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Welcome back, beautiful souls… it’s that podcast girl, C-Dub. I wanted to give a quick shout out to our listeners tuning in from the UK tonight, thanks for your support from across the world.

Tonight—especially since the episodes on New York, New Jersey, and Detroit House Music are leading our search charts—we’re leaning deep into the roots, starting with New York City. We’re not just touching the pulse of ’90s NYC house. We’re breathing the air from those rooms.

Red Zone wasn’t just a club—it was a confession. David Morales famously called it the place where he “made a statement for the new age,” and he wasn’t exaggerating. He described that era as mixing the “dark side”—minimal vocals or no vocals—not just music, but revolution in 4/4. He said, “Red Zone was the turning point on the map for music changing.” People remember it as the spot that flipped disco into club soul through sheer grit, vinyl dig, and rebellious rhythm. 

Red Zone was theater in flesh; the naked, the naughty, and the unapologetic moved inside it. The club embraced extreme self-expression—think raw nudity, sex, spontaneous hookups, and sometimes eruptions of violence. It was a place where curtains, fog, and a pulsing beat blurred lines between pleasure and performance. The edge was always one step away from confrontation, because survival in that crowd meant daring to be seen.

This was the home turf of the Club Kids—Michael Alig, James St. James, Screamin Rachael, Lady Buddy, Dan Dan the Naked Man, Goldie Loxxx—and the rest of that flamboyant crew who tore the norm apart with feathers, glitter. Their wild identities flashed, flirted, and fought in the space. They were Red Zone.

Imagine this: curtains hiding backrooms where sex happened behind velvet folds. Fog machines creating halos you couldn’t see—but felt in your bones. Fights that erupted out of passion or possession, fueled by too much adrenaline, and too little filter. Sex, chaos, and liberation weren’t just tolerated—they were invitation-only. Red Zone allowed things to come unhinged, and unhinged they became.

Then came NASA nights at The Shelter—NASA stands for Nocturnal Audio Sensory Awakening. Moby called it “utopian,” and Chloë Sevigny said it “transcended raves.” Imagine a Tribeca loft drenched in light and smoke, with acid, trance, and jungle tracks all whirled through that booth by Scotto and DB.

And then there was Sound Factory. It was hallowed ground—Junior Vasquez said people told him they were “going to church on Sunday morning… but they meant Factory.” He co-founded that room with Richard Grant and Christine Visca in 1989. Right in the heat of New York house’s golden era, Junior Vasquez dropped a track that became infamous—not just for its sound, but for how it ended a whole era.

The track “If Madonna Calls” (1996) loops a snippet from what sounded like Madonna’s voice on his answering machine:

“Hello Junior… This is Madonna… are you there? Call me in Miami.”  

It continued with a cheeky retort — “If Madonna calls, tell her I’m not here.” The vocal loop was so bold that it became known as a “bitch track”—campy, savage, and hilarious in its defiance. 

The story goes: Madonna allegedly bailed on appearing at his club night at The Tunnel, leaving him in the lurch. He turned that moment into house-music history—with total disregard for permission or precedent. Not surprisingly, Madonna never forgave the joke. Their friendship—and any chance of future collaboration—was done. 

Yet the track exploded on dance floors. It did hit #2 on Billboard’s Dance Club chart and became a cult anthem for underground queer scenes and ballrooms. DJ queens would perform it, the sound of gossip and betrayal turne

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Dear listener, please leave this song alone don’t flag it. Yea I'm back been gone for 60 days taking care of my mom. Give me 3:36 minutes of your time tonight and I'll give you an intimate peek into my life behind the podcast.  While credit goes to songwriters: Fredrik William Ball / Joseph Alexander Angel / Robyn Rihanna Fenty for this beautiful song “love on the brain”, I will take the full credit for singing it to you tonight like it had to come out. Now everyone leave, I’m talking to John.

I miss you John, and I am sorry how I handled my part of us at the end. You are worth everything and anything I can give you. I did the work and know how. A skill set that I’ll now carry out with me every Friday. Aren’t you curious?

