Cedric Antonio is the only person who has ever denied me entry to a party. 

This almost-perfect track record isn’t because of status or looks or money, or anything like that; it’s because I just love door people! We always hit it off. Along with strippers and phlebotomists, they are among my favorite profession-based personality types. Like both strippers and phlebotomists, they are scrappy and resourceful. Their demeanor is both welcoming and simultaneously discerning. They know everyone, but by design, don’t care too much what those people think. 

The night in question was a brisk but comfortable Halloween night in 2022. Unter was doing a sort of mandatory fetish-cos-play theme, and my crew and I decided not to participate. 

“That’s how I dress all the time,” one crewmember had said, opting instead to paint his entire body green and dye his hair for the look he’d conceived of before reading the dress code. “I’m not going to wear leather like it’s a Halloween costume.” 

A source with insider knowledge of the policy later explained that, “The dress code for Halloween came from Unter’s legacy collab with Pornceptual. The effort of a strict dress code on Halloween always yielded the best results inside.” Presumably, said results were achieved by weeding out those using the holiday as an excuse to ‘check out’ their first rave. 

We arrived to the line, which snaked around the corner of a Greenpoint street and glinted with newly bought leather harnesses and ill fitting collars. Every single person, except for us, in theme. 

“We might have issues,” I said, as I surveyed the scene. At the front of the line, stood two door people, both swishing and sashaying at the air in theatrically cunty disapproval of the crowd’s sartorial choices. I left my friends in line and jogged up to the front to get a closer look. 

“Nope! Chopped! No energy! Go home and change and come back!” Cedric said to a pup with a homemade mask. Cedric was dressed in comfortable-looking but chic trade attire, with his well-groomed beard and signature chipped tooth. 

“There’s still hope,” I said, as I rejoined the crew. I explained that I had seen that the line forked into two, at one side Cedric and at the other, Alissa— another iconic door person known for her high energy and punk rock charisma. “Alissa is just as tough as Cedric, but at least she has a heart.”

We got Cedric… 

And while ‘getting Cedric’ didn’t totally ruin my night, I did remember it. So, over a year later, I happily agreed to conduct an interview with this, shall we say, ‘gatekeeper,’ excited to exact my revenge and tear them apart…

Unfortunately, the photos were beautiful, the mix was killer, and, like most door people, they are complicated and fucking lovely.

“These photos by Jordi Perez are so good!” I said, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder and making some room for my computer on a forgotten dining room table in my parents’ attic. I was visiting them, and as every single member of my family ended up having Covid, it was a good time for me to get some work done.

“I know!” they said, without a hint of their door-brand sassiness. “I saw the photos, and I was like, ‘WORK!’” Cedric was in New York, and I pictured them, for some reason, on a lime green couch in a plant-filled room, a single dangly earring tickling their collarbone. 

As I would soon learn was a recurring theme in Cedric’s life, they see fashion as a creative strategy for self protection and preservation. “I grew up a larger kid,” they said. “Being a queer non-skinny kid was hard. I was interested in fashion, and it allowed me to assert myself and display myself in a way that made me feel more confident. Waking up, and putting on my armor, got me through whatever I had to get through that day. To this day, if I’m feeling insecure about entering a situation where I’m supposed to have authority, I’ll dress in a way that I think commands that authority…. Actually, I said I was interested in ‘fashion,’ I’m not and I never have been, I’m interested in style.” 

Teaming up with Official Rebrand, for the photoshoot and mix series that inspired the interview, was as much born out of a mutual love of style, as a shared passion for sustainability. “There’s so much waste in our society, and fashion is a big cause of that,” they said. “I’ve learned so much about sustainability working with MI and am really proud of the work they have been doing. There’s something really special about giving something a new life. If you can give something a new life and really make it sing, why wouldn’t you?”

Cedric’s background in music started in childhood, growing up in Baltimore and in the church.

“My mom is a gospel soprano,” they explained. “Music has always been a throughline in my life. I started in theater, which moved into musical theater. To this day, I pull from theater and gospel with my own music.” 

Like with “style,” music provided them an early avenue to both safety and esteem. “My first bit of figuring out armor was in the church,” they said. “I had to learn how to protect myself. It was interesting, because the ministers of music were always flamboyantly gay. Mostly black men. The church had a lot of feelings about homosexuality, but when these men were in the church, playing music, they had a power that superseded their queerness in the eyes of the community. Outside of church people would be a little shady, but during service there was only reverence.”

“And when you sang?” I asked, taking the phone off speaker, as some raucous coughing was making its way up the stairs and penetrating my pathetic sound studio. “Did it change your community’s view of you?” 

“I was always afraid to sing gospel,” they admitted. “It seemed like way too big a responsibility! But I had to tackle it in order to grow as a person and a performer. Music allowed me to step into a space where I didn’t feel like I had any power, and claim power for myself. If anything is infinite, music is definitely infinite.”

