Scratch that, 2024, although you might not know it right away from the number of tinted sunglasses and gelled-up mohawks in the crowd. Look a little closer, though, and you’ll notice a smattering of neon-green nylon and freshly inked cybersigilism tats adorning the younger party-goers. (Look closer just one more time, and you’ll realize they fit right in with the faded tribal tattoos of decades past.) This was the scene at the Fruit on Saturday, September 28th, as a night of nostalgic revelry kicked off.

Flash Horton was the first artist to heat up the dance floor, a devoted and versatile Raleigh-based producer with a vast skill set at his fingertips. With a UK garage-inspired sound, Flash established the grimy industrial feeling that saturated the warehouse space. The floor felt void-like, almost; a sea of black clothes sucking the light out of an already dark room. This obsidian atmosphere left space to sink deeper into the music, with rich, booming bass and funky vocal samples crafting an alluring sound.

‍

At some point nearing the end of Mr. Monopoly’s time at the booth, I decided to step outside briefly for a breath of fresh air. Usually, you would expect outside the venue to feel calmer, emptier—but this night, something was different. The porch and parking lot were bustling, teeming with celebratory exuberance. A rainbow of colors represented among the masses as revelers arrived to continue their celebrations. Right in the middle of Durham Pride, the show attracted scores looking to keep it going all night long—a diverse and eclectic slice of a city ready to dance until dawn.

Back inside, there was one attendee who, like all the others, seemed to be enjoying the music from the dim expanse of the floor. Nothing would have made this person stick out in particular; that is, until he stepped up to the booth. Mark Farina is an artist who commands attention with his music. A captivating experience, Mark was, in a way, in constant conversation with the audience through airy chords and hard-hitting percussion stabs. The crowd was not shy in their replies either, crying out in exaltation at each moment of rhythmic deliverance. Among frenetic syncopations and genre-bending licks—infusing blues and jazz into his urban Chicago house sound—everyone was engaged and waiting for the next sonic revelation.

‍

Whether a long-time fan waiting for their dose of synth-laden nostalgia or a fresh-faced partier ready to soak in the sounds, this show had something for everyone to sink their teeth into. That feeling defined the night—expansive, motley, and at the heart of it: a fucking good time.

‍