You enjoyed my ways with words, and that’s how this whole podcast was born. Meeting you felt like a twin flame (literally, I’m an Aries moon) I’m so triggered to create in the liminal space where we left: a podcast , a fanfic r/ where I became the writer you saw I was day one,  a shadow profile where you’ll find all my r/Unsent and thoughts, a sexy audiobook, a cover song, an opp to host a show, crumbs to riches. I am untrained at singing and took this first shot at it for you- your imprint went so deep it activated the creator in me John. If someone tore your imprint out my heart and laid them down on a track, that’d be this here and no I don’t know how to edit this. It will be flagged one day for IP rights and taken down. I hope it resonates across this liminal and empty space to your frequency before that day. Between us, what were the chances I had her birthday? And that wasn’t even the craziest karmic thing that happened between us. You are one in a million babe. After this, maybe I'm more than thatpodcastgirl - you tell me. 

"There is no where left for this dialogue missing you to land, so I'll turn it into a beautiful monologue on the way out. " 

xoxo *read these lyrics I don’t lie

And you got me like, oh
What you want from me? 
And I tried to buy your pretty heart, but the price too high
Baby you got me like, oh
*I love when I fall apart
So you can put me together
And throw me against the wall

Baby you got me like ah, woo, ah
Don't you stop loving me 
Don't quit loving me
Just start loving me

Oh, and babe I'm fist fighting with fire
Just to get close to you
Can we burn something, babe?
And I'll run for miles just to get a taste
Must be love on the brain
That's got me feeling this way
It beats me black and blue but it fucks me so good
And I can't get enough
Must be love on the brain
And it keeps cursing my name
No matter what I do, I'm no good without you
And I can't get enough
Must be love on the brain

*Can you keep loving me?
Just love me, yeah
Just love me
All you need to do is love me
Got me like ah-ah-ah-ow
I'm tired of being played like a violin
What do I gotta do to get in your motherfuckin' heart?

Baby like ah, woo, ah
Don't you stop loving me
Don't quit loving me
Just start loving me 

Oh, and babe I'm fist fighting with fire
Just to get close to you
Can we burn something, babe?
And I'll *ring your *RING camera just to get a taste
Must be love on the brain
That's got me feeling this way
It beats me black and blue but *YOU *fuck *me *so *good
And I can't get enough
Must be love on the brain
And it keeps cursing my name (cursing my name)
No matta what I do
I'm no good without you
And I can't get enough
Must be love on the brain

-sang while eyes trained on that post it note that started it all. 

Copyright 2025. “This is a Podcast About House Music, Sometimes” hosted by C-Dub

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This is a podcast about house music. I'm thatpodcastgirl, C-Dub—and I want to thank all of you for helping us hit over 200 downloads in just three and a half months, across 11 episodes. JohnJohn guess what? We did it!

This episode is called: The Record Store.

Picture this: It’s the early '90s. Somewhere between grit and gold chains. Between big dreams and dirty sneakers. And on both coasts—if you wanted to find a sound, you walked into a record store.

Let’s start with Chicago.

Gramaphone Records: it wasn’t big. Tucked into a narrow space on Clark Street, its walls were crowded with bins and bins of vinyl. The floor had the signature black and white checkered tile. It smelled like plastic and cardboard and gum stuck to a sneaker. Flyers were shoved under the glass of the counter. The lighting was harsh and honest. But it was church.

DJs walked in like they had a mission. They’d flip through crates with the reverence of a surgeon in the middle of a procedure. Customers would clear out of the way if someone serious walked in. Because the booth in the back? That was sacred ground.

Behind the glass, a selector would listen to your picks. The staff could tell if you knew what you were doing by the second record you previewed. “If you played the wrong thing too loud, they’d cut the sound. You’d feel it before you even noticed.”

Gramaphone didn’t sell records. It passed on secrets. There were codes in the track listings. White labels with no names. You’d find the record someone played at 3AM that melted your brain—and it wouldn’t be there next week. You either knew when to come, or you didn’t and missed out.

