The Alley Behind a 2slimey Show

The smell of sea salt whips through the windows as we cross the bridge to get to Miami Beach. Speeding by is a middle-aged woman holding her husband from behind. With her arms snaked around his torso, he steers their motorcycle. WELCOME TO MIAMI BEACH.

6752 Collins Ave. is crawling with alternative twenty-somethings, most of whom are Hispanic. Par for the course in Miami, but tonight is different; it’s 2slimey night. Inside, there’s a bar seating a few confused regulars. A metalhead playing pool sports a belt made of soft-point bullets. His audience is a 9-year-old boy wearing a Nike Pro shiesty. The boy says nothing.

Past the bathrooms is a metal door to outside. Outside is a fenced-in, bustling backyard area with turf grass, vendors and couches. Past the yard is the open door to the actual concert room. It spills red light onto the security guards. A thick wave of body heat hits ye who enter.

Just on the other side of the wood fence is an alley between the venue and another bar; this is where artists and friends are gathering, and it’s heavily guarded. A drunkish guy in a beanie tries to push past security into the alley. “It’s me,” he cries. Kids no older than 14 stand on benches to peer over the fence at the people running the show. A silver Benz, driven by Dxrop, pulls into the alley.

Inside, Holottacheese twists around on stage, her rhinestone belt changing color with every move. In between songs, brace-faced teens gawk in the front row. “Cheese! Cheese!” “Baddest bitch in the world!” “I love you!” Her silver grill flashes as she smiles from ear to ear.

While Sir Untre performs, outside waits Vax. He leans against the wall, basking in the glow of his phone as someone fetches a microphone for him. He’s live on Instagram, talking to fans. His performance will be livestreamed. As soon as he has the microphone, he hands his phone to a friend and walks through the back door. People in the crowd and onstage start jumping.

Now his turn to perform, Drxop is rapping into the microphone while still in the alley. The screams of the crowd muffle as the door shuts behind him. Percaso leans against the silver Mercedes as the drunk guy in a beanie is being pushed out by security for climbing onto the stage. “You doin’ the most, you gotta slide,” one of the guards tells him as his sneakers scrape against the asphalt. Two kids who are not supposed to be back here watch the man be shoved out of the alley.

A swarm of attendees are now coming up the alley: about a dozen people, almost all of them scantily clad young women. These are not just audience members, though. “Are you here for 2slimey?” one guy asks me. He rolls his eyes when I say yes. This is the entourage of Thouxanbanfauni, who is wearing Apple earbuds and walking through his personal crowd like Moses. Did they all come in one car, I wonder.

After Fauni’s set, he leaves, followed by his huge group of friends. “It’s too damn hot in there,” one woman bleats to her friend, who is sitting against the fence, catching her breath. Security is now clearing everyone out of the alley to make room for the head honcho. “Use your feet, gang. Go, move.”

He’s here now. Behind his manager, sandwiched between the wall and a security guard, is 2slimey. He’s wearing a silver jacket, grills to match and large black sunglasses. Josh, the manager, shields 2slimey while they walk to the back door. “Hey, I need everyone to go, move that way!” Unfortunately, this does not stop a crowd of people from forming when the artist and manager are at the door.

“I’m his manager and I’m not on stage tonight, no one is,” Josh asserts to the surrounding crowd. A pair of arms in the backyard area are holding a camcorder over the fence to record the rapper. Someone warns 2slimey of the temperature inside, but he seems unbothered, “Yeah, I heard.” He is responding to every single thing that anyone says to him. He looks relaxed and ready to perform. 

Concertgoers grow more excited as the minutes go by.

“Bring emOut” begins to play, and when 2slimey pops up above their heads, the crowd roars. “Vet” causes a swirl of loud confusion among concertgoers. Half of the crowd is looking at the artist with laser focus, and the other half is looking for a way to start a mosh pit. 2slimey headbangs, his black hair flying around as his new army pushes each other and crowd-surfs.

A girl in corpse paint shrieks, it sounds like the music is breaking the speakers. The crowd rushes to the front of the stage, tumbling like a litter of puppies. “Back the fuck up,” security yells. Another mosh pit forms when the beat drops for “Belly.” The wall behind 2slimey is also sweating with condensation. It’s shining red and purple from the lights. Back in the cool alley, people continue to crowd the door, hoping to get a quick video from behind the stage.

After the show, 2slimey and friends sit on a couch in a quiet, dimly lit room above the bar. Fans wait at the bottom of the stairs, hoping to see the man himself. A lifted, chrome-rimmed, teal Escalade bumps past the Walgreens next door, where excited, shirtless teenagers talk about the show and buy water.