17 - Red Bull Music Academy Daily

DAILY NOTE
FRIDAY, MAY 24, 2013
17 22
OF
PUT YOUR
HANDS UP FOR
NEW YORK
DANCING IN THE NEW MILLENNIUM
NERVOUS RECORDS / ST. VITUS / 30 YEARS OF HIP-HOP STYLE
THE DAILY NOTE
LAST NIGHT
Right after 9/11, it seemed wrong to dance, as if it
was somehow disrespectful to be doing something
celebratory in the face of such immense tragedy.
But being in a club or a bar or an after-hours party—
around your closest friends or complete strangers—was
important because it meant that you were not alone.
Dancing became an act of rebellion; it proved that, at
least for a few minutes or hours, you were defiantly
not letting the bastards get you down. In this issue,
Andy Beta tracks down some of the most luminescent
creatures in NYC nightlife to deliver an oral history
of the city’s club culture from around 2001 to the
present day. Even more bright lights await in our pages:
downtown post-punk doyenne Vivien Goldman tells
the story of another electric personality, Lower East
Side horn player Butch Morris. Producer Hank Shocklee
reveals exactly how he made Public Enemy’s music
so explosive, while the guys from Greenpoint metal
outpost St. Vitus tell us about the wild stuff they’re
keeping behind the bar. Even the Nervous Records
cartoon dude drops by—we find out how he got his
fade chopped off by a flying record (but still emerged
looking good). Life in NYC can be crazy, dangerous, and
sometimes downright apocalyptic, but we know how to
keep it cool, how to keep it real, how to keep shining in
the face of adversity. Dance on, you crazy diamonds.
ABOUT RED BULL MUSIC ACADEMY
MASTHEAD
Editor in Chief Piotr Orlov
Copy Chief Jane Lerner
Senior Editor Sam Hockley-Smith
Senior Writer/Editor Vivian Host
Contributing Editors Todd L. Burns
Shawn Reynaldo
Staff Writer Olivia Graham
Editorial Coordinator Alex Naidus
Contributors
Sue Apfelbaum
Retro Cee
Sean Dack
Adrienne Day
Justine Delaney
Dana Dynamite
Vivien Goldman
Creative Director Justin Thomas Kay
for Doubleday & Cartwright
Art Director Christopher Sabatini
Production Designer Suzan Choy
Photo Editor Lorenna Gomez-Sanchez
Staff Photographer Anthony Blasko
Cover Photo Loren Wohl
PS1 Warm Up Party, NYC 2012
All-Seeing Eye Torsten Schmidt
2
Belinda Martin
Joshua Scott
Alexander Thompson
Top Shelf Premium
Marc Whalen
Megan Wilson
Loren Wohl
The content of Daily Note does not
necessarily represent the opinions of
Red Bull or Doubleday & Cartwright.
The Red Bull Music Academy celebrates
creative pioneers and presents fearless new
talent. Now we’re in New York City.
The Red Bull Music Academy is a worldtraveling series of music workshops and
festivals: a platform for those who make a
difference in today’s musical landscape.
This year we’re bringing together two
groups of selected participants — producers,
vocalists, DJs, instrumentalists and
musical mavericks from around the world — in
New York City. For two weeks, each group
will hear lectures by musical luminaries,
work together on tracks, and perform in the
city’s best clubs and music halls. Imagine
a place that’s equal parts science lab,
the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, and
Kraftwerk’s home studio. Throw in a
touch of downtown New York circa 1981, a
sprinkle of Prince Jammy’s mixing board,
and Bob Moog’s synthesizer collection
all in a 22nd-century remix and you’re
halfway there.
The Academy began back in 1998 and has
been traversing the globe since, traveling
to Berlin, Cape Town, São Paulo, Barcelona,
London, Toronto, and many other places.
Interested? Applications for the 2014 Red
Bull Music Academy open early next year.
Top: Boi-1da and
Bangladesh. Middle row
(L to R): Mannie Fresh and
posse; DJ Mustard; Young
Chop on the mic. Bottom:
the crowd at Drum Majors
at the Knitting Factory,
Brooklyn on May 22. Photos
by Christelle de Castro
FROM THE ACADEMY
UPFRONT
“I’m attracted to things that I can’t understand.
It’s a fundamental aspect of curiosity... I liked
his music, but I didn’t know what I liked about it.
I wanted to hear more of it. I wanted to fool around
with it.” — Philip Glass on working with Richard D.
James, aka Aphex Twin, May 23, 2013
TONIGHT
SRB BROOKLYN
THE ROOTS
OF DUBSTEP
Red Bull Music Academy
Presents
Blackened Disco
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
Oneohtrix Point Never
(Live), Evian Christ
(Live), and Bill Kouligas
(Live)
Sunday, May 26
9 PM to 2 AM
at St. Vitus, 1120
Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn
It’s our hometown — it defines us and what we
do. If we can take a slice of the LA attitude
and present it to folks in other cities, then we
feel good about respecting our roots. It is also
our largest challenge each year — we have to be
conscious of piquing our crowd’s interest after
nine years, which is not as automatic as some
may think.
6
4
OSAKA, JAPAN
2
This was our first time taking over a public
park and it happened under a bridge next to
the water, no less. Our Japan shows are always
top-notch as the folks in Japan generally have
a higher appreciation for music. Additionally,
their take on the barbecue menu we usually try
to have is… interesting: octopus, cuttlefish,
etc.
GLOBAL GROOVES
3
LONDON, ENGLAND
A much-loved party travels the world.
I
t’s not easy to take a successful party on the road, but LA’s the Do-Over practically needs
its own passport at this point. Originally launched in
2005 as a free weekly Sunday-afternoon soirée with
The Do-Over: A Red Bull
a soulful soundtrack of hip-hop, funk, disco, house,
Music Academy Special
and more, the Do-Over seems perfectly tailored for the
with Haycock, Strong
& Blacc (the Do-Over
endless Southern California summer, but founders Chris
residents), Emufucka
Haycock, Jamie Strong, and Aloe Blacc have found that
(Live), Trancemicsoul,
its formula travels quite well. (It also helps that the Doand very special surprise
guests
Over’s decks are often manned by ace DJs dropping in
Sunday, May 26
for unannounced sets.) Before the special Red Bull Music
2 PM to 10 PM
Academy edition of the Do-Over happens this Sunday, we
at the Well
272 Meserole St, Brooklyn
asked Haycock and Strong to tell us about their five favorite places they’ve staged the party over the years.
7
8
To walk into London as an American party concept
is a bit intimidating. However, the people in
London have embraced us and go for it much bigger than anyone else. This is one place we’ve
found that all styles work and are appreciated,
even in the rain on a blocked-off street.
AUCKLAND, NEW ZEALAND
It was our first time “down under” and instead
of going to Australia, we opted for the underdog
New Zealand — it was absolutely amazing. We had
no idea what to expect, but we threw Do-Over on
an island which was a 30-minute ferry ride from
Auckland and a few thousand people showed up.
The people, food, wine, scenery, and overall
vibe was pretty magical.
DUBAI, UNITED ARAB EMIRATES
Wait for the Do-Over tell-all book and movie to
hear all of the stories from this trip.
SKREAM
MALA
PLASTICIAN
HATCHA
MAY
24
UPCOMING
EVENTS
GRAND PROSPECT HALL
12 YEARS MAY
OF DFA
THE WHOLE
LABEL FAMILY ON
FOUR STAGES
25
THE WELL BROOKLYN
THE DOOVER NYC
SPECIAL
ALOE BLACC &
MANY MORE
MAY
26
SAINT VITUS
ONEOHTRIX
POINT NEVER
EVIAN CHRIST
BILL KOULIGAS
MORE
MAY
26
NYU SKIRBALL CENTER
St. Vitus owners
Arthur Shepherd,
David Castillo, and
George Souleidis
behind the bar. Photo
by Anthony Blasko
1
1
PHOTO WITH THE
MISFITS
DARK
MATTER
St. Vitus bar shows us its
cool ’n’ creepy stuff.
since it opened in April 2011, St. Vitus
has become a haven for metal and goth fans,
booking bands like Converge, Liturgy, and Vektor in the intimate back room, while the front
serves up picklebacks, pork buns, and good
old-fashioned head-banging to classic Unsane
and Metallica albums. This Sunday, Red Bull
Music Academy will host a Blackened Disco
event inside these hallowed halls; to celebrate,
we asked bar owner, Primitive Weapons guitarist, and avid antique collector Arthur Shepherd
to tell us a bit about the décor.
This is me with the
Misfits at Water Music
Studio in New Jersey in
’98 or ’99. I recorded
in a studio next door
to them for a month
while they were doing
the Famous Monsters
album. They had a
big food budget, so
Jerry Only would cook
barbecue and we’d go
hang out with them.
2
MERCYFUL FATE RECORD
King Diamond in 1993
with Michael Denner
and Hank Sherman from
Mercyful Fate. At that
time, he signed this
rare record for me,
which was awesome. He
wrote: “18 is 9,” “Stay
Heavy 9,” and “Nuns DO
have fun” on it.
3
PICTURE OF ST. VITUS
STAFF WITH TONY
IOMMI
Black Sabbath guitarist
Tony Iommi was here
to do a book signing
about a year-and-a-half
ago. We had only been
open for a few months
and it kind of became
a symbol for us that
anything was possible.
It was annoying that he
wouldn’t sign my guitar
but it worked out in
the end.