Frankie Knuckles was a regular. So was Derrick Carter. But even if you weren’t a name, you could be a witness. One customer remembered watching Derrick build an entire set in the store over two hours—testing tracks, building tension, then walking out without a word.

“Gramaphone was like a dojo,” one woman said. “You didn’t go there to buy. You went to train.”

Over in New York—it was different.

Downtown, you had places like Vinylmania, Dance Tracks, and Satellite. Tucked behind basements. No two stores were the same. Some were dark and sleek, others crowded and chaotic. But all of them had a pulse.

Dance Tracks, on East 3rd Street, had tall racks and endless stacks, plus a community board with handwritten ads—DJ needed. Roommate wanted. One wall had stickers from clubs that no longer existed. Another had a memorial photo of someone from the scene, framed with scribbled tributes.

This is where Joe Claussell got his start. Where François K would come through in his sunglasses. Where a new DJ might overhear a conversation that would change everything.

One regular recalled being handed a record and told, “Don’t play this unless you mean it.” Another described the joy of walking in hungover, digging through wax, and finding a beat so perfect it made you cry.

At Vinylmania, there were whispers. About a rare Japanese pressing. About a reel from a closing party. About a limited promo that came in through someone’s cousin in Detroit. It wasn’t about the money. It was about the mythology.

These stores weren’t commercial. They were coded. You had to dress the part, or dress in defiance of it. Some people came in gender-blurred—baggy pants, nail polish, stubble and gloss—because in those four walls, there was no wrong way to be. In fact, dressing ambiguously sometimes gave you more space. People didn’t know how to categorize you, so they left you alone.

One woman recalls she never got called out for being a woman in the DJ booth because she wore oversized hoodies and kept her voice low. “If I didn’t speak, they assu

Copyright 2025. “This is a Podcast About House Music” hosted by C-Dub

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This is a podcast about house music. I’m thatpodcastgirl, C Dub, and I’m here to guide us through the untold stories behind the house music. This season, we’re remembering what was almost lost—what pulsed in the basslines and lived in the corners. Stories that stayed alive only because someone danced them into memory. Picture this:

It’s 2024, and you’re in Berlin. A DJ pulls out a vinyl with no label and no sleeve. Just black wax and instinct. She drops it. It’s from Shelter. A remix from decades ago. The crowd roars. But most people in the room don’t know that track was once played in protest. They don’t know about the night the beat was an act of defiance.

In the early 1980s, a virus began to spread. And for far too long, the world stayed quiet.

The clubs that gave people freedom—places like the Warehouse, the Paradise Garage, the Power Plant—became spaces of mourning. Dancers disappeared every week. DJs lost their friends. Party flyers became obituaries.

The government wasn’t naming it. So the music did.

Michael Roberson is a scholar, a father of the House of Garcón, and a Black queer activist. He’s often spoken about the ballroom floor as a sacred place during the AIDS epidemic.

“We were losing people every week. So we danced with them, for them, through them.”

For Michael and so many others, house wasn’t just escape. It was church and it was ritual. It was where you could scream into the bass and still be held.

At the Paradise Garage, DJ Larry Levan began playing extended versions of tracks with long breakdowns and pauses. Sometimes he left full seconds of silence.

Club historian Tim Lawrence says:

“People would stand still, or scream, or weep. The music gave them space to grieve.”

In 1989, ACT UP held a die-in at the CDC in Atlanta, Georgia. That same night, on the floor at a gay club in New York, dancers lay down in silence.

They called it dancing to remember.

There’s also a story about a track that included a voicemail. The voice said:

“I can’t go on.”

Nobody agrees on who made it, and some say it was a real message. Others say it was constructed from memory.

It was played only once. In a small club. Quiet room. Full of people who understood.

Then the beat dropped.

At the door, the ten-dollar cover might be for the DJ—or for someone’s casket. Sometimes it paid for AZT. Sometimes for rent, or a hospital bed.

At the Shelter in New York, one woman came every weekend, in the same shirt. She danced in the same corner.

“I’m here for my brother,” she told the DJ once. “He used to dance here. I still do it for him.”

At certain parties, there was a board behind the DJ booth—names were pinned, and candles lit. It wasn’t advertised because it didn’t need to be - those were friends.

