2022-10-03TheNewYorker_UserUpload.Net

THENEWYORKER,OCTOBER3, 2022 49

timer was always counting down to the
end of a track. If he didn’t cue up an-
other, the sound would simply stop—
an unthinkable prospect when people
were still dancing. “It’s never the last
track,” he said. “It’s never over.”
Karamanidis, who has attended many
of the after-parties, offered a public-
service rationale: Solomun often felt
guilty that regular clubbers had not only
paid high prices for their tickets but
had also been gouged on drinks. (A
small carton of water costs nine euros
at Pacha.) At the after-parties, which
were often held in private villas, drinks
and entry were free.

In Ibiza, such bacchanals are toler-

ated. Elsewhere, they can lead to prob-

lems. Several years ago, after a show in

L.A., Solomun’s friend Filip Crvenkovic

hosted him and another d.j. at his house

in the Hollywood Hills for an after-party.

It blazed for twenty hours. When po-

lice came for a fourth time, they warned

Crvenkovic that if there were more com-

plaints he risked going to jail. This mes-

sage was communicated to Solomun,

who said, “O.K.—two more tracks.” 

Sometimes Solomun conducts a

marathon set at a night club. In De-

cember, 2017, at Space Miami, he played

for twenty-seven hours, despite hav-

ing been booked for just four. How

was this physically possible? He ex-

plained that he took bathroom breaks

during longer tracks. People brought

food. He drank water, tequila, ginger

shots, and occasionally took small

amounts of Ecstasy. He was in a “per-

fect f low.” Ravers came for the first

night, left the club, slept, showered, ate,

and then returned for the second night,

to find Solomun still playing.

Such feats of endurance are rarer

now. At forty-six, Solomun needs to

be more mindful of his health. He re-

ceives frequent massages—what he calls

“lazy yoga”—and he often plays ten-

nis. (Solomun has a powerful game;

when we played doubles this summer,

he hit a forehand that left a welt on

my wrist.) At the spa, we moved on to

the ice bath. Solomun immersed him-

self immediately, but I was wary of a

heart attack. “Don’t think about it—

just do it,” he gently commanded.

Afterward, we lounged on daybeds.

Solomun noted that in a few hours the

German d.j. Koze was playing at DC10,

the club by the airport, and suggested

that we go there together. When Sol-

omun was a fledgling d.j., he idolized

Koze, an older man who had emerged

from the same Hamburg scene. Al-

though I love Koze’s music, I was so

tired that I could barely keep my eyes

open. But it’s hard saying no to Solo-

mun. Several other exhausted friends,

who’d also been at Pacha, were dra-

gooned into attending as well. “It’s all

for one and one for all,” Bor, the tour

manager, told me. “If Mladen is going

out, the whole crew is going out.”

At 10 p.m., Bor dropped us off at

DC10. Koze was playing in an outdoor

space called the Garden, and it took

Solomun half an hour to reach the d.j.

booth, because so many people wanted

to talk to him, or shake his hand, or

take a selfie with him. Taylor Swift

couldn’t have created more of a stir. 

Solomun listened to Koze from the

crowded booth, alongside Rampa and

&ME, who were d.j.’ing later that night.

Solomun admired Koze’s set, partic-

ularly for how it met its audience: a

crowd of people, many of whom had

just arrived at the club, in the open air,

before midnight. After a while, Solomun

turned to me and said, “So good! It’s

light, it’s bouncy.” This indicated that

THIRTY-SEVENTH YEAR

At the start of this narrative, I will pretend

Not to be alive, not to be

Speaking to you from the living earth.

To help you. I will pretend

The circumstances of our being

Here, together, are casual—

And not incidental

Of this awkward dilemma: How to coexist

When you would like me dead.

For simplicity. For lack of threat.

In this narrative, I will look

At you from a distance, as into the future,

No more real than I am,

Sitting here in my off-white body which I can feel

But is somehow less important, less

Urgent than the problem it poses.

Sometimes, when I write this kind of narrative,

My mind flees and all I see above is text

At once strange, because I don’t know

How to hold it, and familiar, because I wrote it—

Send out the memo, I’m nearly done here.

How much more of this life to live? Thirty years, if I’m lucky,

I bet. If my life ends, will my brothers’ finally begin?

Who made my mother? Who killed my father who lives?

—Charif Shanahan