Four years after a major drug raid—and a subsequent effort to clean up its image in the eyes of the law and community
This story began the way it always does: Because people kept asking questions. When I wrote last week’s column about the after-hours sub-culture in Toronto, I approached it as a primer for such activities. (You should too, by the way.) Of course, in the tiny span of 800 words, I could hardly outline the complete intricacies of what, at its very fundamental level, is an encounter that one simply has to experience first hand. But in all my conversations—in all my research and daylight probing—there was one constant that kept coming up: The Comfort Zone.
“Oh no,” were the first words to fly out of my friend’s mouth when I told her I wanted to dive deeper into the lore of all-night partying by visiting the city’s most notorious hangout—and that she would be coming with. Actually, that was almost everyone’s response to my objective: No, no, no. The Comfort Zone (CZ, for short) opened in 1997 and has since developed its own mythology; it’s flamboyantly sketchy, with no apologies and no pretension. Despite owner Ralph Berrin’s attempts at re-branding, the venue has never quite been able to shake off its image, or at least the popular opinion of its purpose and associations.
Located at the corner of Spadina and College, underneath the equally infamous Silver Dollar Room, this dance den is just as riddled with conjecture. In 2008, the place was raided shortly after the death of a patron who allegedly bought the date-rape drug GHB there, but there wasn’t any substantiated proof. (Skim the 300-plus comments on a BlogTO article about the bust for war stories from the inside.) In March 2009, Berrin launched a lawsuit against the City and local councillor Adam Vaughan for “unfair scrutiny.” In early 2010, CZ made a big show of its re-opening as a cleaner, law-abiding establishment, complete with a voluntary revocation of its liquor license (still enforced today, I’m told) and tighter security with more discerning vigilance. And so, last Friday night, my iCal had two entries: 10 p.m.—the Motionball gala in support of the Special Olympics at The Carlu; and 2 a.m.—The Comfort Zone, 480 Spadina Ave.
I started imaging all sorts of things; I started to think the worst about a place that I knew very little about, and about the people inside it. But that’s what a place like The Comfort Zone does to you: It’s a place so wrought with publicized indiscretions that it makes you assume that only the worst kind of people—or the worst kind of person inside you, at least—would pay money to be there. The club’s website brought me back to reality: DJ set-times, semi-specific operating hours, a Facebook account. Yup, everything seemed above-board; there was a transparency unlike the truly clandestine spots I had alluded to in my previous column. Indeed, my wading pool was waiting.
Friday night, 2 a.m.: I arrived right on time, feeling slightly uneasy about the inherently wicked nature of my night: supporting a serious organization that changes lives, followed by a visit to the trendy equivalent of a flophouse common room. The entrance was bright, the bouncer firm. Pat, pat, up, down, that was that. A green “I Heart CZ” wristband was applied. The cover charge was $20; ladies free before 3 a.m. or something so inexplicability unfair like that. (What is this, Thursday nights at Hyde?) There were blue walls, leading to a plunging staircase, down into what I joked was the “abyss of either freedom or terror.” The last Toronto Public Health inspection poster proudly displayed: January 23, 2012. Pass.
At the foot of those stairs, you can see The Comfort Zone in its entirety. The black light that turns every willing fibre on you fluorescent; the main bar with two pale white girls; the pool tables to left; the DJ—enclosed in what I can only describe as a caged altar—to the right; benches and tables lining either wall. Pick your adventure, I thought, so we went right, and headed straight into the nucleus: the dance floor. In January of last year, Silver Dollar talent booker Dan Burke told the Star of the club’s “rebirth”: “The place is really spruced up. It’s been tidied up and refurbished, there’ve been upgrades to the sound system.” Yeah, that probably didn’t happen—or, at the very least, the “sprucing” doesn’t perform its desire effect.
There wasn’t much to the place, but it had matched the precedent I’d see in other after-hours incarnations: dark, and decrepit. I can’t quite figure out the term for other after-hours incarnations that operate separate from society, but still within their own rules. Is it a form of sophisticated anarchy? Social or extreme liberalism? Quebec? Whatever it is, The Comfort Zone is the opposite and, in a very basic way, tries to act as a lawful environment as defined by the society it exists in; it does not officially belong to the underbelly.
Sure, there’s a pungent scent akin to pot and cigs in the air, but it’s faint and transitory since there’s no absolutely no smoking allowed inside. At the bar, the bartender firmly says there is absolutely no more alcohol service, so never ask again. She hands me a bottle of water instead. Behind me, there’s an unmanned merch booth with paraphernalia that reaches fetish proportions: I Heart CZ bikinis, posters, lighters—the works. (Ask your server.) So far, Shazam isn’t picking up what the DJ is putting down; still, I know enough to deduce that it’s probably progressive house. Around the corner, there’s a row of billiard tables occupied by U of T college students; two boys are playing each other, laughing, hugging and, yes, kissing openly. Security guards—I can count about five on the floor in total—are watching and surveying without so much as blinking. It’s free love.