5
150-YEAR-OLD BIBLE
This is my 150-yearold bible that I
brought here, which
was a gigantic mistake
because the cover fell
off. I got this at
Brimfield. It’s totally
creepy. There’s a rose
in here and a pew card
that says these people
paid $300 in 1889 to
have pew number 38. It
was owned by rather
wealthy people, this
book.
MAGAZINE &
ST. VITUS RECORD
George and I were
working at another
place and trying to
figure out names for
this place. Somebody
randomly came in
and had found this
magazine, which is from
1985, in the garbage. I
was like, “Alright, I’m
gonna open up to a page
and whatever I point
to is the name of the
bar.” I opened it up
and it was a review of
4
MICHAEL GIRA PRINTS
I’m a huge Swans
fan so I got these
super-limited-edition
prints. They’re super
depressing — typical
Michael Gira shit — but I
thought they contrasted
the vibe of this place.
One says, “Music was my
love,” which is like,
“I still do it ’cause
it’s my love but it
doesn’t make anybody
any fuckin’ money.”
Vitus record,
put up there
it. And it was
awesome.
7
LAST RITES BOX,
CANDLES & BRUSH
These are the original
candles from a lastrites box I got from
an antiques store
somewhere in Vermont.
And this is creepy as
fuck: the brush that
they would use to brush
the oil on the forehead
of the dying person.
It’s definitely used.
8
A STATUE OF BAPHOMET
WHICH OUR PORTER
WON’T TOUCH ’CAUSE
HE’S SCARED OF IT.
10
9
9
5
A GIANT HEAD THAT
A REGULAR GAVE US
BECAUSE IT LOOKS LIKE
GEORGE
10
7
4
the St.
which I
next to
fucking
6
FOAM PUMPKIN
CARVED WITH THE
ST. VITUS LOGO
A TALK
WITH
JAMES
MURPHY
DOING THE D
A Detroit veteran names the can’t-miss acts at Movement Festival 2013.
brendan gillen knows detroit techno. As BMG, one half of Ectomorph, and proprietor of Interdimensional
Transmission Records, he’s spent almost two decades creating and releasing some of the finest electro-minded
music the city’s come up with. As producer of the great No Way Back parties, he’s continued Detroit’s tradition of
throwing dark, hedonistic jams in industrial spaces. And being a great writer, he’s also been key to documenting
the Motor City’s musical history. (He was a lecturer at Red Bull Music Academy Cape Town 2003.) This weekend the
Movement Electronic Music Festival will take place in Detroit’s Hart Plaza, and Red Bull Music Academy is presenting the main stage for the first time. Who better to tell us what to see than Gillen, the homegrown techno master?
MOODYMANN
Saturday,
May 25, 5:30pm
RBMA stage
Kenny Dixon, Jr. DJing in
the sunlight on Saturday
afternoon, what could
be finer? And who could
forget the deep emotions
that poured forth at the
first festival when he
played Gil Scott-Heron’s
“We Almost Lost Detroit”?
AL ESTER
JASON KENDIG
ERIKA
Saturday,
May 25, 6:30pm
Made in Detroit
stage
Sunday,
May 26, 4:30pm
Made in Detroit
stage
Monday,
May 27, 5pm
Made in Detroit
stage
One of Detroit’s bestkept secrets, Al Ester is
perhaps the city’s most
electrifying deep-house
DJ. I once saw Al disappear behind the decks
by bending all the way
backwards, only to pop
back up as the peak of
the song hit. Talk about
feeling it.
This set will be a homecoming for one-time Motor
resident Jason Kendig,
who spins everything from
techno to disco classics.
He now lives in San Francisco and is part of the
Honey Soundsystem collective, a crew that hosts
the best queer parties in
North America.
Erika is performing live
in support of her debut
album Hexagon Cloud (out
in June on Interdimensional Transmissions).
Her performance is a rarity in that it includes
no computers, only analog
machines and this giant
out-of-print sequencer
that “controls all time
and space.”
SILENT SERVANT
Monday,
May 27, 9pm
Underground stage
One of the world’s finest
cutting-edge techno artists, Juan Mendez brings
his deep, moody sound to
the Underground stage.
This is the further development of the genre, a
pitched-down sound with
profound restraint, with
influences ranging from
Suicide and DAF to Lil
Louis and Regis.
MAY
27
DEVIATION @ SULLIVAN ROOM
BENJI B
FALTYDL
DORIAN
CONCEPT
MORE
MAY
27
WEST PARK CHURCH
PANTHA
DU PRINCE
& THE BELL
LABORATORY
MAY
28
LE BARON
UNO
NYC
MAY
28
RECORDED LIVE
FOR RED BULL MUSIC ACADEMY RADIO
TUNE IN AT RBMARADIO.COM
5
FROM THE ARCHIVES
Q&A
HANK SHOCKLEE
The Bomb Squad technician explains the
science behind Public Enemy.
PHOTO ROBIN LAANANEN
A lot of you guys in the Bomb Squad have DJ backgrounds,
right? Yeah, except for Eric [Sadler], who was a musician. He
was a guitar player and the only one of us that had a cultured
musical training. He didn’t read music or anything but he
played it. So he would kind of frown upon some of the stuff that
we were putting together. “I would put no music together that
created dissonant chords,” he would say. “Hey, that bassline is
not in key with the other guitar or the main loop or the main
sample part that’s in there.” And with me it’s not about lining
everything up so that the keys matter; it’s about the kind of
vibration that you want to achieve from it. There is a certain
amount of tension that happens when something is slightly out
of key—the ear and the body picks that up and you notice that
something is not right with it. But at the same time it’s giving
you a certain kind of energy, a certain kind of charge. That’s
what I want to get across.
Chuck’s voice is very, very baritone; he has what I consider to
be almost a gospel minister kind of a voice. If you put lovely and
pretty chords, and pretty harmonies behind it, he would sound
like an R&B record. So Chuck needs something—in order to get
his message across, I wanted to design something that would
juxtapose his sound. He is giving you a warm, baritone vibration. I wanted to create something that was getting all the other
tones that he wasn’t providing so that when he sits in the track,
he is in that world by himself. The music is doing some chaotic
thing all around and thus creating an aggression that I want to
get across. Hip-hop and rock ’n’ roll to me is pretty much all the
same. I just want to show that with rock ’n’ roll and hip-hop,
you can get that same kind of energy out of it by using different
kinds of instruments.
Another person around that time who was really interested in crossing those lines was Rick Rubin. What was
his involvement? Rick’s involvement was that he gave me full
creative control. I mean, that right there was the blessing—because, as you know now, when you get signed to a record company, the last thing in the world you are going to have is full
creative control. He let us go in and experiment. The stuff that
we were doing I knew was not going to get on the radio, and I
really didn’t care about the radio. I just wanted to create something that I felt that was different and unique and cutting-edge.
There are rumors that you really conceptualized the
whole Public Enemy thing for Chuck and that the group
was more or less built around him. At that time, Chuck was
very, very introverted—he was not a person that wanted to be
in front of large crowds, he did not want to be around a lot
6
of people. I’ll tell you a story; on his first tour when he was
with the Beastie Boys, Chuck used to perform with his back to
the audience. I wanted to make sure that Chuck had pieces on
stage that balanced him out because Chuck is a heavy dude.
The first person that I wanted to make sure was with him was
somebody that lightened him up a little bit, which was [Flavor]
Flav. Flav is dark but he lightened Chuck up. It’s funny. Chuck’s
voice was baritone, Flav’s voice is close to being a tenor—he is
in that high-frequency zone. I never thought that the two vocals
would work together but those vocals really complement each
other—they were distinct and they were different.
I see a lot of producers spend a billion years on instrumentation—and I think that’s a part of it—but to me the most important part of any song is the vocal. I want to produce vocals
like you produce music because that’s the other side of it. I
make sure that all my instrumentation is outside of the frequency of the vocals and I make sure that the vocal frequency
adds something to the body of the song. So that way whoever
is on my record becomes the star, you know? Because I have
a lot of jazz influence—my father was a crazy jazz buff and all
my musical background comes from the aesthetics of jazz. I
want to create counter-rhythms and rhythms that juxtapose
the main melody—the vocal being the main melody. If you listen to a Sarah Vaughan record or a Billie Holiday record, the
vocal is the star and the music is basically almost like a score,
it just accompanies the vocal. That’s what I wanted to provide
with Public Enemy.
How did you find Chuck’s voice? Or where did you find it?
Well, it’s funny because I found Chuck at Adelphi University—it
was at a party thrown by one of the fraternities and Chuck came
on the mic and made an announcement for one of the events
that were coming up. Back in the day, when you put on a record
like “Good Times” or something like that, the whole audience
stopped dancing and started grabbing around wherever they
thought the microphone was, because everybody wanted their
turn to rhyme. So the DJ would play the song for an hour and a
half, and the worst fucking rappers in the world would be getting up, doing their little piece, and when they ran out of words,
somebody else would come on doing some wack-ass shit and
there was just wack after wack after wack. So, they took a break
somehow and then Chuck had to make an announcement for
the next fraternity party. When I heard his voice, I thought, “Yo,
his voice sounded better than the 75 cats that came up there
before him.” I went to Chuck and said, “Yo man, would you like
to do some MCing? Because I liked what you was doing.” At that
time I just wanted him to do some MCing, I didn’t know about
his other stuff. Chuck really wasn’t into it at all, but I eventually
convinced him.
What year was that? Oh god, ’83? Yeah, ’82 or ’83.
