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Moby: Return of the Raver :: Still the techno poster child after two decades, Moby steps back up to the turntables he helped make famous

By Michael Vazquez   Photography by Thorsten Roth

01/02/08 :: URB 151

Hiro Ballroom, NYC November 15th, 2007, ‘round midnight…Moby, his fans and this writer all want the same thing—to be Him or a Significant Part Of Him, based on whatever their self-interested idea of "Him" is; for me he’s an interesting subject that I have to get quotes from; for the girl-in-a-band who came over and poured herself a drink from our scotch bottle, he’s the path to a record deal, while the girl standing in the front row waiting for Him to go on is just hoping to make eye contact.

And in between these three agendas is a myriad of fans of the godhead—the individual who most overtly represents the American rave movement and the ongoing rise and fall and rise of a music and culture, now experiencing its first trendy rebirth and subsequent nostalgia. Tonight he is DJing his new monthly club event, Degenerates. It’s a long overdue return to the decks for someone who managed to epitomize a DJ oriented culture while spending over a decade performing live on stage, without a one or two in site. Joining Moby tonight are newer school faves Tommie Sunshine and Spank Rock DJs Devlin and Darko. But it’s clear who the crowd is here to see. Moby might not have taken to the deck much in his recent career (recent meaning since 1997), but he’s still a DJ icon, and with his newly minted album, Last Night, a return to the traditional dance music forms he’s moved away from since the mid-‘90s, it makes perfect sense to see him cue up the first record. (OK, compact disc.)

I’m watching it all unfold, shooting video of him from behind, the cross tattooed on the back of his neck a constant visual presence. Someone told me that the oldest definition of “God” was "that which is summoned" and when I see so many beautiful women summoning Moby, Jesus am I jealous of this man, whom one insightful colleague described as having the physical bearing of a pre-pubescent 12-year-old girl.

Ever since this description, I've had a soft spot for Moby (about whom I’d become jaded). The image of someone grappling is one that suits him well, and is manifest amply in the early pages of this mag when the pre-fame, URB letter-writing rave DJ (check our site), shared and discussed publicly his battle to live authentically in a world full of some bad shit. Like many, he was particularly disappointed with how drugs were killing the importance of music at raves.

For those who aren’t familiar, here’s a short biography:  Moby is the son of a wizened hippy great granddaughter of Herman Melville, who wrote Moby Dick. Moby wisely saw value in branding his bloodline when the nickname “Moby” stuck as he immersed himself in NYC's mid-’80s underground culture.

From this, Moby would get into the rave scene here and abroad, after which he’d emerge as the negro spiritual- sampling bedroom producer who’d used an MPC as his diary, which he then sold to a planet he would tour for, playing to a T the manic multi-instrumentalist, going from toy to musical toy on stage with the enthusiasm of, well, an only child like himself; a playpal keen on showing you his world.

It’s interesting that with a worthy new album out, he’s opting to tour as a DJ only, considering that his live show during his “Everything Is Wrong” tour would climax in a very Christ-like outstretching of his arms which bespoke rock stardom as much as Christianity.

Whatever his past ego indulgences, Moby’s a darling to many the world over and the most successful DJ turned producer from URB’s early ‘90s icons.

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