There’s a conversation going on in graffiti in the Beauty Bar Dallas’ men’s room. What does it say?
“Helen Hunt,” “He’s a b****,” and so forth.
Walk past the graffiti through the unlocked door into the dance hall.
See the sugar-white lines run through pink and green walls.
Punch-drunk twenty-somethings jerk around the dance floor around 10 p.m. Saturday night, a scene made almost wholesome by the ‘50s salon decor.
A gang of tipsy blondes bellow from under their hair dryers.
One tough dude in an open turquoise shirt and feathered ponytail surveys the floor like a sentinel.
Sips of alcohol and a house send-up of Adele’s “Set Fire to the Rain” warm the club air.
Twirling around in a white dress and blonde wig is Luisa, the Granny Tranny.
The Granny Tranny is an eccentric Vietnam vet and regular at these Saturday shows.
She flashes a smile at the DJ, a lanky young man in black designer clothing.
He’s Blake Ward, one of Dallas’ hottest DJs and host of bubbly, queer-friendly Glamorama Saturday nights at the Beauty Bar Dallas.
The floor starts to fill up around 11 p.m.
People gather to see Granny Tranny do the cha-cha with bar regular James McDowell. McDowell sloppily insists on dancing and getting to know the interesting characters at the show, although he knows nothing about Ward.
“A DJ’s a DJ,” McDowell said.
“He plays music. I play music at my house. I don’t understand it.”
It’s more of a party for the rest of us when McDowell leaves for another bar.
People dance to a fizzy mix of Justin Timberlake’s “Suit and Tie” and Kool and the Gang’s “Get Down on It.”
There’s Granny Tranny mesmerizing young college boys, standing eagerly for dance lessons.
“I want my purse!” shouts a girl into her friend’s mouth.
It’s 11:40 p.m., and it’s “about to get creepy,” Laura Callis, Ward’s girlfriend and photographer, said.
Boys and girls are popping booty in the night air.
One burly, bearded man in an FC Dallas shirt flails his arms in bliss, ignoring his date.
Granny Tranny has gone from commanding a crowd to bouncing off bodies in a nervous jitter.
Everyone cheers when Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines” comes on, shouting in sync, “You the hottest b**** in this place!”
People give Ward compliments and handshakes, but he is a little hesitant with requests.
“My best friend’s getting married,” announces a brunette wanting a shout out.
Ward politely declines, grinning.“That’s why I don’t have a microphone,” he said.
The floor bumps with the airy thump of U.K. garage duo Disclosure before shifting to hard electro.
A big bear in streetwear named Zachariah stomps to Cece Peniston’s ‘80s dance number “Finally.”
Patrons wave their hands over their face like John Cena because, whatever.
Ward prefers to play house and electro, but tonight he’s let some hip-hop slip into the set list. He wants to test the new Eastern Acoustic Works soundsystem properly.
Azealia Banks’ shrieking “212” smoothly melds into Major Lazer’s dancehall smash “Pon de Floor” before depressing into Lana Del Ray’s “Summertime Sadness.”
The crowd is jumping and singing along, grinding on one another.
There’s a blue-skinned woman in pirate regalia socializing near the salon chairs.
Black dude creeps on girls to no avail between sips of Pabst Blue Ribbon. DJ Carly G stumbles to the Beauty Bar Dallas late, but dominates swiftly with a few shakes of his asymmetrical hair.
We are about to reach a fever pitch.
“It kinds of gets weird in the last hour,” Callis said. “People get super drunk.”
Skream’s drippy “Boat Party” slows the torrent in the club to a drizzle.
Lights flicker signaling the impending closing.
The crowd couldn’t care less.
They’re busy knocking the brass chandelier around to the music.
When the lights come on, people are still dancing, high-fiving each other.
Ward sticks around to talk to people on their way out.
Hershal, the bar manager, has a candy tattoo on his left arm, the arm he uses to call security on the drunks struggling to find their way home.
Ward chops it up with Hershal afterwards, excited about another successful night of Glamorama.