Flyers used coded language: “This one’s for family,” or “bring your breath.” That meant someone had passed. That meant come ready to move through it.

These weren’t just parties. They were vigils on the dance floor.

Frankie Knuckles once said:

“You can play joy. But you can also play mourning. The floor knows the difference.”

The dancefloor didn’t ignore the crisis. It became the memorial.

And for some, it stayed that way. From the early 1980s through the late 1990s—and even into the 2000s in clubs like The Shelter and Body & Soul—these spaces continued to hold grief and memory. Candles continued behind the

Copyright 2025. “This is a Podcast About House Music” hosted by C-Dub

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This is a podcast about house music. I'm thatpodcastgirl, C-Dub, and I'm here to guide us through the untold stories behind the house music. This season, we’re telling the stories that never made the headlines—the quiet ones, the erased ones, the ones still living in the basslines and breakdowns. House music rose out of the wreckage—after disco was declared dead, while AIDS was being ignored, and as Black and queer communities were pushed to the margins. It was protest. It was joy. It was survival. And the people who shaped it weren’t always let in, given credit, or remembered. We’re remembering them now.

In 1977, on the West Loop of Chicago, a man named Robert Williams opened the doors to something rare. A space that would come to mean everything.

It was called The Warehouse.

Williams had moved from New York. He’d spent time at David Mancuso’s Loft and Nicky Siano’s Gallery—spaces where music wasn’t just a soundtrack. It was an offering. A way to hold each other in sound.

When he came to Chicago, he carried that vision with him.

He once said:

 "I didn’t want to open a bar. I wanted a house party that never ended."

 *(Chicago Tribune, 2014)*

He found a building on South Jefferson—three floors, concrete bones, no signage. Just potential. He called his friend Frankie Knuckles. Frankie didn’t just mix records. He shaped mood. His sets built slowly, tenderly. A gospel chord stretched across a disco break. Synths weaving through soul. He played what the room needed—before the room knew it needed it. There was no shouting into the mic. No interruptions. Just music, steady and intentional. The sound didn’t have a name yet. But it was unmistakable. People started calling it house. A nod to where they heard it first. For many, The Warehouse was more than a club. It was where the weight came off. Where you could exhale. 

A dancer once recalled:

"Frankie played like he was watching us—not the other way around. If someone cried in the corner, the next song held them."

*(Chicago House Music Oral History Project)*

But that wasn’t everyone’s experience.

Some people never made it past the door.

There were quiet rules. About how you looked. Who you knew. Whether you matched the room.

One man wrote:

"I stood outside The Warehouse in ’81 and watched the guy in front of me go in. The door shut behind him. I didn’t get in. That rejection stayed with me—but it also made me start something else."

*(Out & Proud Archive, Chicago)*

For those turned away, something else had to be built. New spaces began to open. Not spin-offs. Not alternatives. Their own worlds. Places like the Power Plant. The Bismarck. The Music Box.

Sometimes you heard about the party through a friend. Sometimes it was a flyer taped to a pole, already half torn. A back room. A storage space. A dancefloor that wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

The Music Box, in particular, held something raw. The ceilings dripped with condensation. The walls throbbed. The air was soaked with sweat and smoke.

One dancer said:

"The ceiling would drip. The walls would shake. You couldn’t fake it. You had to move, or leave."

*(Black LGBTQ Archives, Spelman College)*

Another remembered:

"It was the first time I saw a man scream during a breakdown. Not because he was scared—but because he needed to get something out of his body."

*(ACT UP Club Culture Collection, NYC)*

Ron Hardy was at the center. His sets didn’t follow the beat. They followed the feeling. He looped tracks until people broke open. He reversed them. Sometimes it was chaos. But it was the kind of chaos that made sense in your bones. This wasn’t a reaction t

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Welcome back groove lovers! This is House Foundations, a podcast about house music. I’m your host, C Dub. Tonight, we’re heading to a city where house music caught fire and burned a new path through the streets. In Baltimore, the beats didn’t aim to please. They hit hard, ran fast, and refused to be ignored. Baltimore Club was carved from basement parties, roller rinks, street corners — born from a city’s need to dance through every hardship. Let’s dive in.

