Let's Dance

"April the Rock Star" walks down the sidewalk outside the Uptown Theater. She was inside dancing with a thousand people, but left to take her bag to her car. She doesn't know that she'll need to buy another ticket if she wants to get back in.

Within the Uptown's gorgeous confines, a New York DJ named Joey Beltram takes over the turntables. (He's one of ten DJs for the night, three of whom are internationally known.) Speakers are cranked so high the beats rattle exit doors on the balcony. Fifteen moving lights, including a spectacular laser prism, scan the partiers below. A glammed-up DJ stand features pyro effects shooting into the air on Beltram's left and right. Glowsticks float in the hands of kids from Lawrence, Omaha, Springfield, St. Louis and, naturally, "816" and "913," who dance on the main floor, rest on the balcony and skip through the halls.

So April buys another ticket, because even at $25, it's simply an event not worth missing.

At about the same time as young April's misfortune, Joe Cummings steps outside to the same sidewalk. Unlike April, he does not have to fear the venue's staunch re-admittance policy, because the 22-year-old Cummings is the mastermind behind tonight's show -- which, coincidentally, is called "Mastermind."

Cummings has spent the night running here and there, a clipboard tucked under his arm and a stern, business-like look tightening his face. Now, with three hours left to go, he decides to step outside and get away from the demands of orchestrating a first-class event. He wears a flashy, short-sleeved, button-down shirt, black, printed with scattered orange and white Oriental symbols, and black slacks with blindingly white cross-trainers. A large gold crucifix hangs around his neck.

It is 11:30 p.m., Saturday, October 6, and for the first time in fifteen hours, Joe Cummings relaxes.

But he's not completely out of the water yet. His headliners, a New York duo called the Atomic Babies, are driving in from South Carolina and still have a good two hours to go. But at this point, it's clear that nothing catastrophic is going to happen, and this brief moment becomes one of historical significance for the young promoter.

So Cummings stands outside, actually sets his clipboard on the ground.

That's when April the Rock Star walks down the sidewalk and stops in front of her host for the night.

"Hey Joe," she says, then quickly notices the look of uncertainty on his face. "Do you remember me?"

"Uh ... no," he admits awkwardly. All night, people have been thanking him or extending some kind of "welcome back" sentiment, and although hundreds of kids in the area's dance scene recognize his face, he can't possibly remember all of theirs.

"April," she says, without a hint of insult. "The rock star." April goes on to explain how she mistakenly exited the Uptown Theater only to find that she would have to repay to get back in. So she will repay, because she wants to get back in, but she thought she would mention it.

Now Cummings squirms a bit, because he feels he needs to explain the venue's strict policy, since he is, after all, the man in charge. He apologizes and says he would get her back in for free if he could, but he can't.

She says it's no problem, then jovially changes the subject. She asks him how the big night is going for him.

"Good," he says blandly.

But then, in his moment of relaxation, he thinks again about her question. "It feels good," he says. "There was a lot of scrutiny on me going into tonight, coming back from last year, with the Red Barn.""Oh yeah," April says, suddenly remembering the last event Cummings promoted. The one that landed him in jail, put his mug shot on the news and brought him no small amount of legal trouble. "How long has that been?"

"One year," he says without pause. "One year, one month and one week."

The Red Barn rests just off Oldham Road in the forest belly of Swope Park. It's an old, two-story red barn that sits parallel to the serpentine road above, where a weathered sign advertises its availability for "banquets, receptions and private dance parties."

Built in the 1940s, the Red Barn became the site of loft parties as early as the 1950s, says its current owner, Al Roberts. It changed hands several times in the following decades; by the end of the '70s, it had undergone a series of interior renovations that turned it from a horse stable into a banquet hall.

Although it has been the scene of lively frat parties, it's more often used for wedding receptions. So when Joe Cummings approached Roberts about staging an elaborate dance party there in 1999, Roberts was skeptical. The young promoter soothed Roberts' fears by encouraging him to attend the event and witness Cummings' professionalism firsthand. Roberts was sold, and a business relationship was born. Over several months, the Red Barn became a reliable refuge in Kansas City's erratic dance scene.

By midnight on August 25, 2000, more than 500 partiers had arrived for "Tune In," the ninth installment in Cummings' monthly barn extravaganzas. They walked up a steep set of stairs and forked over $18 a person. The wood-paneled banquet hall had been transformed into an orgy for the senses. Rays of programmed lights pierced the darkness and illuminated the crowd as a seismic sound system boomed under the hand of a DJ called Shadow Runner. When the mostly 16- to 25-year-old patrons arrived at the top of the stairs, three or four workers checked for various banned substances ranging from the obvious (weapons, drugs, alcohol) to the seemingly innocuous items associated with Ecstasy use (candy, pacifiers). Cummings remembers that his staffers emptied bags, pushed on the toes of shoes, felt around the cuffs of socks, patted shirts and pants and looked inside cigarette boxes.