So he was the “Black Steel in the Hour of Chaos.” The
“black” in “Black Steel” was not referring to Chuck. You know, if
you pull out your gun, what is the color of the gun mostly? It’s
black. And it’s made out of steel. So when Chuck was referring
to black steel, he was talking about his piece, and he was in the
hour of chaos because he was going through this whole prison
break. So that was about it. But yes, I mean the consciousness
about being black and all that stuff… It’s funny because I think
that Chuck is underrated as a poet. “Black” had basically two
meanings. “Black man” meant a color or race or state of being
a people, but at the same time it would also represent an attitude. It represented like, “Yo, use black”—it was built at the time
when the saying was, “I’ma black steel in your ass.” That just
means I’m just going to get crazy, medieval, buckwild, whatever.
So he used that and I thought it was very, very clever; he
used a bunch of words in that fashion. It’s funny because his
approach to the language is not like the typical American rapper’s approach. He approaches it from a very literary sense, so
thus his words reverberated outside of the rap community. And
that’s why I think that Chuck was pretty much heralded as one
of the best rappers. His vocabulary was a lot bigger; the words
that he chose were different. He had you vibe into words that
you thought was slang interpretation, but it really wasn’t. It was
actually words that were in the dictionary that had a correct
meaning, but he used them in a way that made you feel like
they were slang. So I think he had a very good command of the
language himself, which was really interesting.
It propelled [the music] to totally different audiences as
well. Exactly, yeah. And it also made it fun to work with, because I didn’t hear the same kinds of things that I was hearing
from a lot of the other MCs that were out there. It was almost
like George Clinton in a way. When you listen to any of the
P-Funk/Funkadelic records, you’ll find that those guys had their
own language, you know? Well, Chuck had pretty much his own
language in dialect as well, but his dialect wasn’t based upon
colloquialism, it was based more on dictionary words that people didn’t know were available.
Interview by Torsten Schmidt at Red Bull Music
Academy Seattle 2005. For the full Q&A, head to
redbullmusicacademy.com/lectures.
7
FEATURE
FEATURE
FRESH
TO
DEATH
Examining 30 years of hip-hop fashion
from a New York City perspective is like
trying to decipher the Dead Sea Scrolls for
a Cliff Notes course. Hip-hop is arguably
America’s greatest cultural export—not only
because it redefined popular music but also
because it added artistic elements such as
graffiti and street style to its oeuvre.
New York City was the perfect incubator
for this culture to take shape, the place
where graphic arts, the fashion scene, and
music industry all churned together and
intermingled.
This guide won’t be a list of everything that
hip-hop has absorbed and repurposed for
its narrative, but is simply a recognition of
the definitive fashion items that the culture
made its own.
WORDS DALLAS PENN AND REGGIE OSSE
PHOTOGRAPHY JOSHUA SCOTT
STYLING BELINDA MARTIN
SPECIAL THANKS: TOP SHELF PREMIUM, RETRO CEE, MEGAN WILSON, DANI NARINE,
PATRICK SPAG LO, AND COMBAT JACK
8
OAKLEY FROGSKIN SUNGLASSES
Surfer rap never really caught
a wave here in NYC despite the
earnestness of the folks out in the
Rockaways, but if NYC had a rapper
with a surfer-fresh aesthetic it
would have to be Action Bronson.
When it was fresh: 2012
When it went wack: Not yet.
ROPE CHAIN, GUCCI LINK, CUBAN LINK,
THREE-FINGER RING, AND GOLD WATCH
Gold chains and gold jewelry are part
of the immortal hip-hop style lexicon.
Rappers, b-boys, and especially d-boys
will adorn themselves in gold until time
immemorial. Gold is ubiquitous, from
Grandmaster Flash and the Furious 5 to
Trinidad James’ “All Gold Everything.”
Notorious B.I.G. rocked
these HARD!
When it was fresh: Before history.
When it went wack: Cool until infinity.
When it was fresh: 1996
When it went wack: 1997
VERSACE SHADES
JVC BOOMBOX
This is your father’s Sony CD Discman and your
grandfather’s iPod. You had to be an absolute hardrock
to come to the park with the music blasting from these
speakers and still make it back home with your radio.
Equipped with woofers and tweeters, this radio would rock
your socks off. From the bowels of these behemoths, audio
tapes were recorded of park jams and impromptu freestyles,
and those tapes were passed along to young rap fans which
is how hip-hop spread across the five boroughs.
When it was fresh: The early years of hip-hop.
When it went wack: The mid-’80s, when the Walkman and
headphones became popular, allowing kids to keep their
music to themselves.
9
FEATURE
FEATURE
TIMBERLAND’S CLASSIC CONTRACTOR BOOT
This boot dates back to hip-hop’s earliest
obsession with donning the accoutrements
that represent hard work and the spirit of
ruggedness. Timberland products were dopeboy apparel. You had to shop at McCreedy
and Schreiber or Paragon Sports to buy these
initially. Even today these boots are worn by
the artists who want to say to the world, “I
put in work.”
When it was fresh: 1994 to the present by way
of Wu-Tang Clan, DMX, Jay-Z, Kanye West, A$ap
Rocky, and Drake.
When it was wack: 1983 to 1993 (Timberland had
a PR issue in the hip-hop community.)
40 OZ. VAN BALMAIN NY
SNAPBACK HAT
One of NYC’s newest style
arbiters is a dude named 40
Oz. Van. From t-shirts to
his self-designed snapbacks,
he is the epitome of what
hip-hop fashion is meant
to be. The manifestation of
inspiration.
POLO RALPH LAUREN
WINDBREAKER JACKETS
Street kids made these items fresh and then rappers
like Zhigge and Grand Puba rocked them in their
music videos. Polo Ralph Lauren was an accessible
luxury brand which caused young hip-hop heads to
clamor for these items at any cost.
When it was fresh: 2012
until the wheels fall off.
When it went wack: NY hats
will always be in.
When it was fresh: Forevuary 1986
MARMOT MAMMOTH EXPEDITION PARKA
This coat was made for helping you keep your cool while withstanding
subzero temperatures.
When it was fresh: Mid-2000s. Marmot brand replaced North Face in the new
millennium as hip-hop’s favorite outdoor gear.
When it went wack: In January 2013, when a teenager from the LES was killed
for his Marmot ski jacket.
METS HAT
When it was fresh: 1986
When it went wack: 1988.
Those two years were the
only time the Mets hat was
more ubiquitous than the
Yankees hat in NYC hip-hop
fashion.
KANGOL DRIVING CAP
BOOTLEG MCM MONOGRAM HAT
This hat is representing for all the high-end
luxury-brand caps that were bootlegged in the 1980s
(Gucci, Fendi, Louis Vuitton). Hip-hop primarily
has luxury aspirations when rap music isn’t
espousing gutter values and lifestyles. “Fake it
’til you make it” was definitely a mantra out of
the heartbeat of hip-hop.
TROOP LEATHER
VARSITY JACKET
Dopeboy fresh gear rocked by rap idol LL Cool J.
When it was fresh: 1987
When it went wack: 1988, replaced by the 8 Ball leather jacket.
10
CARHARTT WORK JACKET
Hardcore rappers EPMD and Gang Starr made workwear a staple for fans of
boom-bap beats and keep-it-real lyrics.
When it was fresh: 1988
When it went wack: 1995. But Carhartt is still huge in Europe.
When it was fresh: 1985
When it went wack: Allover monogram prints were
revived by brands in the early 2000s when designers
like Gucci’s Tom Ford brought these styles back
out. The true hero of this story is Harlem’s Dapper
Dan, who is the godfather of luxury counterfeit
monogram clothing.
Many old-school artists
rocked Kangols because
they were presenting
themselves as refined
statesmen. But don’t
get the smooth message
twisted — these dudes
weren’t soft. Slick Rick
wore Kangols, and Slick
Rick was a shooter.
When it was fresh: 1983
When it went wack: Until
1993, when Samuel L.
Jackson singlehandedly
brought Kangols back into
street fashion.
11
FEATURE
FEATURE
COTTON TANK-TOP
UNDERSHIRT (BKA
‘WIFEBEATER’)
At the height of gangsta
rap’s nihilistic minimalism,
DMX made the tank top the
uniform de riguer for all
struggling rappers for years
to come.
When it was fresh: The
shirt has been popular since
people have been coming home
from jail.
When it went wack: The
shirt will remain popular
as long as people are coming
home from jail.
RUN-DMC X ADIDAS “MY ADIDAS” TOUR SWEATSHIRT
Run-DMC proved that hip-hop was commercially viable by
taking a flagging shoe brand and making it iconic. At the
time, Adidas was still the top sneaker brand but they were
under siege from other brands who had more up-to-date street
cred. Run-DMC gave that credibility back to Adidas.
When it was fresh: “My Adidas” was released in 1986.
When it went wack: Never. The death of Jam Master Jay makes
this piece everlasting. Also note the NYC skyline which
contains a silhouette of the Twin Towers. R.I.P.
VERSACE PRINT SILK SHIRT
From the shiny-suit era of gangsta rap, we see this
iconic shirt from Versace. Hip-hop has always had
a gaudy vein and these silk shirts tapped directly into that faux Euro opulence that hip-hop was
so enamored with. Understand that this attire was
also diametrically oppositional to the army-fatigue
jackets of nihilistic gangsta rap. Versace shirts
kept hip-hop in balance.
CAMOUFLAGE CARGO SHORTS
When it was fresh: 1994. Puff Daddy and Notorious
B.I.G. made these shirts “must own” pieces.
When it went wack: Soon after the death of Gianni
Versace in 1997, we saw a shift in the attire of
the nattily dressed gangsta rapper. The tuxedo came
into prominence and champagne sales at rap shows
skyrocketed.
