Tony Bennett once sang, “I left my heart in San Francisco.” I’m not trying to dis the “Golden City,” but I’m sorry, Mr. Bennett, I left my heart on the dance floor at Labour of Love over the long weekend.
Hosted by The Guvernment club in Toronto, Labour of Love is an all-night event that’s half-rave, three-quarters DJ dance party and 92 per cent body and mind masturbation. My math not add up? It must be whatever was in the water.
The party started at 10 p.m. and went until 7 a.m., featuring over 30 DJs, including Afrojack, Above and Beyond, Kissy Sell Out and Axwell. The club, which holds close to 4,000, was tightly packed.
However, there was no elbowing, or any “get the %$#% out of my way” moments. Labour of Love was like Woodstock’s little brother who listens to trance music in the basement and has the best fist pump of them all.
I lost my Labour of Love virginity that night and I can’t wait to do it again. Things started to kick into high gear in the lineup as fireworks went off, flames exploded and an acrobat was lifted into the air, wrapping a silk sheet around herself like an erotic goddess of the night.
The DJs murdered the crowd. The bass was raw and carnal and didn’t stop until after the Bay Street businessmen headed to work. I ran into a middle-aged married couple who both couldn’t stop shaking their bodies while outside for a smoke. It was as if everyone swallowed a shake weight.
Do you remember those essays you had to write almost every September in grade school? “What I did over my summer vacation…”
I sort of wish I could write one of those again about the night. Although I’m quite certain my grade school teachers wouldn’t approve.
The lineup of police officers outside didn’t seem to dampen the rave atmosphere inside the club. Let’s just say there were only a handful of people drinking, but everyone was having a good time.
Say what you will about rave culture, but there was more free love circling over the crowd than at John Lennon’s bed-in.
It didn’t matter if you were a Guido, hipster, candy-kid, drag queen or frat boy, as long as you were having a good time you belonged. It was one of the best mixes of different subcultures I’ve seen.
Sometimes the smoke was so thick, you couldn’t tell who you were dancing with — freedom through anonymity.
Whatever people were taking in the bathrooms must block out the judgmental part of the brain.
Suddenly the couple having sex in the bathroom weren’t gross, they were sensual, and the girl dancing in her underwear wasn’t promiscuous, she was expressing herself.
One guy summed it up perfectly when, after bumming a cigarette, he declared, “We’re all family here.” One free-spirited, free-loving, incestuous family.
Can music save the world? Probably not, but if it can bring people together, at least for one night, then I’ll show up to dance.