Last night we went to Privilege.

Not until 3 A.M., of course.  Before that we went to dinner.  A lovely outdoor place that reminded me of Woody Allen’s "A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy".  You remember, that romp in the Catskills.  I love those east coast summer nights, when it’s so warm you don’t need a jacket and you can eat outside.  Which is what we did.  And the deejay broke from the electronica for a minute to play Lou Reed’s "Walk On The Wild Side".  So weird to hear a forty year old song when the shelf life of a hit today is less than a year.  Whore it out soon, it might be worthless in the future!  We sang the "do, do, do, doos" and marveled at the connection between what once was and what now is.

Then we stopped at Aura while a member of our party ran an "errand".  Every spot has got a deejay.  Not spinning vinyl.  They’ve all got these Pioneer contraptions that spin CDs.  And Macs.

And from there, on to Privilege.  The world’s largest nightclub!

Want to know what it was like to be a rock fan in the sixties and early seventies?  Go to Privilege.

The access road is dirt.  People are milling around the parking lot and the place is a barn.  The focus is on the music.  And the people.

But one difference between now and then is the cost.  Clubbing in Ibiza is EXPENSIVE!

How expensive?

I’m not exactly sure.

You can pay at the door.  Or buy a package, so when you fly from the U.K. for the weekend, admittance is included.

Or you can be like me and get on the guest list for the V.I.P. area, allowing you to breeze through the entrance for nary a dime, and then sit down on a couch and get nicked for expenses so grand you want to cozy up to Live Nation.

It’s kind of like Vegas.  You know, those parties with "bottle service".  Which is a euphemism for very expensive alcohol included.

So we march into Pacha on Monday night, feeling like kings, sit down in our couches and are immediately served a tray of water, juice and Grey Goose vodka on ice.  Price?  400 Euros.  That’s $500.  More, actually.  Order another bottle of vodka, which does come in a lit bowl, and you’re in for another 300 Euros.  Who can do this every night?

Russians.  The truly rich.  Which there’s no shortage of.

Or you can get down into the pit with the hoi polloi, at somewhere between 50 and 80 Euros.  Drinks on top of that.

So you’d better be having a very good time.

There was the classic list confusion at the entrance of Privilege, which seemed like nothing so much as a run-down amusement park.  But a bit of finessing and we all got in.  To the V.I.P. area, where we were confronted with that potential astronomical bill.

The deejays were spinning.  Girls on platforms were dancing.  The crowd was strangely quiet, none of the pogoing of Pacha, there were far more boys than girls.

I would have stayed, but the assembled multitude just wasn’t up for the cost, never mind the ear-splitting horn right above our designated seats.

The venues of yore started out as something else.  Usually rundown, they were resuscitated for this lucrative new use.  Privilege had that feel. That this was a giant cavern utilized for profit.

We escaped via a back road that was narrower and bumpier than any in upstate New York and deposited our buddy across the street at Amnesia, for gay night.  He hasn’t woken up yet, I’m awaiting a full report.