Miraculously, through back channels, I manage to find a media representative for CZ, and I’m told that 2009 lawsuit is still very much in effect, but has yet to reach trial for a number of, let’s just say, “bureaucratic reasons” related to licensing, permit approval and so forth. One thing is clear from our conversation: The Comfort Zone still grapples with the constant threat of unnecessary police intervention. I see both sides: The club’s all-night parties inevitably attract a certain crowd and, if the establishment is allegedly breaking “the rules” (promoting drug distribution seems to be the central tenet to this argument), then authorities will pay more attention. But, to be clear: I’m not here to judge or explore questions about morality. What people choose to do inside of a nightclub or a bar is that person’s own business, and whether said establishment explicitly knows anything about these transgressions, they can only be held accountable to a certain point. If it directly affects other patrons, or spills over into the streets and affects the neighbourhood at large, then I would hold an establishment involuntarily accountable. (And if you think there aren’t certain substances being bought/sold/ingested at whatever little pristine palace you’re dancing in—on King West, Richmond, or Queen West—then feel free to continue living in your little utopia.)
3:00 a.m.: I see nothing wrong with this place. It’s tame, and you might even think it was a little lame. Past the kids and their pool games, there’s an exit to the outside smoking patio that faces a block of rooms at The Waverley Hotel. (Based on what people tell me anecdotally, this seems to be the most fascinating fact for some reason.) This is also a place to meet the disciples, and take a time out. I meet a group of Irish tourists who use words like “Roger’s Centre” and say they heard about this place on internet message boards, and there’s an artist beside them wearing tie-dyed pants he made himself. From what I can ascertain, this is a musical experience first and foremost. If I had to side with Silver Dollar’s Burke on anything, it would be that the sound system is transcendent; the bass will break your bones. “I just come to dance—there’s no place like it in the city,” says a guy so serious I want to believe that this is what it’s about for him despite what his pupils tell me. “Sometimes, I’ll come down at 7 a.m. on Sunday and just dance it out before breakfast. That’s why this place is awesome—it wakes me up.”
(When I call Adam Vaughan about the “unfair scrutiny” situation on Monday morning, he denies that it’s even on his agenda, and reiterates that what law enforcement chooses to do is ultimately out of his control. A lot of the talk between both sides is “off the record” since the lawsuit is technically in progress. The Comfort Zone has its theories and allegations; Vaughan asserts his team has more important things to worry about. In fact, he confesses that he had forgotten about the three-year-long ordeal until I called him about it. Essentially, if The Comfort Zone wants to remain operational, Vaughan argues they must do it with respect for the surrounding community, and that involves policing its own patrons just as much as the police themselves do, in this particular place or in any of the Entertainment District. In short, there is no institutional bias. FYI, this is also why I didn’t explicitly contact a police rep for my last piece—everyone knows what’s happening, aboveground or otherwise. I’d be told the exact same thing Vaughan is telling me.)
3:23 a.m.: As for the clientele on the patio, it’s just a bunch of people drin… well, not drinking, but smoking and doing a bunch of other shit. “Dayglo” underwear—and fluorescent everything—is the only dress code I can see. A lot of the girls are shorter than I’m used to—and that’s because no one is wearing heels. This place is for serious dancing. Young gays with their shirts off, juiceheads with their shirts skintight. Sweatpants and sneakers aren’t uncommon, either. Same goes for fanny packs—everyone’s got ‘em. Almost every second person is wearing something white; it all starts to look eerily like heaven. I’m watching another group get tangled up in a neon orange harness like Cirque du Soleil gone clubbing.
Like the other after-hours venues that push the limits, CZ just can’t anymore, because it’s already an environment of extremes—extreme eccentrics with nowhere to be (ever) or extreme “cool kids” with shifts that don’t start until the next evening or that get off on a lack of curb appeal. These class systems are often interchangeable; and the power shifts between these groups depending on the venue. (I don’t think many people know what it’s like to witness the ubiquitous hipster stick out like a moustache in November.) There is no room for in-betweens: you’re either into it, or you try to be. Otherwise, you might as well stay out altogether. Within this realm of all-night dancing, there are indeed those who value it with a gluttonous appetite.
4:19 a.m.: For others, The Comfort Zone serves as a reprieve from having to fit in anywhere else. People are just entranced by the music. I’m around long enough to catch entire sets from DJ Jay Force, who started at 2 a.m., and Deko-Ze, who went until 5:30 a.m. People jump on the enclosure, mesmerized by the music men, rattling the cages and yelling and woo-ing. It’s like Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” video in here. The music gets vocal now, with atmospheric, Armin Van Buuren-approved trance subgenres like this and other mildly familiar tracks like this.
5:30 a.m.: I think I’ve seen enough. Plus, sunrise will be coming at 7:31 a.m. and I’ve lived through that horror one too many times. Up to street level, down Spadina, New Ho King still has two tables full, McD’s is already serving breakfast and construction workers are huddled for coffee at Tim Hortons. A night at The Comfort Zone is an urban adventure—one of the few left in this city that takes will, dedication and an open mind. And yes, even your most liberal views can stand to be challenged sometimes—and it’s important to explore that. Toronto may not appear to be awake 24/7, but it always sleeps with one eye open. And, just like The Comfort Zone itself, the after-hours story is never over.
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