“There’s a war going on outside no man is safe from,” went lyrics from Prodigy of
Mobb Deep, who is certainly the progenitor of gangsta rap’s nihilistic wave. The
fashion style from this era persists to this day. Also keep in mind that the early
1990s was when the O.G. Gulf War popped off and America has been at war pretty
much ever since. Hip-hop fashion naturally reflects the mind-state of the fans.
When it was fresh: 1992
When it went wack: Not until this shit is over.
FUBU ’05 FOOTBALL JERSEY
BOOTLEG GUCCI CREWNECK SWEATSHIRT
COOGI KNIT SWEATER FROM AUSTRALIA
Dr. Cliff Huxtable sported these sweaters around his
Brooklyn brownstone, inspiring Notorious B.I.G. to don
this style for his luxurious persona.
When it was fresh: 1985
When it went wack: 1995, replaced by ICEBERG knit
sweaters.
12
Just-ICE rocked this piece with a shedload of his
counterfeit Gucci hats.
When it was fresh: 1983
When it went wack: 1984
Once again LL Cool J champions a clothing
brand. The acronym FUBU stood for “For Us,
By Us” and wanted to be the first hip-hopinspired clothing brand owned and managed
by African-Americans. They weren’t though:
Walker Wear was ten years their predecessor.
When it was fresh: From humble beginnings in
a Hollis, Queens, basement in 1993.
When it went wack: In 2003 FUBU began
concentrating on the “overseas” markets,
(i.e., American consumers were no longer
into oversized football jerseys).
ACID-WASHED JEANS
Looking back now it’s easy to blame the party-rap
duo Kid ’N Play for giving hip-hop fashion this
blight of legwear, but at least they aren’t as
bad as a man wearing jeggings.
When it was fresh: 1988
When it went wack: 1987 (this isn’t a typo).
GIRBAUD BRAND X JEAN SHORTS
Post-Cross Colours, the jeans company Girbaud
kept supplying hip-hop fans with their baggy
and colorful style of gear.
When it was fresh: 1988
When it went wack: You can still get fresh in
an indigo-blue pair of Girbaud Brand Xs if you
have them on deck.
13
FEATURE
DANCING
AMONG THE
RUINS
The highs and lows of NYC club culture in the 2000s.
WORDS ANDY BETA
ILLUSTRATIONS ADAM GARCIA
In 1926, New York City mayor Jimmy Walker passed a cabaret law that not
only stemmed the blare of music at the height of the Jazz Age but also kept
white and black dancers from intermingling on the dancefloor. By the 1970s,
its enforcement was lax, ushering in a golden if gritty age of New York City
dance culture, where disenfranchised blacks, Puerto Ricans, gay men and
women, and other members of minority cultures could express themselves
freely, be it at David Mancuso’s original Loft parties, Larry Levan’s Paradise
Garage, the Limelight or elsewhere. But when Rudy Giuliani was elected
mayor in 1994, he enforced that arcane, racist law once more, slowly but
methodically strangling the city’s scene. The scandalous case of NYC party
promoter and Club Kid founder Michael Alig’s 1997 conviction for the grisly
murder of Limelight doorman Angel Melendez didn’t help matters either.
As Giuliani’s reign neared its end at the start of the 21st century, there was a
bit of hope that Gotham’s dance-music scene might be revived. Only history
didn’t quite work out that way.
The fall of the World Trade Center ushered in a period of mourning, and
it was only afterwards that club culture slowly began to dig its way out from
the rubble—physically, psychologically, and politically—and that the resiliency that had defined the city for generations resurfaced. Out of such destruction, a new nightlife experience began to emerge, one that continues to
develop to this day. What follows is a collective history of the period since the
turn of the century, as remembered by some of the significant characters that
have helped sculpt the dance-music experience in New York.
14
15
FEATURE
FEATURE
PRE-2001
2001 TO 2003
Gabby Mejia (promoter for APT, Submercer, and Standard Hotel): After 9/11, everything irrevocably changed. The economy was
suffering, people lost jobs. Lots of places—
clubs, bars, restaurants—closed down at staggering numbers.
Clockwise from left:
Matt Anderson and
Spencer Sweeney at
Passerby 2002. Crowd
at the Hole 2002. Brian
DeGraw (later of Gang
Gang Dance), Plant Bar
2002, photos by Sean
Dack. Motherfucker
founders (L-R): Johnny
T., Justine D., Michael
T., Georgie Seville
at the Roxy, photo by
Alexander Thompson.
Dan Selzer (DJ, Acute Records label head):
I felt like there was a pretty strong ghettoization or stratification of music scenes. You’d go
hear house music and it was very specific house
music and you mostly heard the same type of
stuff. You’d go to a techno party and it’d be a
different crowd with a different aesthetic and
it’d be mostly boring techno. Techno was going
down these pretentious no-fun holes. You’d go
to rock shows and everyone stood around with
their arms crossed.
Larry Tee (DJ, creator of the Electroclash
Festival): Giuliani must’ve known what was
happening at all the clubs, and [about] the
drugs, but the Michael Alig incident totally
dragged it out of the closet. And to be fair, New
York is too important of a world center to have
a trashy drug-bazaar club scene happening.
But the cabaret laws hurt.
Phil South (DJ, No Ordinary Monkey): It
was dire during the Giuliani era. Every bar you
went to had the sign up, “No Dancing,” and
they were strict about it. Here I was, moving to
the birthplace of basically everything cool ever,
and it was downer. A lot of the nightlife was really homogenous-looking people: girls in little
black dresses and guys in shiny button-downs,
really yuppie. Clubs were just meatholes. I
think the cabaret laws forced good things further underground. People had to make their
own.
Justine D. (DJ and promoter, Motherfucker): I went to one of the first DFA parties at
Plantain Studios in 1999, but DFA existed in
name only when that was happening. It’s only
in hindsight that I can say it was even at Plantain Studios in the West Village; it wasn’t built
out yet. I had known James Murphy because
he had been coming to my parties at Life. It felt
very raw and it wasn’t in a club space, which is
what I was used to at the time. I remember it
being extremely dark and I literally stayed 30
minutes because they weren’t playing rock.
Duane Harriott (DJ, Negroclash, Other
Music employee): Around ’96 to ’99, If you
were an indie-rock fan, the places you went
to drink and dance weren’t gonna be playing
D-Train or Moroder records. I don’t remember
them playing Liquid Liquid at Brownies. Most
people who were listening to Pavement records
probably weren’t going out to Fashion Week or
to see Jeff Mills DJ at Twilo. Those two worlds
didn’t really co-exist. You’d never see the indie
kids sweat. But the people who were doing
that—listening to indie and post-punk—usually
became DJs or formed bands.
16
Justin Carter (DJ, Mister Saturday Night;
ex-booker at Nublu and APT): Less than a
week after I arrived, I was invited to Body &
Soul. I knew nothing about club culture, but
I remember having a specific moment on the
dancefloor where I found myself—an 18-yearold kid from North Carolina—surrounded
by black, Puerto Rican, all different kinds of
dancers from about every ethnic background
you could think of. It felt fun and it felt like
New York.
South: My first time at Body & Soul was brilliant. They played all classics and it was also
the first time I heard Fela Kuti on a proper big,
old-school New York bone-shaking rig. Fantastic dancers, top people-watching. But the wall
of flesh was a little much—you’d get all wet
from the sweaty biceps.
Selzer: Shelter was the big ongoing house/disco/classic party, but Bang the Party was the cool
little house party happening at Frank’s Lounge
in Fort Greene. Predominately black, but a lot
of white hipsters, many techno guys who were
getting into disco or house, would go.
Harriott: Everybody got a glimpse of their
own mortality and there was a lot more urgency to create and to dance and to tap into the
history of New York City.
Harriott: I remember going to Plant Bar. Luke
from the Rapture used to bartend there. They
were like the beginning of the elements that
came together and came to be known as the
“DFA Sound”: disco, post-punk, house music,
and indie rock all co-existed in there. Other Music used to do an after-work party on
Wednesdays at Plant Bar. It would be two employees DJing and then people like Dean Wareham [of Galaxie 500 and Luna], Ira Kaplan [of
Yo La Tengo] would DJ after. But I remember
one time Plaid, Prefuse 73, and Lord Sear all
just showed up to play records.
Tee: Circa 2000, it was the domination of the
trance crossover guys, the death march of tribal house at Shelter.
Justine D.: We started Motherfucker on Memorial Day of 2000, which blended together
rock with what was left of the late-’90s clubkid scene. It happened that way because of the
four partners involved. We—myself, Michael
T., Johnny T., and Georgie Seville—pulled different people to the party. They were much
older than me. Michael and I were the mainfloor DJs. We played “dance music,” which to
us meant any type of music that can make you
dance as long as it’s not hip-hop or Top 40. We
really loved mainstream disco, punk, and new
wave and I was responsible for playing a lot
of the new bands, because I was the youngest. We had a melting pot of people, visually
and sexually.
Saidah Blount (producer, NPR Music;
former promoter at APT, Santos Party
House): Sunday night was Morrissey night at
Sway. That was nuts. There was this camaraderie there as you screamed along to Siouxsie and
the Banshees with supermodels like Shalom
Harlow, or Damon Albarn and the like; they
were just hanging out.
Murphy: The idea of a rock band making
dance music seems laughable. It’s crazy. The
disco that I think is germane came from a
gay, black, and Latino scene, which is about as
punk as it fucking gets. But it wasn’t what indie bands did at all. It was a “Eureka!” kind of
a time after 9/11.
Tee: Three weeks after September 11, the Electroclash Festival went off at Luxx.
