- "CAN YOU FEEEEEL IT?" In DC-10's Main Room on Monday, a shaggy-haired man in his 40s was getting overexcited. His friend, of a similar age, shot him a wide grin. It was just after 11 PM, and Miss Kittin was finding her feet, thumping out meaty techno with king-sized riffs to a thin yet growing floor. Earlier, in the last of the daylight, groups of friends with greying hair rocked along to Doc Martin's chunky grooves. They smiled and twirled each other round, making the most of the free space.
It's hard to determine the exact reasons for the older crowd and sparse early attendance at Circoloco, but both things squared with what I've been hearing about Ibiza in 2017. The island is the busiest it's ever been, but there seem to be fewer young ravers, perhaps put off by the lack of accommodation and overall prices in Ibiza. Meanwhile, the wealthier, more mature crowd is on the rise—in July, Ibiza airport processed a record number of private jets. This has been felt on dance floors across the island.
This might be good news for clubbers. Overcrowding is an issue in Ibiza, so being able to dance and move freely should never be taken for granted. It was great to see people stretching out and really enjoying themselves here. The sound, too, had been smartly tweaked and turned down, making the whole experience better. Once the Garden shut, the Terrace and the Main Room swelled, but never to uncomfortable levels. After a cartoonish first few tracks that instantly lifted the mood (including CEV's "Live in The Mix" and this one by Adam Beyer), The Black Madonna lit the Terrace with a couple disco jams and an edit of Lil Wayne's "A Milli," which she let bubble away beneath slabs of four-to-the-floor. She worked the room better than most of the party's veterans.
The same goes for Ben Klock in the Main Room, though the Berliner's set hit an early snag. Within seconds of starting, he snapped his head to one side and gave the last DJ, Mano Le Tough, a disapproving look. It was nothing the Irishman had done—the dull thud from next door had just ruined Klock's beatless intro. Perhaps in response, he barely let the kicks slip from view during the next two hours, jumping from one swinging rhythm to the next with dramatic timing. At one point, the eerie twinkle of Dubspeeka's "SK30" zinged through the room, pinging off the dozens of golden globes illuminating the dance floor. The audience was younger and more boisterous now, which suited the music's pace. Every so often, one of the older lot would emerge from the shadows, beaming and shiny with sweat.