After leaving Baltimore, Cedric came to New York to pursue theater, dance, and performance, eventually beginning to work in nightlife.  “I got into nightlife because I lost my corporate job, which was paying for my creative projects. It was there I first met angels like Michael Magnan, Will Automagic and Nita Aviance, Xander Gaines Aviance, Kevin Aviance, and the entire House of Aviance. I was a patron first, which turned into hosting, barbacking, bartending, managing, and programming. It was born out of necessity; food and shelter. I started and was immediately drawn to clubs that played house music and the East Village queer scene. It was a mix of leather queens, queer and trans actual icons, pornstars, genderfuck musicians, and cabaret performers of ALL ages. I found my family of queer black elders. The music felt so familiar, it would sample gospel songs that reminded me of my upbringing. Stepping into nightlife felt like stepping up to sing in church.”

“That’s a pretty common comparison,” I said. “Why do you think so many people see a parallel between Sunday morning service, and lets say, ‘Saturday night service?’”

“It’s music,” they said, laughing. “It’s the original ritual. Think of early humans, around the fire with drums and dancing. That ritual has moved from the church into the club. Especially if you think about African slave traditions. The songs and music told stories, gave eulogy, and helped shape language between these people from different countries who were all tossed together like they were all the same. Nightlife can be used to forget things and escape, but it can also be used to purge. To find hope and community. You just have to approach it with a lot of intention. When queer nightlife is at its best you see this group of displaced people from all walks, coming together to share energy. It’s the same ritual. Everyone chose to be there and that is the part that gets overlooked often. These days it just takes a bit more work.”

It took some time working in nightlife before Cedric finally found the door. “The first time I was doing door where I had a curatorial responsibility was in 2014,” they explained. “It was for a party called Maison O that was put on by my friends Sloan Morgan and William Francis. Sloan had been part of the club kid era and nightlife for years, so it was a crash course in how to deal with people who are legendary with ease but still steer the night.”

Just in case my dad reads this, I’ll go ahead and run through some door basics. A door person, as opposed to a bouncer who checks IDs and can kick your ass if need be, is tasked with regulating the crowd of the party, through admitting and dismissing aspiring guests. The best door people have striking personalities and maintain a niche following of friends and fans, who may choose to attend a certain party simply for their presence alone. In NYC, like Berlin and Paris, this gig can become a full fledged career, helping launch some, like Kenny Kenny, Connie Girl, and Sven Marquardt, into international fame.  

“What, at this point, do you think your door ethos is?” I asked, placing the phone back on speaker, as the coughing from downstairs had finally subsided.  

“I’ve been beating manners into people for almost a decade,” they said, laughing. “As a queer black male presenting person, I get to be a beacon of safety for some of those in line and in the party. I also only ask people questions I was forced to know the answers to just to step out in New York when I arrived. If you can’t look me in the eye when we’re speaking, tell me what brought you to the event, and be respectful, then I know that that’s what you are going to bring with you into the party. I want to protect my friends; that’s my main goal and ethos. Sometimes people bring their own shit to the ritual, and they need to let that shit go. It’s not easy telling people, ‘No.’ But it’s necessary. I want people to understand that the energy they are bringing is more important than their money.”

“Your personality at the door versus in the rest of your life, is so drastically different,” I said. “Are you intentionally putting on a persona when working?”

“Even before I started working in nightlife, coming from a theater background, I’ve always built work avatars,” they said. “I’m hypersensitive, but I’ve had to develop a thick skin. When doing door, I put together a different avatar for every party. It’s a version of myself that takes into account the promoters’ intentions, the dress code, and the door policy. I’m not very nice but I make sure to be extremely kind.”

“Interesting!” I said, thinking back to the theatrics of the Halloween kerfuffle. “Do you see these avatars, like with fashion and music as a kid, as another form of ‘armor?’” 

“I realized early on that if I brought my whole self to it, every time, dealing with like 4,000 people a week, that there would be nothing left,” they said. “For me to be able to sustain myself and be a consistent force, I have to protect myself first. I’m sacrificing going out and being a patron, but I realize it’s such an important role. Not every night is for every person… even if we’re familiar.” 

“You said that line about ‘protecting your friends’ with a lot of conviction,” I said. “I wonder if you have some idea where this view of yourself as a protector comes from?” 

“I had an older brother who passed away at the beginning of 2020,” they said, dropping their last bit of avatar. “So much of what he taught me was the need to protect the family. It was just the three of us, and my mom had him so young. We were responsible for each other. I really looked up to him, he gave me my music taste. Any sort of power I have I owe to Reggie. My mom and I had early friction with her being super religious and not having many positive queer influences to rely on. She still has always given me a lot of love. Then when I came to New York, I met so many young queer people whose families had tossed them out and have been through so much, and I felt so protective of them. Here we all are together, fighting for our dreams together and finding chosen family. I transferred what my brother taught me about protecting family onto them and our spaces. I gain so much learning from my queer elders, and also love giving an ear to kids who are coming up. The way the world is right now, we all have to have each other’s backs and protect our spaces together.” 

https://doubleblindmag.com/a-portal-to-ritual-healing-and-belonging/