Selzer: You’d go to some random loft space
and see bands like the Rapture and !!! play,
and I swear you would see the kids learning
how to dance.
Friedman: I was living in Williamsburg in an
apartment with a view of the towers. I awoke
to panic and from my rooftop saw the second
tower fall… For me, that time period was very
fraught with anxiety. Suddenly everything
seemed to be coming apart and life was no longer secure. That feeling definitely kept me from
spending as much time in Manhattan as I had
previously—it also pushed me to try and build
something locally in Williamsburg.
Harriott: Rubulad parties in South Williamsburg were fucking firetraps! You’d climb down
into this basement and there was literally 1200
people dancing, everybody dressed up. $mall
Change would play “Hit Me with Your Rhythm
Stick” and then follow it up with “Good to be
the King” by Mel Brooks. It just seemed like in
there, anything went. There was a booth selling
homemade absinthe and it was super psychedelic.
Blount: It was Fashion Week: Marc Jacobs
was happening on Monday night and Tuesday
was going to be the first Rocawear show and
then a Jamiroquai afterparty at Sway. And I
came home from the Marc Jacobs party and
passed out and got woken up out of a drunken
stupor to the news of the World Trade Center.
Blount: A new level of debauchery arose. You
didn’t know when it was going to end and
you worried about it every day. And so a lot of
people celebrated it: people threw house parties and loft parties and people went out and
danced all night. Drinking and drugs revved
back up and that affected the spirit.
Carter: We would go out to these bottle-service places in Midtown, before Marquee
opened up. It was all about spectacle, but not
in an amazing way; it was people spending a
lot of money and passing out a bunch of drugs
so as to be a spectacle themselves, people
grasping to feel important.
Tee: 2 Many DJs were scheduled to play a
warehouse party in Bushwick, but police suddenly shut it down, so they came over with
James Murphy and banged out an amazing set
with us at Berliniamsburg.
Blount: It was a crazy circuit on the weekends: the Hole, APT, Passerby, or maybe Tribeca Grand, and then on Saturday it’d be Luxx.
Luxx was intense: glammy, neon, with lots of
Lycra, and it was packed to the gills. People
would be on top of bars and on friends’ shoulders.
Jason Drummond (DJ Spun, Rong Music,
former booker at PS1): I came out from San
Francisco in 2002 to take over PS1’s Summer
Warm Up series. DJ Harvey came out the first
year and captured the sound and feeling that a
lot of people were looking for after September
11. It was open-minded and he was mindful of
the spirit of the party. We just wanted Warm
Up to be a dance party where everyone would
participate, rather than a see-and-be-seen social event.
Prince Language (DJ, Negroclash, the No
Comprendo): The phenomenon of the boutique hotel took off in the early 2000s with the
Grand Hotels, which were one of the earliest
proponents of the electroclash/DFA/2 Many
DJs scene, especially at the Tribeca Grand.
James Friedman (DJ, Throne of Blood label head): PS1 in Long Island City was a real
eye opener. It was always massive. It was amazing for facilitating the coming together of people from wildly different walks of life. There
were locals, older art patrons, weirdos, ravers,
and all manner of other freakazoids at PS1. I
ran into my philosophy professor from college
there one day and he was less than sober. I feel
like we had a really special extra-curricular
moment together.
James Murphy (DFA Records, LCD
Soundsystem): Marcus Lambkin and Dominique Keegan booked Centro-Fly and also
ran Plant Bar. In the back I had designed this
sound system: it was really inexpensive but it
sounded incredible. When tuned, it sounded
better than any place in the city. There was this
little booth in the back and then three huge
black bathrooms with porcelain shelves. It was
illegal to dance there.
Clockwise from left: Kenny
Kendra, Motherfucker at
the Roxy 2002, photo by
Alexander Thompson. Sucking
face at Passerby 2002; James
Murphy’s profile DJing at
APT 2003, photos by Sean
Dack.
Carter: Tribeca Grand: what a dumb idea. I
even DJed there, but those rooms were never
meant to have music played in them. It was the
epitome of a luxury-brand tapping into an existing scene to try and make itself cooler.
Fatboy Slim and Keith Wood at Plant Bar
1999, photo by Dana Dynamite.
Tim Sweeney (DJ and host, Beats In
Space): If the police ever showed up [at Plant],
there was this blue light in the back DJ booth
that the doorman would trigger, so we knew to
kill the music or put on something non-dancey
so that everyone would stop dancing.
Justine D.: I booked the Rapture at Motherfucker in 2002. That was a rough one for us.
There was a hip-hop party downstairs and that
group tried to beat the Rapture up. And a girl
almost got raped in the bathroom. It was a bad
one.
Blount: Motherfucker was a weird mix of
New York: drag queens, gay-friendly—but
not square-friendly. That was one of the last
big parties that wasn’t about bottle service or
about celebrity.
Eamon Harkin (DJ, Mister Saturday
Night): The drag queens and podium dancers
were the most outlandish aspects of Motherfucker. And then there was Michael T.! I don’t
think there’s been as flamboyant a DJ playing
out in NY since.
Mejia: With APT, it worked in its favor that
it survived that dark period post-September 11
because it really became the underground music Mecca of the city.
Murphy: Marcus booked Centro-Fly, so all the
big DJs from Europe—Chemical Brothers, Fatboy Slim, etc.—would play Plant after hours.
Blount: There was a no-request policy at APT,
which was unheard of at the time. I would be
at Bungalow 8, a big celebrity club, and one
time Puffy Combs went up to ask the DJ to
change the music. That attitude at such clubs
bred this mentality. But APT didn’t allow that.
Blount: [Plant Bar] would lock you in late
at night. If the party was good and still going
strong, they would pull down the front gate and
you would have to stay all night. I’d have to be
at work in the morning, but I’d stay all night.
Harriott: All of these crazy DJs had residencies at APT. DFA and Metro Area did something there. Theo Parrish had a residency, Rich
Medina, and Bobbito, and then on Saturday
nights, it’d either be Dennis Kane or Chairman
Mao with Keb Darge playing raw soul there.
And Sunday night was a huge gay party. Theo’s
first night at APT, he made everybody turn off
all the lights and he played Ugly Edit Vol. 2’s
Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes’ “The Love I
Lost.” Derrick Carter was there and said, “Anytime you play something that I love, you have
to do a shot of tequila with me.” We finished
the bottle and somehow Theo ended up putting APT’s general manager in a chokehold.
[And] he still got a monthly.
Blount: Passerby was one of my hangouts.
[Artist and DJ] Spencer Sweeney had a residency, Eric Duncan, Dash Snow, Björk was
always there, the kids from Surface to Air. It
was a well-educated, savvy creative class that
wasn’t afraid to hear deep house mixed into
punk and disco and electroclash. It had a disco
floor like out of Saturday Night Fever and it
got verrry sloppy.
Harriott: Thomas and Eric—before doing
Rub N Tug—were doing these parties in a loft
off of Canal Street. I walked into one and Eric
was playing “New Bell” by Manu Dibango and
Thomas had his pants around his ankles, dancing around in his boxers to the song with everyone up on stage. And then Rub N Tug was at
Passerby every Saturday night throwing their
Campfire party.
South: Passerby was seedy and dirty with rampant drug use. They would just lower the gate
and lock the door and no one gave a fuck. So
one night we’re hammering on the gate, yelling: “I’m a friend of Thomas and Eric’s! Let me
in!” And the door guy grabbed me by the throat
and pushed me away, growling, “Everyone who
comes here is a friend of Thomas and Eric!”
Friedman: Max Pask used to call that party “Church” because he ended up there every
Sunday morning.
17
FEATURE
FEATURE
2004 TO 2006
Justin Strauss (DJ, Mudd Club, Danceteria, the Ritz): The whole DFA and Plant Bar
scene really revitalized things musically, giving New York a “sound” again. So it was great
when clubs like Cielo—and later on, Love—
opened and focused on installing state-of-theart sound systems, something that had taken a
back seat when clubs and bars started popping
up all over again.
2007 TO PRESENT
Justine D.: Motherfucker rose really fast. Our
first party was 400 people, then a year later
we were over 1000, and it kept getting bigger,
drawing 3000 people during our peak. You
could get away with all the wonderful things
that make nightlife so decadent and debaucherous then: drugs and full-on sex. I saw girl-ongirl and guy-on-guy sex out on the dancefloor
at those parties. We were able to mix sexualities and subcultures together.
Carter: I wasn’t as taken by Motherfucker as
I was taken by the Loft. We walked in and that
blew my mind.
Kieran Hebden (Four Tet, part-time New
York City resident): Cielo has nice sound for
sure but it’s also got bottle service, more likely
to attract a real-estate broker on a night out
than a raver who wants to get lost in a dark
room and have their mind blown.
Sweeney: Going to see David Mancuso at the
Loft was more eye-opening to me than anything else in NYC. The sound system gets the
vibe just perfect. And the dancers don’t dance
like that in any other part of the world. The
Loft remains something special.
Friedman: One cold January night in 2004 at
Tribeca Grand it was Optimo, Headman, and
Erol Alkan, who played these unmixed stems
of “How Soon Is Now” he had somehow scored.
That sort of show could never have happened
without the hotel providing free rooms and
fees for the DJs.
Mejia: Piano’s opened, and there were great
parties at subTonic like the Bunker. Henry Lau
threw an amazing, smoke-filled indie party at
Orchard Bar. I remember a few other good,
random hip-hop and dancehall parties too, but
they were small and it’s hard for parties like
that to survive. And then Volume in Brooklyn
opened.
