loosie: words: Getting Frisky in the Filth

Getting Frisky in the Filth

On the hunt for audio-visual arts in Bushwick.

by B.D. | 2004.04.28

Calling Bushwick “dirty” is like saying the surface of the sun is “kind of warm”. The metastasis of $800-per-hipster loft spaces notwithstanding, the combo-pack of looming metal el structures, beaver-sized rats, mounds of dog shit, aluminum-sided pillbox houses and crumbling industrial warehouses is about as close to pure filthiness as one can get without getting involved in German/Japanese Axis porn. Bushwick is a place where graff-bombed walls are the only source of color outside of brick red, asphalt gray and the raw umber of Rottweiler feces.

Rancid kennel-conditions aside, Bushwick is the current epicenter of New York’s artfuck society. The Williamsburg scene still has plenty of nifty galleries and pricy thrift stores, but the plethora of $2000 rents, fantastic gai pad thai eateries and greased faux-hawks have shunted ol’ Billyburg off into the same category as the East Village and the Lower East Side: cool but not grimy cool. For real non-sterile artsy fun, Bushwick is the place to go.

On Friday, April 23rd, we left the cleanliness of Crime Heights behind and embarked on a Bushwick-bound quest for weird electronic music. As the sky spat down cold drizzle upon us, we clambered down from the elevated steel train platform in search of cheap beer. Fittingly, our $2.50 bottles of Molson Ice were covered with a gummy red syrup that looked and tasted suspiciously like the residue from a splattered St. Ides Special Blend Freeze and Squeeze. Armed with an armful of sticky forties and a fistful of loosies, we were prepared to hear dissonant chirpy plings and quasi-Moog keyboard bass bumps.

The location for the performance was a sprawling third floor loft somewhere around Broadway and Park St. It may have had an official name such as “Dirty Bushwick Studio”, but we later discovered a smattering of items like toothbrushes and saran wrap which indicated that it also doubles as an apartment. It was a college industry of sorts -- those enterprising hipsters were charging a $5 cover charge and $3 for an assorted selection of wine and beer. We smushed our fivers into the dainty paw of an Asiany door-lassie bearing an elaborate chest tattoo and a scooped Massive Attack T-shirt and entered. A converted factory, the Dirty Bushwick Loft features an old time-clock hammered into the wall, mildewed ceilings draped with plastic sheeting and crusty sprinkler stalactites. The arsenal of film projectors, which broadcast fluttering colors and shapes onto massive stretched expanses of fabric, gave the room a rainbow lava lamp vibe. The crowd was a pleasant jambalaya of uber-hip, odd, artsy and even old (a couple graying dudes were talking about their childrens’ love for Spongebob). People milled around smoking imported cigarettes and bobbing their heads in reverence to the house DJ’s selection of breakbeats mixed with noise.

Finally, after a number of delays and trips back out into the rain for bargain-basement beer, we were treated to the opening musical artist. Over amplified GameBoy scores, the performer rapped, sang, talked and moaned about various things. By the way, we don’t mean GameBoy as an adjective here, we mean GameBoy as a noun – the inventive fucker was yapping along with the Tetris beat. At one point – when he was really rocking in earnest – he donned a cardboard box mask and continued yelling through the mouth-slit. The crowd, lustily guzzling Sam Adams Light, roared in approval of the cardboard costume. And if it wasn’t a true roar, it was at least a growl.

Then the Beantown-based headliners emerged. Clad in identical yellow caps, the trio assembled behind an impressive array of laptops, mixers and a spaghetti bowls’ worth of gnarled electrical cables. Confusion reigned momentarily as the group stared down at the electronic rats’ nest as if virgins encountering twat. Regaining their composure, they began hammering out the tunes. The three members had distinct (yet intertwined) roles: one made the music, one controlled the flashing images and one manipulated the computerized words that flittered around the screen like bats with serifed Times New Roman wings. Picture this – bouncing beats, filtered images of political figures and dancing text detailing sperm ‘n’ egg fertilization. It got zesty as the triumvate skillfully overwhelmed the senses with an audio-visual explosion of audio and visuals. Although they worked seamlessly as a team, their personalities began to manifest – one was the bad ass Hip-Hop dude, one was the buttoned-down preppy and one was the baby-faced pussy slayer. The crowd roared again, this time decisively. The program was brief – only clocking in at 30 minutes – but this was obviously a group that subscribed to the number one showbiz philosophy: “never leave ‘em wanting to see you sweat”.

We dashed outside into the pitbull guano-infested streets.