Making Time 2nd Annual New Year’s Eve Freakout

Trudging down Spring Garden Street on a damp Philly New Year’s Eve, our crew was ready for anything. Blazers donned, hair artfully distressed, and collars popped, we were ready for a debauched battle with Philly’s hipster elite. After maneuvering through the street, stepping over countless septic puddles, we spotted our destination: the small stone building, once a bank, is now affectionately known as Transit. This evening it would play host to the second annual “Making Time New Year’s Eve Freakout.” Now over five years old, Making Time is one of Philadelphia’s longest running and most consistently fresh dance parties. Last year’s bash set a precedent: these guys ring in the New Year with a bang. And thirty bucks buys you all the booze and beats you can handle. After waiting in a line that snaked around the back of the building, we made our way past the burly bouncers – Transit has three floors, each with its own set of DJs. Non-descript new-wave filled our ears as we checked our coats in what was once the bank’s vault — fitting enough. The bar was the next stop; after all, you can’t attend an indie-dance party without downing at least a few cans of Sparks. Around 10:30, things started to get going. We gathered around one of the couches lining the exposed brick walls, unconsciously bobbing our heads as we enjoyed our alcoholic speedballs. One hour, two shots, and three drinks later and we were on the main floor dancing our asses off. The group had grown as our friends started trickling in from across the Delaware River. Slowly but surely, hipsters were filing onto the main floor, where Sean Agnew of R5 Productions had promised a myriad of celebratory sights and sounds as the clock struck midnight. As the minutes passed and 2005 entered its twilight, the room pulsed with energy. “Making Time” was scrawled across the wall in a light projection above the DJ, who announced over booming bass and shrill guitars that there were only 10 minutes left until the New Year. Then it happened. My friend inexplicably picked me up, lifting me above the madness. I gazed over the furiously dancing crowd, throwing my arms out in my best DiCaprio impression. The room seethed with anticipation and excitement and dozens crowded the bar to be handed some celebratory champagne. As the final minute of 2005 began, the energy level in the room hit a fever pitch. I gripped my girlfriend’s hand as we counted down the final ten seconds, our fists pumping as each second passed. With the final second counted, my lips met my girlfriend’s. When I opened my eyes it was like entering another world. The pent up energy that pulsed through the room had exploded like a bomb of color and lights. Hundreds of pink balloons surfed across the room as artificial snow machines pumped a flurry of white that glistened in an array of lights. Franz Ferdinand boomed through the sound system as the crowd bounced manically with the beat, screaming the words next to friends and strangers alike. Soon, I found myself among a throng of people pushing for the bathrooms. This kind of cramped wait would normally prompt anger, but this evening it gave way to a jovial atmosphere as people clinked beer bottles and screamed “Happy New Year!!” with Sparks-stained, orange teeth. By the time I hit the dance floor again I was teetering a bit. As the alcohol continued to flow, debauchery ensued. Sweat dripping down their bodies, many strangers moved together as one unit fueled as much by alcohol as pent up sexual desire. Originally opting to spin obscure tracks, the DJs were now pulling more familiar faces from crates. Indie-rock anthems from the likes of The Arcade Fire, The Pixies, The Rapture, and Le Tigre now echoed along the walls. The night went on, the shot glasses piled up, the dancing became sloppy and listless, but the atmosphere remained optimistic. By the time 3 a.m. rolled around, we were beat. We had taken on the Transit, and the Transit had won.