From the South Florida Sun-Sentinel

Crush zone

Thanks to two party-loving brothers, trendsetters in Broward County don't have to go to South Beach.

by Courtney Hambright

April 27 2006

On a recent Thursday night, two miles north of the twinkling lights and parking headaches of downtown Fort Lauderdale, a group of carefully styled partygoers packs the dance floor inside the spacious and dark Tabu nightclub. Occasionally, the crowd will part for a break dancer to spin on his back or a couple will step inside the club's shadow-dancing box to simulate sex with a phallic instrument and generate catcalls from the audience.

The DJs, meanwhile, are eschewing the overplayed songs of Guns N' Roses, Sublime and Beyoncé in favor of danceable, underground rock and electronic music. The trendy music complements the clubgoers' meticulous and, in some cases, scanty attire.

Taking it all in are Isaac and Jonathan Alexander, the sibling promoters responsible for tonight's party, known as Crush. The Brothers Alexander, as they like to be called, are striving to offer an alternative to Broward County's tried-and-true, spring-break-style party scene. Their goal is to create hordes of fashion-conscious music fans who'd much rather break a sweat dancing to semipopular but still-cool bands like The Faint and Le Tigre than derivative, mainstream alternative groups like The Killers and The Strokes.

If all this sounds a bit cliquish, well, it is. But it's a clique the Brothers Alexander would like to see expand.

"Broward is resistant to creativity and going outside the lines," the 23-year-old Jonathan Alexander argues. "Miami is focused on art, music, creativity and media. Broward seems to have found its niche. It's a very stubborn, older crowd."

Both Isaac, 27, and Jonathan have dirty-blond, painstakingly coiffed hair and near-transparent blue eyes. With their costumelike getups that range from sharp blazers over blue jeans to knee-high boots and sunglasses at night, the Alexanders are decidedly hip and unmistakably metrosexual.

Even though the brothers are partners in Crush, the event is Isaac's baby. He launched it 2 1/2 years ago, modeling it after Poplife, a successful club night and concert series held in Miami's Design District. Poplife's founder Ray Milian, who is no longer affiliated with the event, claims his dance parties routinely drew as many as 500 people, while his concerts included such top indie-rock acts as Modest Mouse, Secret Machines, Of Montreal and Peaches.

"Going to a party like Poplife changed my life entirely," Isaac Alexander explains. "I'd never danced to rock 'n' roll before. That wasn't being done. People were truly letting go. It was the first time I'd seen the dance floor influence people. Indie rock is like hip-hop, not because of the style of music but because everyone got into it. In reality, it's a lifestyle."

Alexander could find no such life-altering party experience in Broward. So he moved to New York, where he took a job as the audio-department manager at a Sam Ash store in Times Square. But even in a city notorious for its nonstop partying, Alexander couldn't get his poor, indie-rock-deprived hometown out of his head. "I didn't even start the job," he recalls. "I came back here to start Crush."

The earliest Crush parties took place at the Kalahari Bar in Fort Lauderdale, and the event has been on the move ever since. Before landing at Tabu, its previous homes included the Fox and Hound and Rose and Crown pubs, both in Fort Lauderdale.

In February, the Brothers Alexander decided to complement Crush with a Friday-night party called Phoenix. "I think the scene needs a good party on Fridays," Isaac says, "one with attention to detail, attention to style and music. It's important."

Held at the recently opened Roxanne's on Main, Phoenix is well-suited to the venue's indoor-outdoor setup, complete with a fire pit and couches throughout. The layout accommodates both dancing and conversation, creating a comfortable atmosphere that allows for all-night partying.

Phoenix has already impressed Milian, who, along with DJs Shaun Minus, Sean Weeks and Jonathan Alexander, has become a regular presence behind the turntables at the party. On a recent Friday night following his DJ set, the handsome, dark-eyed Milian perches on a couch on Roxanne's outdoor patio and takes a look around. "This is the first time I've seen the venue," he says. "I really like the space.

"There hasn't been anything good going on in Broward on the weekends," the 32-year-old promoter continues. "People go to Miami all the time. This is still in the beginning stages, but this is the way Miami was in the beginning stages. It has the potential."

It's obvious why the Brothers Alexander wanted Milian to spin at Phoenix. "It's not, like, even a question," Isaac explains. "He started the party that started me. He's a god comparatively."

The question is why Milian chose to become part of Phoenix. "The Brothers Alexander are genuine people, exposing people to music and having a great time," he says. "I totally did this night because I knew they were going to be part of it."

