In Miami’s western suburbs, the Boombox births an underground nightclub scene. I t’s around midnight on a Saturday in late March, and droves of spring breakers are wading through traffic in downtown and South Beach, trying to find their way into late-night hot spots like E11even, Club Space, and LIV. Savvy locals, though, are headed to the Boombox, an underground nightclub in suburban Miami-Dade County. Upon pulling up into a warehouse park, you know you’re in the right place when you spot the throngs of twentysomethings rocking their finest clubwear. Some are in button-downs and tight jeans; others sport torn fishnets and knee-high boots. They’re all talking, laughing, slamming tallboys, and walking in the same direction — seemingly toward nowhere. Miami-Dade’s western fringes have historically been home to nightlife endeavors like strip clubs and dive bars, but proper nightclubs have always been the domain of the area’s urban core. The Boombox bucks that trend by regularly host- ing events that rival those of more well-known nightclubs — both in terms of attendance and quality of music. And it’s tucked away where you’d least expect it. “We like to think of ourselves as the bridge between pure underground and the limelight,” says Laszlo Kristaly, the ven- ue’s co-owner who’s sporting Nike overalls, a turquoise mo- hawk, and a super-reflective pair of caravan sunglasses. “The Boombox is a place where stars are born. A lot of people who started performing with us are now playing Space on a regu- lar basis. It’s cool — they reached the other side.” There’s something furtive about this place. From outside, the music is barely discernible until you’re in line to enter. Two girls in matching T-shirts with the word “security” em- blazoned on them check tickets, but unlike venues in down- town or Miami Beach, the wait to get in rarely lasts more than ten minutes, even at peak hours. Upon entering, the first section you’ll encounter is the pa- tio. Affectionately dubbed “the Lot,” the venue’s industrial walls are bombed with graffiti, with fresh paint overlapping older, faded pieces. The energy from the DJ booth radiates outward, toward patrons seated at picnic tables under the moonlight. They’re talking to strangers, smiling, exchanging shooters of liquor, rolling joints. “Once it goes from graffiti to street art and when the [Mi- ami Parking Authority] starts charging for parking, the prices go up,” Kristaly says jokingly. “That’s when things start get- ting real, you know?” Before he was old enough to drink, Kristaly, along with Left photo: The Boombox is located in the former Bird Road Art District. Right photo: Cofounders Laszlo Kristaly (left) and Ricardo "Mango" Cano, along with Miguel Cala (not pictured), got their start throwing parties for underage suburbanites. longtime friend Miguel Cala and Kristaly’s cousin, Ricardo “Mango” Cano, threw parties for underage suburbanites. Starting with high-school gatherings in Kristaly’s parents’ house, the trio eventually began hosting events at local busi- nesses and warehouses. The nights were often chaotic to or- ganize but always fun. As Kristaly, Cala, and Cano watched the demand for their events grow, they decided it was time to open a venue of their own. With their own space, they saw an opportunity to pro- vide Miami with the closest thing to an underground club- bing experience while remaining on the right side of the law. While the location and mission are humble, the Boom- box is far from short on impressive performers. On this night in March, the venue is playing host to Boiler Room- Natalie Gonzales (@555.films) 7 7 level DJs like Ben UFO, Danny Daze, and Pearson Sound on the outdoor patio. The venue’s indoor space, dubbed “the Box,” consists of a giant room that grows infinitely hazy as the night rages on. Here you’ll encounter local DJs dishing out the pulsating grooves for dancers to lose themselves in. At one point, a young woman takes a break from dancing to find a corner to puke in — though the fog and low, purple lighting allow for some obfuscation of what’s occurring. Once she collects her- self, she’s back on the dance floor, acting surprisingly lucid, nodding her head and shuffling through rhythmic chaos. “Miami is known for its club culture, but the nightlife scene here is super different from what we do at the Boombox,” says Cano, who’s rocking a vintage BMW windbreaker and puffing on a disposable vape. “It’s the perfect mix of vibes between punk shows, warehouse raves, and a night out at Space.” Cano and Kristaly, music- and graffiti-obsessed cousins, have been close since they were students at Doral Academy. (Considering they are both 22, that wasn’t too long ago.) “Laszlo used to pull up to school with his boombox,” Cano says. “We used to sit outside blasting music. I think adminis- tration cut us some slack because they thought it was cool to see these jits bumping old-school hip-hop like N.W.A., A Tribe Called Quest, and Nas, outside with a boombox.” “I eventually got expelled from Doral Academy for ‘conspir- acy of vandalism,’” Kristaly admits. “I gave some kids >> p8 miaminewtimes.com | browardpalmbeach.com | CONTENTS | LETTERS | NEWS | NIGHT+DAY | CULTURE | CAFE | MUSIC |MIAMI NEW TIMES miaminewtimes.com | CONTENTS | LETTERS | RIPTIDE | METRO | NIGHT+DAY | STAGE | ART | FILM | CAFE | MUSIC | NEW TIMES MONTH XX–MONTH XX, 2008 MAY 19-25, 2022 PUMP VOLUME GHETTO BY JEREMY DAVID BLASTER