When house and soulful rhythms drifted from Chicago and New York, Baltimore heard them — but chose a different journey. The city's pulse demanded a sharper edge, a louder voice. In the heart of it all stood The Paradox — a downtown stronghold where the sound system hurled music into the bodies of everyone packed onto the floor. This was a place where every night tested your spirit, left bass echoing in your chest long after the sun came up. The line outside wrapped around the block, buzzing with anticipation. Sneakers tapped, bodies bounced to the faint rumble of the bass leaking through the heavy doors. Everyone was there for the same reason: to be claimed by the night.

Before The Paradox came the sparks. Odell’s Nightclub, with its disco, R&B, and early house sets, planted the first seeds in Baltimore's dance scene. Hammerjacks, the legendary warehouse space, turned those seeds wild with raw, untamed energy. Young DJs crafted their skills at The Twilight Zone on Belair Road, where experimentation wasn’t just allowed — it was essential. Skateland North Point offered a sanctuary for the next generation, where skating and dancing blurred into one pure form of expression. Here, you didn’t chase velvet ropes or exclusive lists. You found freedom, a flash of sweat and joy in the rhythm.

Inside these spaces, DJs pushed boundaries. They tore records apart and rebuilt them in jagged, urgent shapes. Armed with battered equipment like Cool Edit Pro, beat-up MPCs, and dusty SP-1200s, they sampled tiny fragments of sound and spun them into explosive loops. Voices became drums. Beats jumped forward like electricity snapping through wire. Basslines cracked foundations. Scottie B, DJ Technics, Rod Lee, DJ Boobie, Jimmy Jones — they shaped a language spoken with kicks, snares, and fearless imagination.

In the middle of it all stood K-Swift — Baltimore’s crowned Club Queen. Her ascent wasn’t an accident. Night after night at The Paradox, she summoned entire rooms into one throbbing heartbeat. Sundays under her decks became sacred. As K-Swift said herself, "I just want people to feel good when they hear my music, that’s all I ever wanted." Her sets didn’t follow a script; they followed the crowd’s need to break loose, to rise, to breathe through the music.

K-Swift’s magic spilled beyond downtown. At Skateland North Point, she handed the next generation the keys to a world where rhythm was resistance and community. Her mixtapes became relics of that energy — sold in gas stations, salons, flea markets, shared hand to hand until they wore thin. A K-Swift tape wasn’t a possession; it was a lifeline. Young people would scrape together their last few dollars just to grab the latest volume, knowing it held the soundtrack to their summer, their first loves, their first battles on the floor. Swift wasn’t just at the center of the scene. She was the scene — the living pulse of a sound too wild to tame.

A night inside The Paradox etched itself into your bones. The stickiness of the air, the relentless bass, the shared sweat of strangers turned into family by the dance floor. In those moments, Baltimore wasn't weighed down by anything but lifted, brightened, electrified.

Baltimore Club was never made to sit still. The energy exploded

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Hey everyone, welcome back to House Foundations. I’m your host, C. Dub.

Today we’re in Detroit. A city that helped build the world and then turned around and built its own sound. The factories shaped the rhythm. The people shaped the feeling. What came out of that was house music that didn’t need permission, and a techno scene that grew from basement parties into global influence.

Let’s start with the Belleville Three, who were three high school boys named Juan Atkins, Kevin Saunderson and Derrick May. They met in high school just outside Detroit in the late 70s. They were into synths, space, and sounds that didn’t belong anywhere yet. They listened to Kraftwerk and Parliament. They stayed up late with the Electrifying Mojo. And then they made something new.

In 1981, Atkins dropped “Alleys of Your Mind” under the name Cybotron. It sounded like a machine trying to feel something. In 1985, May gave us “Nude Photo” and later “Strings of Life.” That one? It made people cry on the dance floor. In 1988, Saunderson’s group Inner City hit with “Big Fun.” That record moved hips all over the world. These weren’t just tracks. They really were landmarks.