Jorge Velez (Professor Genius): Theo Parrish showed up at APT before this big blizzard.
He played to about 25 of us during the snowstorm [with] that room slowly filling to capacity as the night progressed. Everyone braved the
storm just to dance to Theo.
Zev Eisenberg (Wolf + Lamb, Marcy Hotel): The Bunker at subTonic was an underground dream. Bryan Kasenic was bringing
this underground minimal sound and it was
one of most innovative nights we knew of.
They had these cut-open wine vats you could
climb in and get comfy, do drugs or make out.
[That’s where] we got to know the lay of the
underground that shaped up to dominate the
next couple of years.
Friedman: Volume was a cavernous warehouse that was conceived as a sort of modular
event space. Unfortunately, nobody ever put
the money into the place to really deck it out so
instead of couches, there were just piles of bare
mattresses lying around. It was kind of gross
in there, but some of the programming was
incredible: one time, Terry Richardson held
a casting for a Suicide Girls pinup calendar
there. Dizzee Rascal played on a flat-bed truck.
There was a big rave featuring Superpitcher,
Miss Kittin, and Michael Mayer.
Justine D.: Like any club, it was mismanaged
and the owner didn’t get it and so Volume
closed within a year.
Eisenberg: We started doing these small parties all over the LES, but our sound and vision
kept on clashing with what bar owners wanted.
It was clear we needed to get our own space.
One day a friend showed us this dump of a
space in what was still a really shitty part of
Williamsburg. We signed a lease and renovated
it ourselves.
Hebden: Probably the best club-type event
I’ve been to in NY was PS1. That had a proper atmosphere and large crowd that was really
into it. Seemed like that only works in the summer though.
Strauss: Centro-Fly closed at the end of April
2004, with Junior Sanchez, Todd Terry, Fatboy
Slim, and myself finishing up the night. The
last night was billed as the funeral for the club.
After Todd Terry’s set, a full-on funeral procession came through the jam-packed dancefloor,
complete with a coffin. When they got up to
where the DJ booth was Fatboy Slim popped
out of it and everyone went nuts. Centro-Fly
was yet another sad casualty of real-estate wars
and bottle-service venues.
Larry Tee: The Misshapes [Geordon Nicol,
Leigh Lezark, and Greg Krelenstein] were
the first to jump on the guest fashion-celebrity-and-rockstar-as-DJ thing in New York. They
were born fashion stars.
Carter: I started going to Todd P’s punk rock
shows and loft parties that were happening in
Bushwick. I didn’t necessarily love the music
but that’s where I thought, “I could do this. I
can take part as an audience member, but I can
also go out and find a space and do something
like this. I’d love to do something like this.”
Blount: The Misshapes party was flash over
substance. It was about the scene and fashion
rather than the DJing. They knew who their
crowd was though. When Madonna chose
them for her “DJ gig” at Luke and Leroy’s in
the West Village in 2005, people lined up for
blocks.
South: We started No Ordinary Monkey in
a little basement before moving to the China
Room in the Financial District where Wall
Street guys gathered to smoke and gamble
after work. They had a lunch tray with not
great-looking Chinese food. It was the place
you would go to last and stay. People would
show up at two in the morning and three was
peak hour. We could just go ’til whenever.
Jill Bradshaw (I Heart NY, No Ordinary
Monkey promoter): It was a great spot for all
of our friends to go and dance until 6am. We
could take it over, bring in sound, add smoke
machines and disco lights. It was an instant
dance party.
Prince Language: It was like Cheers with
drugs.
18
Drummond: PS1 soon got to the point where
the facility wouldn’t allow for expansion and
there were 7000 people coming out each time
and it was uncomfortable. Still fun, but there
was a directive to make it less accessible, with
more experimental music like Psychic TV and
James Chance.
Harriott: The reason parties moved out to
Brooklyn is because of space. The city’s really
expensive and the only people who can afford
to open a bar or club in Manhattan aren’t doing
it for a reason other than making money. And
soon people our age were getting pushed out of
downtown.
Bryan Kasenic (DJ and promoter, the Bunker): The Bunker moved when Tonic closed.
At that point all of my friends were living in
Brooklyn and I barely knew anyone living in
Manhattan, so moving the party over here was
a no-brainer for me.
Harriott: APT was a wild place. The thing that
you loved about it was also the thing that you
just knew was going to be its downfall. When
you went in there, it was pretty much anything
goes. You’d look around and go, “This is great,
but ain’t no way this can last.” It was just too
perfect.
Justine D.: By the end of Motherfucker, we
all hated one another. We had our last one on
Halloween 2007 at Downtime and I was disenchanted with throwing a party in Midtown.
Greenpoint at the time was full of young people, but no one hung out there. There was a Studio A in Miami and they opened Studio B there.
My vision for Studio B was simple: I wanted it
to be like the Haçienda. That was my goal.
Blount: The idea of having a club in Brooklyn
seemed amazing. At one point, it seemed like
every major French house-music party was at
Studio B: the Daft Punk afterparty was packed
to the gills and everyone was in such a great
mood. The DFA parties were all there: James
Murphy, the Rapture, Hercules & Love Affair.
It was a blast.
Sweeney: I opened for Carl Craig [at Studio B]
one night and he was standing behind me in
the DJ booth with his arms crossed. I was so
nervous. I dropped [A Number of Names’ 1981
Detroit anthem] “Shari Vari” and he gave me
a compliment, saying that intro is hard to mix
properly. I was so happy after that.
Clockwise from top left: Andy Animal, the
last Motherfucker party at Downtime 2007,
photo by Alexander Thompson. Dancefloor at
the Roxy; Justine D. DJing Motherfucker;
dancefloor at Motherfucker, photos courtesy
of Justine Delaney. Dancefloor at the Roxy;
Negroclash flyer APT 2003.
Opposite Page:
Clockwise from top left: Floating Points at
PS1 Warm Up 2012, photo by Loren Whol. The
Function One speaker at Output 2013, photo
by Anthony Blasko. Outside Mister Saturday
Night at Market Hotel 2009, photo by Marc
Whalen.
Friedman: Love in the West Village had been
around for a few years but it really turned a
corner around this time. Harvey always played
there and for my 30th birthday party, we
brought in Todd Terje. That club never really
found its place in the city, but it boasted the
single best DJ booth and sound system I’ve
ever played on.
Blount: GHE20G0TH1K was a place for young
creative gay kids of color to come together to create a space where they felt welcome. It was this
group, young, gay, lesbian, straight, black, white,
Asian, all mashed up together at the party. They
applied a lot of hip-hop techniques to electronic
music, chopping and twisting the tracks, screwing down voices and such. I went to one at Orchard Bar and then they went out to a hot sweaty
basement in Bushwick.
Justine D.: I hung out in that bearded disco
scene for a while: My Cousin Roy, Jacques Renault, Doug Lee, Justin Vandervolgen, all orbiting Harvey. I loved all that music and those guys,
but after awhile, I felt like these parties had no
element of sexuality to them, which is what really fuels nightlife. They were essentially playing
music made by gay black men for a very straight
white male crowd. No one was really dancing
but they were playing such good dance music.
Blount: The people involved with Santos Party
House were looking historically at who pushed
nightlife and the culture forward: people that
were all inclusive, uptown and downtown, music, art, fashion and pageantry, giving props to
gay culture. That was Santos’ ideal, bypassing
bottle service to make something that felt like
family. They were thinking about how to bring
the spirit of the creative class contributing back
to the nightlife of the city.
Harkin: Mister Saturday Night began as the
in-house weekly Saturday night party at Santos Party House, but we quickly adjusted that
vision, in part due to the experience of working
there. We focused instead on creating an alternative end-to-end experience centered on building community in Brooklyn.
Aurora Halal (producer and visual artist,
Mutual Dreaming): I moved to New York
in 2007 and went to a few great shows at Santos, Studio B, Love, Le Bain, Public Assembly,
etc., but it was never a particularly personal or
meaningful experience for me. There’s a troughlike quality to a lot of nightlife that’s very commercial, alcohol- and status-centered.
Justine D.: A boutique hotel’s number one priority is to make money. They view these lounges
and clubs as their outlet to maintain a cool clientele. These venues have money and they pay
more money to DJs than a bar or club, and it’s a
smart business model, but you’ll never feel like
it’s underground. It won’t have that rawness, it
won’t have that sense of community. It’s a different beast.
Sweeney: The girls are super cute and that’s
about the only thing good about the boutique
hotel parties. You end up having a lot of people
requesting terrible music. They’re just there for
the scene.
Venus X (DJ, GHE20G0TH1K): I went to
the Wierd parties at Home Sweet Home, I went
to punk shows, I went to my friends’ hip-hop
showcases, I went to Kingdom’s parties. I kept
seeing drunk guys using Serato to DJ and there
were hardly any girl DJs in New York at the
time. I knew that I could do it better.
Halal: Dope Jams parties were the best: the
music was superbly deep, it was hot as hell, and
the sound system felt like it was literally pushing the air with heavy bass. It’s a shame that
they closed. I prefer 285 Kent and other DIY
venues because they’re great raw slates; they
feel like safe spaces away from the bombardment of NYC’s social hierarchies.
Strauss: People will always compare everything
to the so-called ‘golden era’ of New York club life.
And it’s true that was an amazing time, but there
were and still are many great clubs in this town.
Now with Output opening in Brooklyn with a
world-class sound system, hopefully a new generation is able to experience what a proper club
experience should be.
