On the afternoon of August 3, a few hundred people gathered at the Nursery, the intimate outdoor extension of Brooklyn’s stylish Public Records, to hear DJ Sprinkles. I think it’s fair to say most of us knew what to expect: Sprinkles, an alias of queer producer and cultural critic Terre Thaemlitz, blends deep thoughts and deep house into languorous, embodied critiques of everything from Madonna’s use of Vogue culture to British trade union organizing to laws restricting public dancing in Japan, where Sprinkles lives. A typical Sprinkles production, like the ones Sprinkles expertly faded that afternoon into other artists’ downtempo jazz tracks and house shufflers, is long, nine or 10 minutes or more; and hazy, abandoning typical dancefloor strategies of build-and-release in favor of dubby immersion. A lot of us at the Nursery were on drugs; a lot of us were dancing; some of us were cruising or dodging exes or catching up with old friends. It was so hot that day, and the thing about Sprinkles on the dancefloor is you sort of experience a dissertation and dissociation at the same time, and I didn’t want to miss it.