It was Juan Atkins who first called it 'techno.' He borrowed the term from futurist writer Alvin Toffler, who used it to describe a new kind of rebel in an information-driven age. The sound was mechanical, but full of purpose. Meanwhile, in Chicago, the term 'house' was taking shape at a club called the Warehouse, where Frankie Knuckles played long sets that blended disco, soul, and something new - we covered that in a previous episode. That’s how the names stuck—techno from Detroit, house from Chicago. But Detroit, as always, found a way to make both its own.

By the early 90s, house and techno were no longer separate lanes in Detroit. They shared the same turntables, the same speakers, and often the same dance floor. You could hear a driving techno track blend into a soulful house groove, and nobody blinked. Detroit DJs weren’t just mixing tracks, they were connecting scenes. Local producers, many of whom worked day jobs and made beats at night, built a sound that reflected the city.  The working class man. The DJs aligned themselves with those voices. They didn’t wait for approval from outside. They played Detroit’s sound, made by Detroit’s hands. And through that, house and techno grew up together.

You saw this play out at Cheeks. That place was thick with bodies and bass. Nothing fancy. Just movement. Motor Lounge opened in 1995. The room was tighter, but the sound stayed raw. The Shelter was underground in more ways than one. Before Eminem made it a movie set in 8 Mile, it was a late-night lab where DJs could test anything.

These parties pulled people from all over. You’d get heads from the east side next to art school kids. Some were lovers holding hands in the dark. Some came alone, worn out from double shifts or skipping class. They all showed up chasing the same thing—a release, a rhythm, and a reason to stay a little longer.

Ken CALL-yer Collier gave it to them. His sets at Club Heaven were long and smooth. He didn’t play to impress. He played to heal you. His crowd trusted him. And they stayed all night.

Then came the next wave. Moodymann was watching and he soaked it in. His sound came out dirty and tender at the same time. His records had dust in the grooves and heat in the bones.

Theo Parrish moved from Chicago in ‘94. He brought jazz into the booth. Not the notes, but the risk. His sets didn’t build, they simmered. Sometimes they snapped. Rick Wilhite brought the balance. He knew how to take a room from warm to wild without breaking the spell.

Together with Marcellus Pittm

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Hey everyone, welcome back to House Foundations. I’m your host, C. Dub.

Last time, we were in early ‘90s New York City—Shelter, the Sound Factory, ballroom heat, and sacred sweat. This week, we cross the river. Welcome to New Jersey. Same era, but with a different spirit. Let’s get into it.

New Jersey house wasn’t trying to impress anybody. It was unfiltered. Gritty. Gospel-soaked. It moved through basements, clubs, and record shops that didn’t ask for credentials—only presence.

Let’s start in Newark, at Club Zanzibar. Located at 430 Broad Street, this venue was more than a nightclub—it was the nucleus of Jersey house. The space itself was low-lit and spacious, packed wall-to-wall with bodies moving in sync to the music. The sound system was massive, and the energy was pure release. Tony Humphries began his residency there in 1982, and his sets weren’t just a sequence of tracks—they were emotional landscapes. He wove together gospel, deep house, dub, and freestyle with instinctual precision. One night, mid-set, Humphries dropped a gospel house record that froze the dancefloor. People stopped dancing and stood in stillness. Some cried. Others embraced. There was no stage, no VIP—just a community locked into one frequency. Zanzibar wasn’t just a place to dance. It was a place where emotions got worked out through rhythm.

Just up the road in East Orange, there was Movin’ Records. Founded by Abigail Adams, Movin’ began as a skate shop before transforming into one of the most influential record stores and labels in Jersey house history. It was tiny, with crates stacked floor to ceiling—but producers would travel in from all over to test their music there. Blaze, Kerri Chandler, and Tony Humphries all had work pressed through Movin’. Tracks like Blaze’s “Whatcha Gonna Do” and Kerri Chandler’s early EPs moved straight from that store into DJ crates around  the region. Producers would line up outside with test pressings, hoping Abigail would put the needle down and give it a listen. If the track hit, it got pressed. No A&R forms. No middlemen. Just gut.