Prince Language: The Internet has had the
greatest, and arguably most detrimental, effect on NYC. Pre-Internet, it can be reasonably
be stated that most dance music was primarily
heard in dance clubs, by people dancing in a specific, communal context. People went to clubs to
hear music that could only be heard there. Actual
physical spaces like clubs simply don’t matter as
much—this has diminished the power of both the
spaces and the music played within them. Clubs
may not be the center of dance music anymore.
Murphy: Now things seem to be a lot more
stabilized. It’s a lot more like it was at the start
of the 21st century: rich people go to these hotel parties, Brooklyn’s this self-formed ghetto
where people just stand around. It’s become a
lot more codified. But back then, it felt crazy
and alive and really mixed up. It doesn’t feel the
same to me right now. Everything felt smaller
and nice back then.
Carter: The very first Mister Saturday Night
we did outside the confines of Santos was at
the Market Hotel in Bushwick with Dixon. Immediately, we went ‘Yes, this is it!’ It just felt
really good.
Hebden: The Mister Saturday Night and Mister Sunday parties are great and I’ve had good
times playing there. They seem quite committed to keeping it underground.
Carter: We have done parties at 12-Turn-13 for
three years now. With a big floor dedicated to
dancing and a big rooftop, it feels like home.
Harriott: I went to one party at 12-Turn-13 and
these dancers stripped down to nothing with
this big jar of honey with them. And they just
started smearing it on one another, then licking it off. And I’m like “Alright, guess I’ll stick
around for a minute.”
Blount: I was allergic to how much dust
was inside of Love and the carpet room
there skeeved me out. The sound was perfect
though—I understand why DJ Harvey loved
spinning there.
19
COLUMNS
COLUMNS
LANDMARKS
A column on
the gear and
processes that inform
the music we make.
as both artists and audience members,
we’ve come to expect a live-show experience
to best, or at least match, the intensity of a
musician’s studio recordings. Easier said than
done. New York’s Jonathan Kreinik is a
live-mix engineer who’s toured with Le Tigre,
Trans Am, the Rapture, the Presets, and Holy
Ghost!, among many others. He explains the
challenges of making dance bands work in
live settings.
RBMA: A lot of dance bands end up playing
rock clubs. What kinds of problems do you run
up against?
LO G O S
The origins of
iconic images from
NYC's musical history
explained.
nervous records founder Michael Weiss
grew up with the music business in his
blood—his father was a record distributor
who also ran a disco label called Sam
Records. That Weiss might end up starting
his own label around his generation’s dance
music—hip-hop and house, by artists such
as Black Moon, Todd Terry, Armand van
Helden, and Masters At Work—was an easy
bet, certainly nothing to be nervous about. So
why the name? “Before I launched Nervous
Records I was promoting hip-hop tracks for
a different label, and I was a bit hyperactive
in my approach. I used to bring records to
a well-known hip-hop DJ named Chuck
Chillout on WBLS. I would go up there at
11:30pm on Friday nights and was very
insistent that Chuck play my songs before
the show ended at midnight. He would call
me Captain Nervous ’cause I was always so
nervous that the show would end before he
had a chance to play my song.”
The logo Weiss commissioned for his
label in 1991 also captured the frenetic
energy of DJs who were eager to get hold of
the newest and hottest limited-edition vinyl.
“The idea was to create a parody of a super20
hero character in the DJ world,” says Weiss.
“This was before DJs were considered the
massive stars they are now. But in my world,
the independent NYC dance label scene, DJs
and producers were our stars.”
Weiss knew an art director at EMI/
Chrysalis named Marc Cozza who had done
some covers for Sam Records, whom he
asked to design a logo. “My first and only
idea was to create an iconic character that
could live on its own, without even using
the word ‘nervous,’” says Cozza. “I was
channeling George Herriman’s Krazy Kat
and also the Superwest comic books. At the
time, the Arsenio Hall flat-top hairstyle was
in vogue and I thought of the idea of having
a speeding record buzz the top off of the
character’s afro, leaving him shaking but
with a perfect haircut.”
The first logo was circular, since it was
designed with vinyl in mind, and used
a simple sans-serif font. In 2004, Weiss
had it updated to better suit the digital
marketplace, making it square and setting
the figure against a brick wall, with graffiti
writing by Blake ‘KEO’ Lethem “to embellish
the urban aspect.”
-SUE APFELBAUM
Jonathan Kreinik: The impression is supposed to be that it’s a dance club. A lot of times
it’ll be on a night when there is a crew of DJs
that are playing before and after [a band]. People are very used to [that loudness], and all of a
sudden it literally shrinks down to this very organic sounding thing where the sound comes
at you from one spot. Either we have to make
the DJs a little quiet, or we have to make the
band sound like a mastered record.
RBMA: And you choose the latter.
JK: What I end up doing as a matter of practice is to do multiple compressors like you’re
doing a record, so that by the time you get
to stereo, everything is kind of managed in a
bombastic and delicate way at the same time. I
don’t want any headroom. A SebastiAn record
isn’t going to sound like it has headroom. It’s
just maxed out. It’s not necessarily the most
beautiful sound, but when you’re standing in
the middle of the room, it kind of is.
The places, spaces,
and monuments of
NYC's musical past,
present, and future.
FAT BEATS
16
THE BRONX
PAST FEATURED LANDMARKS
1 MAX NEUHAUS’
12 DAPTONE
“TIMES SQUARE”
in the early 1990s, independent hip-hop was still
an underground phenomenon with few major points of
distribution. But Joe Abajian, a Bronx native and budding DJ, saw that as an opportunity. “The birthplace of
hip-hop didn’t have a dedicated hip-hop record store,”
says Abajian. “So I decided to start Fat Beats.”
The first incarnation of Fat Beats was at 323 East
9th Street. The store opened in 1994, just as the East
Village, after years of decline, was in the grip of gentrification. Abajian had a hunch his store would do well
there, but as it was a strictly DIY venture, there were no
guarantees. “Corporations weren’t capitalizing on the
art yet,” he says. But there was another way of getting
word out to fans: namely Stretch and Bobbito’s influential radio show, which aired on WKCR from 1990 to
1998. “Bobbito actually came down during our opening party, and he was shouting it out that night [on his
show],” says Abajian.
After just two years, Fat Beats outgrew the 9th Street
location, so Abajian moved it to a second-floor space at
406 Sixth Avenue, where it prospered. Artists like the
X-Men, Cash Money, Funkmaster Flex, and even Eminem would come by the shop. Satellite stores soon
opened in LA, Tokyo, Amsterdam, and Atlanta. The
New York store—atop the 24-hour Bagel Buffet and just
a few blocks from the PATH and West 4th Street subway station—always had ample foot traffic. But one gets
the sense that had Abajian located Fat Beats in the Far
Rockaways, hip-hop fans still would have found it. As
the Village Voice wrote in 2010, “Fat Beats didn’t just sell
records—it created a community.”
But it was too much too soon, says Abajian, and with
the downturn in the economy, some business missteps,
and the ascendance of all things digital, Fat Beats’ indie
empire suffered. The New York location was the last to
close, to much chagrin, in 2010.
The physical store may be gone, but the store still
exists online, and Abajian has held a few Fat Beats
Experience pop-up shops in his warehouse and office
space in Dumbo, using pieces of the old store: the DJ
booth, posters, light boxes. “They went really well,” Abajian says. “I’ll probably do them again in the future.”
2 THE THING
RECORDS
13 THE VILLAGE
SECONDHAND
STORE
GATE/LIFE/LE
POISSON ROUGE
3 THE LOFT
14 THE ANCHORAGE
4 MARCY HOTEL
15 ELECTRIC LADY
5 ANDY WARHOL’S
FACTORY
STUDIOS
16 CROTONA PARK
6 QUEENSBRIDGE
JAMS
HOUSES
1
7
7 RECORD MART
8 DEITCH
6
5
8
5
PROJECTS
9 AREA/SHELTER/
7
VINYL
10 STUDIO B
15
11 MARKET HOTEL
QUEENS
5
2
13
3
9 8
10
8
MANHATTAN
4 12
14
12
11
WHAT: FAT BEATS
WHERE: GREENWICH
VILLAGE
WHY: INDEPENDENT
HIP-HOP RECORD SHOP
WHEN: 1994-2010
STATEN ISLAND
BROOKLYN
-ADRIENNE DAY
RBMA: Do you think volume can affect people’s attention?
JK: People have a tendency to talk during
shows. It’s hard. One way to defeat that is just
to make it really fucking loud. When you’re
dealing with a band that makes dance music, people are more inclined to stop and chat
with their neighbor when they start to become
self-aware—when they’re not immersed in this
whole thing.
RBMA: Live drums seem like the hardest
thing to get right for dance music.
JK: When you think about it, a lot of these
really cool drum sounds on records are these
weirdly defeated drum kits. They’ve been made
to submit. It doesn’t sound like the guy’s beating the shit out of the drums at all. But when
you get a brand-new kit shipped from SIR,
and you get the drum tech to tune it up like
it’s “supposed to sound,” to me that just sounds
like shit. It sounds like a jazz-fusion record
from the ’80s.
-NICK SYLVESTER
TOP
5…
NYC MUSIC ZINES
1 2 3 4 5
DINGUS
PRESENTED BY
Newtown is more than just another Internet radio
station. Our goal is to redefine what you hear
on the radio, from new local artists to hot indie
tracks and undiscovered classics. In the same way
that early punk fanzines provided a necessary alternative to mass media, Newtown Radio offers new
music in an easy and accessible online format. In
an attempt to highlight some of the local tastemakers that inspire our work, we have identified
five of our favorite music zines in NYC.
