When it comes to Houston nightlife, I’m committed to not living under a rock anymore. So naturally, I found my footing in a cave this weekend. It’s full of lasers, bass, and energy bouncing off of every pore in the underground walls. Even though the vibe is that of a huge motley family reunion, everyone here is new. This is the opening night of Ministry, located at 709 Franklin, and Buda Love Presents has promised us all a “rebirth” this night.
“The patio’s still pretty much the same,” someone to my left informs me. “But a lot’s changed on the inside. I like it. Good call.”
“I came from Texas State for Foam Wonderland,” another familiar stranger chimed in while hand rolling a cigarette. “When my cousin saw this place was the after party, he freaked out and said, ‘We gotta come here man, this place is legendary! So far, it’s fire,” he laughs, “and it’s only midnight.”
The conversation is revolving around what was once Kryptonite, Houston’s infamous EDM institution, where everybody knew your rave name (if you have one) and the party wasn’t over until the last person was done dancing.
But I had missed out on all that history. The usual look of shock is priceless when I tell people I’m nearing 30, a native Houstonian, and have never been to Krypto or Rich’s or anything that used to be something else, or most things that still are what they are. I’m an electronic music fan who came into by way of bedroom listening, consolidating my live exposure into the bigger shows when I could make it. Buttoned-up adulthood came at me fast, and coupled with lone-wolfing and a slight bit of social anxiety, my nightlife outings have historically been limited. And yet explaining this tonight to people who have time and time again earned their watch-the-sunrise-over-the-bayou neon badge of honor doesn’t leave me feeling alienated or rejected. In fact, I get quite the opposite response: “Cheers to new beginnings. Glad you’re here!”
The music is just what I wanted to hear after Foam Wonderland (and in general). Big, bass-y, and full of badass energy, I walk in about the time LTHL WPN switches the decks over to Arson, who then goes into an insane hardstyle set. Everyone’s losing their shit. They’ll keep losing their shit all the way through Oscillator Z, Foreign Twiinz, Mad Classy, Super Smashed Bros, and Dvrth Fvder. I’m just as engrossed in the music as I am in the people, the unique setting, the lights, and the relationship evolving between the crowd and the DJ with every beat. When I go outside for some air, I mention tacos and a vibrant woman approaches me, showing me her backpack and explaining she came in with it full of them, which were devoured in minutes. I don’t know who she is, but I’m happy to find out. I get wrapped up in a riveting conversation with a gentleman who recognizes me from a mutual friend, and we’re simultaneously watching the crowd. Everyone’s smiling, laughing, and happy to see each other, whether they’re meeting for the first time or being reunited after a long time.
There’s something poetic about a club once named after Superman’s only weakness to end up devastated by weather, the most likely force of destruction in Houston. Many believed this place and what it stands for met its Doomsday, and had their “funeral for a friend.” But just as Superman was written as humankind’s savior resurrected, from the subterranean rubble comes a new, fresh take on something familiar. Kryptonite is gone, but Ministry is starting strong. We all experience our own deaths and rebirths throughout life—it’s how we keep good memories alive, get past the bad, and move forward with our lessons learned. Sometimes it takes escaping your comfort zone into a cave to remember that.
Ash Cash Dillon is a legit word nerd with a killer bass face and a love of all that is stone cold groovy. You can find her writing all over the interwebs, business world, and take-out menus via sharpie vandalism.