Now let’s head to Club America in Plainfield. It didn’t have the name recognition of Zanzibar, but to the heads who knew, it was vital. It was one of those spaces where DJs had total freedom—there was no bottle service, there was no pretense. The booth was right up against the floor, and the energy stayed high from the first record to the last. Friday night featured local legends like DJ Punch and Earl Mixxin’ Brown, spinning vocal-heavy house sets that shook the walls. The dancefloor was small, packed, and relentlessly alive. It was loud, sweaty, and real.

Further north, you had The Lincoln Motel in Jersey City. At night, the lobby turned into a makeshift party spot, with mobile sound systems brought in and crowds flowing in from Newark, Paterson, and Brooklyn. DJs like Hippie Torrales, Naeem Johnson, and DJ Camacho used it as a testing ground for unreleased tracks. These were the spots where DJs earned your trust. Tracks that worked at Lincoln Motel ended up in rotation at Zanzibar or New York’s Shelter nightclub.  It wasn’t flashy, but it had just as much influence as the bigger venues.

The sound itself? Jersey house leaned into gospel progressions, percussion, and vocals that came from the gut. Blaze, which was comprised of Josh Milan, Kevin Hedge, and Chris Herbert—built tracks around emotional storytelling. Smack Productions worked a deep, looping groove. Sting International brought a hybrid edge, fusing reggae and R&B into house that felt homegrown.

Vocalists like Dawn Tallman gave Jersey its signature tone—powerful, grounded, full of conviction. And even though singers like Joi Cardwell and Kym Mazelle

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Hey everyone, welcome back to House Foundations. I’m your host, C. Dub.
 Tonight we’re in New York City—not just the skyline, not just the clubs—but the spirit.
Because house in the early 90s? It wasn’t just a sound. It was church.
It was sweat.
It was survival.

New York didn’t birth house music—that happened in Chicago—but when it reached the five boroughs, it evolved into something more theatrical, more emotive, and more unapologetically rooted in identity. This was a city where disco had thrived, where dance culture had never really gone away, and where communities that were often erased elsewhere carved out entire universes on the dancefloor.

Let’s start with the clubs. The Sound Factory. Shelter. The Loft. Body & Soul. Cielo. And yes, the long shadow of Paradise Garage still lingered, even after its closing in 1987. These weren’t just nightlife spots—they were institutions. The Sound Factory was where Junior Vasquez reigned, remixing Mariah Carey tracks and creating Sunday morning church for ravers. Shelter, under the vision of Timmy Regisford, was all about the deep, the soulful, the emotional. You didn’t go to Shelter to be seen. You went to feel something.

You’d walk in at midnight and maybe not leave till noon the next day. The music wasn’t predictable. It built slowly. It pulled you into its layers. Gospel breakdowns. A cappella intros. Piano riffs that felt like sunrise. These DJs weren’t just beat-matching—they were storytelling. They were creating emotional journeys.

And the music reflected that. We’re talking about tracks that carried you somewhere—"Deep Inside" by Hardrive, which felt like a personal testimony. Barbara Tucker’s "Beautiful People," which was an anthem for community. India’s voice soaring over Louie Vega productions, giving us everything: rage, joy, longing, release. Masters at Work brought live instrumentation into house and gave it elegance without losing the grit.

And while all this was happening, ballroom culture was thriving and intersecting with house in powerful ways. The House of Xtravaganza. The House of Ninja. The balls where categories like runway, realness, and femme queen performance lit up the room—and behind it all, house music kept time. These were not just dance battles. They were declarations. A queer Black and Latinx language of movement, pride, and resistance. This was also the early wave of voguing’s mainstream moment. Think of Madonna’s “Vogue” as just a whisper of what was really going on in basements and community centers all over NYC.

And let’s talk about the sound itself. New York City  house in the 90s had its own fingerprints. Gospel chords. Latin percussion. Warm basslines. Vocals that weren’t just there for texture—they carried messages. You’d have a four-minute spoken word monologue right in the middle of a dance track, talking about self-love, spiritual freedom, the daily grind, heartbreak, sex, forgiveness, everything.