The Alexanders were born and raised in Broward by Christian parents who took them to Cavalry Chapel and put them through piano lessons and the Singing Sons boys choir. According to Jonathan, his parents have "huge reservations" about their sons' vocation. Having grown up in such a restrictive environment may be a factor in the brothers' determination to help broaden the county's party scene.

"Everyone identifies with creativity and camaraderie. When you come to my parties, there might be something that you don't understand, but it's based on creativity and camaraderie," Isaac Alexander says. "So there's something that you identify with. I used to think that a scene was based around a party, but I realized that a scene was based around people with a unique take on life and appreciation for the music. Everything after that, whatever it is, is just the people in the scene finding a common ground, and that is how good shit starts."

"The ultimate objective," his brother adds, "is to provide an alternative to Miami, to create a fun, distinct, elite, creative party in Broward."

At a recent Phoenix party, Ryan Lasseter, a 23-year-old Florida Atlantic University senior who plays drums in local band The Mission Veo, sits amid a group of friends on the patio at Roxanne's. A frequent clubgoer, Lasseter says he was drawn to the event by its selection of music.

"I go to Miami: Poplife, Revolver, The District. Good music is so hard to find," he explains. "It's disappointing when you go somewhere and they're playing music you don't want to hear. I go looking for a place to dance and have a good time. I like when a place plays old Michael Jackson songs and Interpol. I don't want to hear the techno shit they play in other clubs."

Skyler Smith-Fiero, a 27-year-old blonde, offers her take on Phoenix. "I think it's a younger crowd. It's a punk scene with a twist," she describes, estimating the crowd's average age to be 19. "From an old person's point of view, I saw rave scenes and punk scenes. If I was the age of the people here, I'd be here, too. They say everybody's very standoffish, but everyone I talked to is very genuine."

The Brothers Alexander are not the first promoters to attempt to create such a scene in Broward. Before Crush and Phoenix, the independent party Blowtorch took place one Wednesday a month at the Fox and Hound. Its creators, a collective of 20-something rockers and music aficionados including Russell Saunders, Mike Ramirez and City Link contributing writer Kiran Aditham, intended Blowtorch to be Broward's answer to Miami-Dade's thriving indie-rock scene, but with a difference. The party purported to focus more on music and less on fashion and social elitism.

"Blowtorch was aimed toward a different crowd [than Crush]. The motives were different," says Ramirez, who now hosts Revenge, a Saturday-night party also held at Roxanne's. Ramirez says the event focuses on "music from the '80s that was never released on the scale it's released now."

Seated outside the CD Collector in Fort Lauderdale's Gateway Plaza, the 25-year-old brunet, who sports a tousled hairdo and a black Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark T-shirt, puffs on a Parliament while he assesses the Brothers Alexander. "I'm glad they're successful, but it's not my interest," he says. "I'm pretty aware of what trend is going on in indie music, and that's what they're playing. I don't care about a scene. I couldn't care less about status; that's not even on my list."

But he quickly adds, "I always go out and support. I see a lot of people in Fort Lauderdale who don't support. That needs to change. There are interesting things happening."

Mike Hooker, the 25-year-old co-promoter of Low Fidelity, a concert series that presents local and national rock acts, doesn't relate to the Brothers Alexander or the crowd their parties draw. "Obviously there is a need for it, because [Isaac] does well," Hooker observes. "I don't see the need for DJ music. … People pay $3 to $6 for the DJs. I have three or four bands for the same price."

Despite such criticism, few Broward events boast the consistency and dogged effort that lie behind the Brothers Alexander's weekly parties. The young crowds that energize Crush and Phoenix are as much a result of the promoters' willingness to embrace newcomers -- especially if they're good-looking women -- as the popularity of the music. For the Brothers Alexander, this is a serious business.

At 3 on a recent Friday morning, the weekly Crush afterparty is officially under way in the one-bedroom Oakland Park apartment Isaac Alexander shares with DJ Shaun Minus and, sometimes, his brother Jonathan. "It looks like I'm just partying," Isaac says, as young hipsters wander through the wide-open front door with cases of domestic beer. "But I've probably worked 10 hours before I get to Crush. I'm fliering, organizing the street team, setting up bands. It's all behind-the-scenes. I have this thing about seeing things the way I would like to see them.

"It's not that I'm opposed to throwing parties in other towns," he adds. "It's just that this town needs it so bad. People tell me, 'Don't go. Stay here.' "

He sighs. "I get worried every week."