Francesco Tristano at D-Edge

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  • It's sometime on Sunday. Most revellers are cowering in what little shade there is up here on the smoking terrace, while others less fortunate are slowly cooking in the fierce São Paulo sunlight. D-Edge has seamlessly slipped into Superafter mode, the club—and city's—official afterparty, and there's little sign of things slowing down. This is in fact my second night this week at the world-famous superclub—Thursday's Moving session with Mano Le Tough was so good I just had to come back. Dazed and suitably sun-blinded, I rejoin the cosy, wood-clad middle room. This one is zebra-striped with LEDs from floor to ceiling, now pulsing red in tune with the music. The shutters, previously blinking seductively in the Panorama Bar way, have been fully thrown open. Resident Ingrid is in her element, sticking for the most part to the druggier end of the house and tech house spectrum. It's not exactly to my taste, but it's working. Besides, I've gorged on enough techno tonight to be ready for a change of pace. Before Ingrid, local upstart Paulo Tessuto, sporting a flamboyant silk shirt and dyed blond hair, span illusions of some euphoric Berlin morning session. I felt at home—over 10,000 km away. Despite more than doubling in size in 2010, adding a further three floors, D-Edge is more boutique than grandiose, an underground haunt through and through. The main room is still relatively small and its open-plan layout, where bar bleeds into dance floor, only adds to the space's intimate feel. Coupled with meticulously designed furnishings and 360 sound and lighting rigs throughout, the environment at D-Edge is truly second-to-none. There is a mixed crowd here tonight. Kids in suits fresh from graduation, business folk trying to unwind, the partygoers and the hardcore music fans—it's a mix that consolidates the club's laidback appeal. Mothership is D-Edge's weekly Saturday night party. Used to programming international stars alongside local names, tonight we were in for a special treat. Classical piano virtuoso Francesco Tristano would be performing live with rising São Paulo talents Gaturamo. The booth was lined from one end to the other with gear. Gaturamo opened, turning out an improvised set of dissonant, synthy techno, with folky, psychedelic undercurrents. It was energetic, intriguing and unique. Then Tristano stepped up with sound technician in tow. It could easily have been a disaster, but the foursome performed with masterful intuition. After closing down the main room we were then all ushered upstairs for round two. Regrettably, the club kicked out around noon—I think we could have all carried on well into Monday.
RA