An online zine (soon
to be in print) that
looks at the DIY
music culture around
the world with an emphasis on the fringe
underground.
dingusonmusic.com
AD HOC
A collective of ten
tastemaking music
blogs from around the
world, Ad Hoc focuses
on emerging artists
that characterize the
grassroots music culture. It’s a quarterly zine, available in
electronic and paper
formats, and full of
original artwork and
long-form features.
adhoc.fm
1.21 GIGAWATTS
A bimonthly arts and
music magazine made
by Brooklyn-based
artists and focused
on the New York music
scene. Every issue includes a free
downloadable playlist
as well as an original piece of artwork.
The staff met while
interning at Paper
magazine. Featured
pieces have included
Bear in Heaven, Total
Slacker, Heaven’s
Gate, and Oberhofer.
gigawattsmag.com
THE REPORT
This biannual music
and culture journal
(started by music
blogger Michael McGregor) is a multimedia bundle that
brings together
experimental artists,
writers, musicians,
and visual artists into a singular
package of books,
tapes, CDs, and DVDs.
Contributors include Oneohtrix Point
Never, Laurel Halo,
Airbird, Ducktails,
and more.
NUTS!
A monthly zine based
in NYC after starting
in Olympia Washington. Nuts! #11, out
in April, features
interviews with Hank
Wood and the Hammerheads, La Misma, and
Deformity, plus giant
fold-out posters by
Sam Ryser and Heather
Benjamin, wild news,
and freak photos.
nutsfanzine.tumblr.com
21
NEW YORK STORY
NEW YORK STORY
THE CONDUCTION
CONUNDRUM
A post-punk professor remembers
the electric bandleader of the LES.
WORDS VIVIEN GOLDMAN
ILLUSTRATION SAANTTU MUSTONEN
this is a song for a spirit. A fickle, tempestuous trickster that flits from one place to the
next, one player’s horn to the other, sprinkling
giddy freedom. Maybe that euphoria can never
be a constant state, but while you feel and live
it, it’s as joyous as it gets. So what can a poor
human do to reliably provoke that sensation?
In the East Village that sense of release
was regularly obtainable at a venue that has
survived the tsunami of gentrification: Nublu
on Avenue C. Bliss was often provided by the
boîte’s resident genius Butch Morris and the
musical style he devised: Conduction. Impish
and sagacious, the dapper Butch dressed in
bright, floppy clothes. Face framed by a soft
gray afro nimbus and fulsome goatee, he was
a two-tone spats or sandals sort of fellow, an
original boho boulevardier.
Naturally, Butch’s style and honey personality made him a familiar figure around the villages of Alphabet City and the Lower East Side.
Its streets gave him a haven, as they had fellow
jazz-improvising horn men before him, like harmolodic dude Don Cherry, one of whose classics
is named “Brown Rice.” Cherry was fond of the
tofu scramble at the Life Café on Avenue B at
Tompkins Square Park, facing Charlie Parker’s
old pad, but the fine wines and French cuisine
of the Casimir bistro on Avenue B were more
Butch’s speed than vegan fare (in that sense, he
was a bon viveur of the old school). He owned
the LES and was a mascot of local haunts like
Arcane and Lucien. Casimir’s neo-Parisian ambience was “Butch’s office.”
His frequent collaborator, cornetist Graham
Haynes, observes, “In this country we live to
work. Butch knew how to work and take time
out to live. You have to live so that you can be at
peace and happy. Then you will have a story to
tell in your art.”
Perhaps it was a knack for art/life balance
that enabled Butch to come up with one of music’s greatest balancing acts: his Conduction
method, short for Conducted Improvisation. But
surely, you say, that’s a contradiction in terms?
Not so. Rather like free will, which all too often
bumps up against some pesky limitation, or a
free lunch (which rarely is), free-jazz improvisation itself is not quite as free as you might think.
If you only ever improvise alone, it’s a bit like
always playing badminton against yourself. After a while, humans want to bounce their notes
against others, and not just hit the wall of their
own fabulousness over and over again.
But how?
If musicians improvising together only play
what they feel, without listening and bouncing
off their cohorts—well, it’s not the best anarchy.
Ornette Coleman, aided by Cherry, came up
with the solution of harmolodics. Busting the
four-bar barrier, harmolodics involves many
rehearsal hours to attain the level of empathy
necessary for players to flow together. People
jam to their own spontaneous tunes, inspired
by an underlying melodic motif and interacting with fellow musicians; everyone is united
to form a greater, unpredictable whole. Harmo-
22
lodic players walk a musical tightrope on an invisible wire of skill and communication.
Butch’s solution was the reverse. Butch was
the visible wire on which all the musicians
walked. He was the Wizard of his own Oz—
though Butch never hid behind a curtain. To
perform Conduction, the musicians did not
even need to have met each other before. The
common denominator is that each player had
to understand Butch’s visually coded language
of signs, indicating by facial expressions and
gestures when players should change their
speed, volume, tone. They all simply started
responding to some sound or tune thrown at
them by Butch and took it from there. Butch
developed Conduction as a benevolent dictator
of musicians glad to be subject to his will.
“I always knew I was going to learn with
Butch,” says Haynes. “The way Butch heard music was very precious—his attention to silence,
dynamics, and negative and positive space.
I wasn’t getting that from anyone else...and I
work with a lot of people.”
Like a few other jazzmen of his generation,
the young Butch, a native Angeleno, had served
in Vietnam. Afterwards, he bopped about the
planet quite freely, creating and collaborating
with multimedia artists and big orchestras on
both coasts, and in Europe and Asia. When
Nublu’s anonymous façade, with its single light
and no signage, opened on Avenue C, it was a
reason for jubilation—now Butch had his own
live laboratory close to home. Before Nublu
opened, Alphabet City was still largely Hispanic,
known as “Loisaida.” Local nightlife scenes like
the World and Pyramid had closed. What would
become John Zorn’s venue the Stone was still
the Golden Dragon Chinese Takeout—eat there
at your peril.
At a tipping point, Loisaida’s graffiti’d
squats were about to be razed for condos; soon
enough it would be easier to find a wine bar
than a Santeria botanica on Avenue C. Just a
block away from the East River, Loisaida felt
like it was not just on the edge of an island,
but its own freewheeling fringe world, one in
which Butch was a creative king. But that Loisaida was starting to be squeezed out along
with the squatters and candy stores. Naturally,
Butch still reigned among the hipster set, but
many of his local compadres were leaving the
area involuntarily. Says Butch’s good friend,
producer Brian Bacchus, “Nublu seemed like a
rebirth of all the wonderful chaotic creativity
of the 1970s and ’80s, which Giuliani and gentrification had almost squelched in the ’90s.”
Much as the 1940s bebop clubs around 42nd
Street were venues for musical sparring, so was
Swedish-Turkish musician Ilhan Fredrik Ersahin eager to create a downtown locus for DJs,
improvisers, and a dancey avant-garde when he
opened Nublu in 2002; three years later, Butch’s
Conduction sessions there formalized into the
Nublu Orchestra.
Many of his best-known Conductions are
numbered, but Butch’s first Nublu sessions
were so experimental they were off the grid.
Still, relaxed as he was socially, when it came
to Conduction, “Butch was a monster!,” Haynes
remembers. “He would terrorize people if he
thought they made a mistake.” But Haynes,
Butch, and guitarist Brandon Ross were musical soulmates. Those who couldn’t take the
fire, left.
“You had to leave your agenda at the door,”
says Ross. “You had to put your concentration
and whatever resources you had available at
that moment with Butch. That’s what Conduction summons of people, what Butch asked
of people.”
I also went to hear Butch to submit. Overlapping waves of feeling induced by the
shape-shifting music would sweep me along
like a serene or stormy river. In the course of
one Conduction concert I would feel a gamut
of emotions, as if Conduction was a group therapy session. And this from a random bunch of
bodies, all obedient to Butch’s baton. Whoever
turned up to play would get a 15-minute briefing from Butch, and the gig would proceed to
be whatever it was, like a tasty soup cooked
with whatever’s around.
“There’s always a vibe working without written music,” comments Ross. “Butch might grab
something he heard when the band was setting
up and start to sing from that sound. The music
was exciting because you really did not know
what was going to happen.”
Butch later spread his workshops, projects,
and musical-collective sessions to other East
Village haunts like Lucky Cheng’s, the Bowery Poetry Club, and the Stone, but Nublu was
where he was able to stretch out over a period of time. It was also just a short stroll home
from Nublu to East 7th Street, with his hat
jammed down tight and his oversize coat flapping against the cold dawn wind on Avenue C.
Conduction was one man’s musical concept,
but time tells us that it’s taken root. Before
Butch died, he had the felicity of seeing other
Conduction ensembles flourish, including the
Burnt Sugar collective founded by Greg Tate,
who used to play guitar with Butch at Nublu.
“Conduction lives because we’re all Bozos
on this bus! And therefore wanna keep standing next to the fire of a postmodern pan-Afrikan master of the universe who walked it
like he talked it. No Sell Out,” Tate notes in
an email.
So this is a song for a spirit. As I said, it’s a
trickster and can be fickle; it likes to flit about.
For some luminous years, it alighted on Butch
Morris and Loisaida. If we call out and listen loud
enough, it might alight right where we are.
A Londoner in New York, Vivien Goldman
is an author, educator, broadcaster, and
cult post-punk musician. The most recent
of her five books is The Book of Exodus,
on Bob Marley & the Wailers’ timeless
LP. She is the professor of punk, Bob
Marley, Fela Kuti, and coming this
fall, David Bowie at NYU’s Clive Davis
Institute of Recorded Music.
23
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