. And all were smiling because no one and everyone belonged in the undefined Anza space.

After the deep vocals and violin of Hayfa, there was a pause before Hawaiian Bibles. A small gap filled by one cool word’s compilation CD and blurred vision, during which I took the time to go to the washroom and stand in front of the mirror for a while. I think I may have had a conversation with a heroin addict down there. Maybe about heroin. When I returned, Hawaiian Bibles had started and the crowd had thinned. I pity the people that left because Hawaiian Bibles was the best possible cap to the night.

Two guys.

Bass and drum.

My notes and memory are a bit illegible for this portion of the night, so here’s my best attempt at words to describe something that has only remained as a lingering tingle in my toes:

Sultry, dance-pop magic.

Think David Bowie drinking lemonade. Chased by vodka. But, at, like, a garage sale on Hastings. That also describes how I danced.
I was happy to see that even the folksy kids, who if immediately confronted by this music may have curled into balls or wandered away, were rocking around with me. The place turned into an intimate concert for the wasted and dedicated.

I stumbled home smiling.

The Release party succeeded by not giving itself a genre. The party architects gave it a widespread but distinct structure that one couldn’t see before entering. From the lineup, I wasn’t sure it was going to make sense. The strange assortment of factors was predetermined, but entropy was allowed to take over once everyone was inside. It was great to see the eclectic readership of ocw existing in the same space, each group offering something old and something new, knowing they had a magazine to read in bed on Saturday morning.