House music in NYC wasn’t escapism—it was confrontation. But it was also healing. It let you sweat out the week, cry about your ex, laugh with a stranger, sing at the top of your lungs, and walk home feeling like you’d been baptized in bass.

This was also the golden era of New York house labels. Nervous Records. Strictly Rhythm. King Street Sounds. Cutting Records. These labels didn’t just release music—they defined the sound of New York. They gave us artists like Armand Van Helden, Roger Sanchez, Barbara Tucker, and Blaze. You couldn’t walk into a record store downtown without hearing something that would end up in a Shelter set that weekend.

Even the radio had its moments. Tony Humphries on Kiss FM. Frankie Crocker. Little

Copyright 2025. “This is a Podcast About House Music” hosted by C-Dub

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**C. Dub:**  

Hey everyone, welcome back to *House Foundations*—the podcast where we celebrate the legends, the anthems, and the stories that shaped house music. I’m your host, C. Dub.

Today, we’re getting into the life and legacy of someone whose name is etched deep into the foundation of this culture. A Grammy-winning remixer, global DJ, and true craftsman of the dancefloor: **David Morales**.

He took house music from the basement to the Billboard charts, from Brooklyn block parties to Ibiza sunrises. But before all of that, he was just a kid in Flatbush chasing sound—and that’s where we start.

David Morales was born in 1962 and raised in Flatbush, Brooklyn—a neighborhood bursting with music, movement, and survival. His mom raised him as a single parent, working long hours to keep the home together. Life wasn’t easy, but it was alive.

Flatbush back then was a cultural crossroads—a swirl of Caribbean rhythms, Black American soul, Puerto Rican pride, and working-class grit. The soundtrack of his childhood came from every corner: soul out the window, funk blasting from cars, reggae pulsing from open shops, and the occasional salsa drifting from kitchen radios. It was chaotic, vibrant, and full of rhythm.

Morales was drawn to music from the start. He tells this story about being three or four years old, finding a record at a friend's house—"Spinning Wheel" on RCA Victor—and just knowing it mattered. Not because he understood it, but because it made him feel something. That curiosity never left.

He grew up above a local social club, and the real education came early in the mornings, when the party was over and the grown-ups were gone. The door would be cracked open, the air still thick with perfume and smoke, the music equipment still buzzing low. Little David would wander in, fascinated by what had just happened in that room. The vibe was still there, even without the people. And somehow, **he understood the energy music left behind.**

What set Morales apart was that, even in a Puerto Rican home, he gravitated toward Black American music. He wasn’t spinning salsa or Latin jazz in his room—he was locked into funk, disco, soul. It wasn’t about turning away from his culture—it was about chasing the groove that spoke to his spirit.

His first real brush with DJing came at 13—at his prom. He remembers standing outside, hearing First Choice's "Ten Percent" playing, and seeing a DJ for the first time with **two turntables.** That blew his mind. The idea that someone could mix from one record into another? It was like magic.

By 15, Morales was trying it for himself. But here’s the thing—he didn’t have pro gear. He was using a mic mixer with **no cueing** capability. He wasn’t even supposed to be running turntables through it, but he made it work. He figured out how to phase tracks in and out by ear. It was messy, but he was doing it.

He was learning with scraps, not state-of-the-art tech. And that’s part of the legend: Morales wasn’t handed the tools—he **willed** them into existence.

In 1980, Morales discovered **The Loft**. Saturday nights. Twelve, fifteen hours of dancing. David Mancuso’s sound system. That room. That experience.

That place taught him that DJing wasn’t about being flashy—it was about curating an emotional journey. It was about taste, pacing, dynamics. And that changed everything for him.

Soon after, Morales found himself behind the decks regularly—clubs like the Ozone Layer, Red Zone, The World. Places that defined New York’s nightlife.

He developed a rep for long sets, deep transitions, soulful builds. He didn’t just play records—he **sculpted** nights.

But he wasn’t just DJing—he was starting t

Copyright 2025. “This is a Podcast About House Music” hosted by C-Dub