they're already in the room. shoot them.they're already in the room. tap to shoot.
Halloween is the one night of the year a whole city goes looking for a room that has gone properly wrong.
Most of Goa answers that with a costume rail and a playlist. We are building the other thing: a hand-built six-scoop stack pushed to the weight it was made for, a bill of the country's heaviest jungle and dubstep selectors, and a cast of Butoh dancers and theatre artists suspended in the crowd for seven hours.
Five hundred people. One hard cap. No second stage, no second room, nowhere to hide from the bass.
the whole point is that nobody leaves describing it as a party
Two clean sides, and one of them costs nothing. You confirm a date and open the gate. Every other line on this page is ours to fund, staff and answer for.
That is the entire list. There is nothing below it.
There is no line in this proposal
where money leaves Thalassa.
We take the ticket revenue and we take the risk. If the night underperforms, that is our loss and your bar still ran. If it sells out — and at 500 with this bill, it sells out — you had the busiest Saturday of your pre-season and paid nothing to get it.
Booked for weight, not for names. Every selector on this bill plays the two things the room is built for — jungle at the front of the beat, and dubstep with the bottom left in.
A heavyweight, entirely custom, hand-built six-scoop system, put together in Goa by local and international builders to carry conscious roots, rasta and steppers culture. It is one of very few true sound systems in the country — not a rental rig, a cultural object that people travel to stand in front of. On 31 October it gets pointed somewhere it has never been pointed before.
Prismer
BenkiiPrismer is the solo electronic project of India-based musician Rohan Kale, blending breakbeat, jungle and deep bass. Benkii is a Bengaluru-based visual artist and forward-thinking experimental bass selector. Put together, it is the most interesting hour on the bill — two people who build sound and image pulling against each other.
Pia Colada
KhadeejPia Colada is a British-Indian DJ based in Goa and a resident host on Worldwide FM, fusing reggae, dubstep, jungle and amapiano, and picking up serious traction worldwide. Khadeej plays heavy dubstep and global bass right across the Indian circuit, regularly alongside pioneering bass entities like EZ Riser and Delhi Sultanate.
Programmed into the stretch of the night where the room has stopped being polite and has not yet been taken apart. A selector who can hold six hundred people at the edge of a drop for longer than is reasonable.
Operating across the broader underground tech, jungle and electro scene, and a regular name on the flyers that actually matter. The set that decides how the last hour before curfew feels.
press a ▶ — the page will show you roughly what each slot sounds like. turn it up.
Most rooms in this state run a rig that has had the bottom taken out of it so nobody complains. This one is built the other way around.
A scoop is a folded horn — a cabinet built so the low end travels as pressure rather than as noise. Six of them, hand-made, tuned by the people who made them. It is the difference between hearing a bassline and standing inside one, and it is the entire reason this bill said yes.
One stack. One stage. No second room, no chill-out, nowhere in the venue where the music is background.
headphones on. this is roughly the shape of it.
This is the part that separates the night from a club with a fog machine, and it is the part we are least willing to compromise on.
Butoh — ankoku butō, the dance of darkness — is the post-war Japanese form built on white body paint, impossibly slow contortion and a refusal to look human. Performed at head height above a moving crowd, on rigging, for seven hours, in rotation. Nobody in this country has seen it used this way.
Trained scare-actors and physical theatre performers working inside the crowd rather than on a stage — appearing at the edge of vision, holding eye contact too long, and gone before anyone gets a photo. Choreographed against the set times, so the room turns when the music turns.
The venue is built into the piece, not decorated over it. Light designed to leave most of the space genuinely dark, haze that makes the rigging read, and a single lit path in. What people photograph is the thing they were frightened of, which is the entire marketing plan.
Five hundred people, and something moving above all of them.the haunting · 6 PM to 1 AM, in rotation
Doors at 6 PM, and the first two hours belong to the market. Curated stall by stall — nothing generic, nothing that could be bought at any other event in Goa that weekend.
Tarot, bone-readers, hand-poured candles, apothecary. Working practitioners, not props.
Dub, jungle, roots and rarities from selectors' own crates. A cutting table taking orders on the night.
Reworked archive clothing, one-offs, nothing in a size run. Goa makers only.
Flash-only tattoo, walk-up, licensed and sterile. Halloween flash sheets drawn for this night.
