Daniel Avery and Mall Grab at The Ground

“I’ve been looking forward to this for at least a month!”

So yelled local electronic musician and footwork aficionado Sohn Jamal, who I encountered by happenstance in the cavernous, smoke-filled expanse of Club Space’s The Ground. While our meeting came by chance, our mutual presence at Space that night was far from coincidence. Rather, it was to the credit—Extra Credit—of Miami nightlife fixtures and Klangbox.fm co-founders Laura Sutnick and Patrick Walsh, whose promotional efforts drew hundreds to the club for a veritable triple threat of techno and outsider house.

In the big room, ambient and minimal technician Daniel Avery joined by fellow Londoner, the Australian producer Mall Grab. In the intimate confines of the neighboring Floyd? The Swede—Armand Jakobsson—better known as DJ Seinfeld. It would be the latter two producers’ second appearance under the same roof in less than two months, both having been featured in August at MoMA PS1’s Warm-Up party. Word on the street says there is little love lost between the two, both equally known for their contributions to the lo-fi house subgenre.

Well over an hour prior to Mall Grab’s anticipated appearance, The Ground had filled to an appreciable degree with ravers in search of a taste of what was to come. With Walsh on opening duty, they were treated to a masterfully selected sampler of electro, breaks, and four-by-four techno. Near the booth, the theatrics of late night revelry; frenetic motion. In it, a lack thereof; a man at ease, seemingly with little more on his mind than the mix at hand.

If one has ever wondered how a full room could fill even further, one should have seen The Ground. At half-past one the dancing continued but with attention piqued for signs of the young Australian, born Jordon Alexander. I held a latent fear he’d be late as was the case at Malta’s Glitch Festival, forcing a shortened Boiler Room set of which he admittedly made the most. All fears were assuaged, however, when the sound faded and the few lights aglow went black. So came applause, followed by a second of silence penetrated only by the booming voice of poet Gil-Scott Heron.

“Brothers and sisters, there is a place for you in America.” The crowd erupted as Heron declared once more—“there is a place for you in America.”

And then it started.

—

The term ‘mall grab’ refers to the alleged poser’s manner of holding a skateboard: by the trucks, grip tape permitted to abrade against one’s pants such that the underside of the deck and any accoutrement are visible for all to see; Alexander would prove the name Mall‌‌ Grab to be a misnomer in the best way possible. His choice to begin with a hardcore edit of Heron’s “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised” indicated a degree of reverence for Americana but, above all else, an overall scheme to posterize techno’s varied subcultures. There was the violence of hardcore; the freneticism of breakbeat science; the saccharinity of trance. The latter came by way of a cheeky rinse of the Scottish duo Clouds’ “Sharp Like a Razor,” a mischievous gabber-adjacent number that’s proven to be one of this year’s standouts. With a huge grin across my face, I couldn’t help but chant along to the track’s lurid vocals consistent of a recorded MC chat sample: ’sharp like a razor, cut you, f— it up, make it bleed.’ In a nod to recent above-ground appreciation of the deconstructed club genre, Mall Grab also showcased flavors of industrial syncopation and mid-level modulation featured on his remix of Special Request’s “Vortex 135”—an already alien display of discordant bass techno from British producer Paul Woolford.

In need of a breather, I decided on a quick jaunt around the corner for as much of a break as a lively tropical mix could provide. Filled wall-to-wall with Seinfeld’s own set of revelers, Floyd served as a foil to its neighboring venue in its radiation of ‘beachside discotheque’ energy. While I spent a comparably shorter time in Seinfeld’s presence than I otherwise would have, the Italo-modal house and melodic techno he purveyed was a palatable detour from the hyperactivity of The Ground’s quasi-warehouse environment. Though one cannot resist dancing along to the shimmering tones of electric piano above a four-beat kick, one would also not receive blame for believing it was a set played out of context with the rest of the evening. It’s ultimately difficult to feel disappointed with a mix from DJ Seinfeld; regardless, I soon ventured back out into The Ground to await Daniel Avery.

By the tail end of his set Mall Grab had embraced the deep growls of EBM and industrial techno, adding a sonic density to the almost pitch-black room. In a foray to the front of the room, I set my eyes on the producer for the first time; headbanging with his hair thrashing about, he would at first glance fit the role of ‘punk’ more than ‘DJ,’ a testament to more recent crossover between two subcultures long seen as subversive. Never slowing, the Australian carried the room through to the very end with the same degree of fervor he had displayed three hours earlier. With a reverb wash and an echo, it was over as quickly as it began to the cheers of a sated room.

*Saturday’s headline: Mall Grab sets room on fire.*

Avery would immediately steer the evening in a different direction, introducing the venerated acid tones of the Roland 303 awash in dubby echoes; considering the venue, can a sound be eponymous? While his produced output (2013’s Drone Logic and 2018’s Songs for Alpha) often draws cues from the downtempo genre, this was a purely minimal display reminiscent of Prince of Denmark’s enigmatic 2016 LP 8. In some ways, it was a mix incomparable to the one it followed—both techno, yes, but the latter as focused on atmospherics as the former was on the latest trends in sound design. Bathed in the dim blue glow of roaming spotlights, Avery worked with operative precision as ravers danced and a veritable who’s who of local club figures looked on from behind. Mall Grab would approach the decks to retrieve a USB and pay his respects. And later, a man clad in Ed Hardy—hometown hero Danny Daze—would join Avery in the booth for a back-to-back that would receive great acclaim by lunchtime. They were followed by an appearance by Daze’s Omnidisc labelmate Dean Grenier to round out an evening (a morning, at this point) that could have otherwise been infinite.

These final surprises were ones I would miss. At a quarter-past five I gingerly walked out into the dense, humid air of an early South Florida morning, my legs ready to give way after close to six hours of non-stop movement. Exhausted, I anticipated a ride home and a much-needed shower. Nevertheless, the exhaustion was easy to forgive—a small price to pay for an experience so arguably religious.