Silversmiths, casters, blade-makers. The kind of stall people photograph and then buy from.
Makeup artists turning anyone who wants it into part of the cast. Free, all night, queue and all.
Risograph, screen-print, one-night-only posters pulled live and numbered to 500.
Incense, resin, hand-rolled everything. The corner the whole market smells like.
← drag the crate. it throws.
The market is not a revenue line for us and it is not a filler — it is the reason people arrive at 6 PM instead of 10 PM, which is the single most valuable thing we can hand a venue. Four extra hours of a full room, all of it in front of your bar.
Stalls are selected by us and vetted with the house. No competing F&B, no drinks, no food that touches your kitchen's business. The market sells objects; Thalassa sells everything anyone eats or drinks.
Seven hours, built as one curve. Nothing peaks before 10 PM and nothing runs past the curfew.
Gates, market, paint room, and the stack ticking over on roots and steppers. Light still in the sky. This is the friendliest the night ever gets.
The Butoh rotation starts and the first theatre artists enter the floor. Lighting drops to its night state. The room realises what it has walked into.
Tempo up, haze thick, suspended figures at their lowest. From here to curfew the stack does not come back down.
The final half hour is the system played the way it was built to be played, by the people who built it.
Music off at 1 AM sharp, no encore, no negotiation. Crowd cleared by 1:45, load-out complete by Sunday noon.
The full set times are behind the hunt. Things are flying across this page all night — shoot thirteen of them, claim their souls, and this opens.
you opened it. the rest of the page is still hunting you.
The cap is a creative decision before it is a commercial one. At 500 the stack reaches everybody, the suspended cast can actually work the floor, and the night stays the thing we described.
Not a soft target. The door shuts at 500 and stays shut, which is also how the room stays safe with performers overhead.
A single flat ticket. No tiers, no tables, no list that gets you in cheaper than the person next to you.
6 PM to 1 AM, in one room, with your bar and kitchen the only place to spend anything.
The date is chosen to sit before the season's busiest stretch, not inside it. Nothing we run makes another night at this venue harder to sell.
Halloween lands on a Saturday in 2026. That happens rarely enough to be worth building something permanent around, and the whole city will be looking for one room.
Ours · the askThe room is warming up and your regular programming takes over. We are gone, and the night before it is still doing your press.
YoursChristmas and New Year already carry a full tent-pole run in this room. We stay off the calendar entirely.
Not ours · respectedJanuary belongs to the houses that built it. We stay off, here and anywhere else in the city.
Not ours · respectedOctober is the reopen. The scene is back, flights are still cheap, the peak-season promoters have not started yet, and there is genuine appetite for the first real night of the year. It is the cheapest weekend in the calendar for you to say yes to, and the loudest one to own.
People are suspended above a crowd and the room is dark on purpose. We have assumed you will want every one of these lines in writing before you confirm a date, so here they are.
All aerial rigging installed by a certified rigger against calculated loads, with points inspected and documented before doors. Certificates and load calculations shared with the house in advance, and a rigger on site for the duration.
Every suspended performer is harnessed, on a rated system, with a ground spotter per rig and a rotation that caps time in the air. No performer works above a crowd without a second person watching only them.
Scare-actors work a strict no-touch policy. A marked and lit route out of the floor is visible from anywhere in the room, and any guest who signals is walked out by a steward, not performed at.
Qualified medical staff and a stocked, lit first-aid point from doors to load-out, with a vehicle access route kept clear and a named incident lead reachable by radio.
Licensed security at a ratio agreed with the house for a 500 cap, briefed on the production so nobody mistakes a performer for an incident. Door, floor, perimeter and load-out all covered.
Limits set with the house at soundcheck and held by our engineers all night. Curfew is contractual on our side, and the system is pointed to keep the weight on the floor rather than over the boundary.
Event permissions, performance and any additional licensing sit with us, filed in advance, copies to the house. Insurance including public liability is carried by us and names the venue.
Load-out complete and the venue cleaned and returned to house condition by Sunday noon. A walkthrough with your duty manager before we leave, and a damage deposit if you want one.
That is the whole ask. One Saturday, one room, from six until one. We bring the stack, the bill, the cast, the market, the crowd and the risk — and you keep every rupee that crosses your bar.
