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Yet Another Powerful Summer Roundup Dodgeball, Spinna, Q-Tip and MOP headline a string of song and high-knee dance. Dodgeball at Volume -- July 25th Building off the success of its debut dodgeball tournament, Volume hosted part deux on Sunday, July 25th. While entrance is still free, we were shocked and awed to learn that the free cans of Brooklyn Lager had been cranked up to $4 and the endless spread of burgers and dogs were now priced $2 a pop. Those prices aren’t exceptional, but after a typical ATM-hemorrhaging Thursday-Friday-Saturday bender, who but international playboys and people with real jobs can afford to dig deep in their pockets on a Sunday afternoon? The event was still plenty entertaining, but next time, us seasoned veterans will grab a six of Bud from the bodega on Bedford and 11th before trotting down to Volume. As for the play, most of the original teams were in the building – Fader, Tokion and their ilk were joined by newcomers such as Downtown for Democracy. With the exception of defending champs Habana Café (who were bounced early), the talent was appreciably stronger – whispers wafted through the crowd that some teams had brought in ringers from the professional dodgeball circuit. There were even psuedo-celebrities: David Crosse and maybe the other guy from Mr. Show played for the Glitter organization. But the story of the day was not the finals victory by Diesel (led by a genuine dodgeball god and a seven-foot Mongolian who heaved the ball at frightening speeds) over the hated squad from Nolita Thai grubhole Lovely Day. No, it was the team from The Neptune’s Star Trak label that garnered the most attention. Though dismal in athletic ability, Star Trak first drew glances for the poom-poom shorts donned by one of the crew’s female players and their irritating “Staaaaaar Traaaaak” chant. Asswatching metamorphosized into derision as their player-manager – sort of an MC Serch type – decided that not nearly enough people were looking at him. Despite the torrents of boos raining down from the crowd, the obnoxious fucker consistently interrupted the action with time-outs, complaints and general tomfoolery. Then, in their playoff match against Vice (who put together a remarkably grease-glazed cast of Luxx refugees), some knucklefuck from Star Trak grew so incensed over a call that he laced one of the filthy hipsters with a cheap-shot eye-jammie. A mild melee ensued in which the Serch-esque coach tried to throw a blow of his own: his comically inept attempt at a body shot indicated he seen Arturo Gatti’s Saturday night HBO brawl. Order was eventually restored, Star Trak was forever banned, a male streaker ran across the court flapping his testicles and good times were had by all. Oh, and Promise was there
MoMa's weekly summer high-knee danceterium continued to roll through July with a weekend series of ho-hum sets from Joey Llanos (Paradise Garage) and Krvyn Mark (Melting Pot). While DJ Spinna, the frequent Jump and Funk platter-rotator and fixture at Kia’s Prince Vs. Michael Jackson barnburners, was the afternoon’s headliner, our Loosie coorespondent is unable to confirm his set appearance. Due to the trudging Germanic tapestry of house mixes woven by Llanos and Mark, we fled PS1 and stumbled like wounded calves through Queen’s SARS-invested alleyways. But like this summer’s previous PS1 shows, a crowd of mostly Brooklynites and Mannahatanites flooded the gates to lick $5 Brooklyn Lagers and dryhump their way to ecstasy on the concrete dance floor. And if those Chelsea boys hadn’t sunken into Ecstasy by the end of Llanos’ generic set, they could always stumble into Ryan McGinley’s hack exhibit and grin at his portraits of young boy’s genitals. Table 50 As nightlife habitués grow tired of the South Beach-esque Meatpacking District and its Crockett ‘n’ Tubbs denizens, New York's hottest new party has, almost on cue, emerged at NoHo's Table 50. In an neighborhood hardly known for its nightlife offerings, Table 50's Thursday night Authentic Shit, DJed by A Tribe Called Quest front man Q-Tip and Mark Ronson, does the three month old, two-hundred seventy person lounge proud. Devoid of the pretense all too frequently witnessed in New York, Authentic Shit is exactly what a nightlife event should be - a party. Patrons neither attend to be seen nor observe a scene. Kitschy drinks and the vile bridge-and-tunnel crowd is altogether absent, as is a cover and unreasonable drink prices, and the well-informed clientele only seems concerned with the outstanding music and relaxed, social atmosphere. Ronson is consistently outstanding while Q-Tip does little to disappoint as the pair successfully interweave myriad genres to draw a lusty response from the audience. Indeed, on a recent Thursday night, the only people in the building that didn't seem to be enjoying themselves were a pair of insipid uptown debutantes overheard whining as they fixed their makeup in the men's bathroom. "This isn't like Marquee," said one. Her friend concurred in disgust, "I know. We're like, by far, the richest people here." Little did they know that Diego the Hunter was in the building, along with Buju Banton, two-thirds of Brand Nubian and Bazaar Royale. Owner Mark Mathewson's low key approach has certainly paid off. Keeping the emphasis on the music and focusing largely on word-of-mouth for publicity, the cool, knowledgeable, and diverse crowd is fast growing. The investment bankers will not doubt soon come in ruddy-faced droves, but, for now, put this writer on the list, plus that sweet yatch Beyoncé. One note: dress light, the basement lair is gonorrhea hot.
Eidos, the video game company best known for T&A treasure hunter Lara Croft of the Tomb Raider series, has decided to dip its magic stick in the warm gooey vat of Hip-Hop guncho. "Get on the Mic", a combination of 8 Mile and karaoke, challenges players to rap accurately along with rap song lyrics in order to earn "bling". There are good times to be had: watching an acne-laced Opie screech "kidnap that fool!" is solid entertainment. Even more entertaining, however, is watching MOP screech "kidnap that fool!" live on stage. Eidos, eager to acquire street stripes, rented out Canal Room (the former home of Shine) and brought Brownsville's Finest, Talib Kweli and Marley Marl together with caseloads of free Red Stripe. The crowd was an odd mix of Hip-Hop celebrities, video game experts and Fader chicks. Bazaar Royale, again painting the town red, joined such luminaries as Fab Five Freddy, Wordsworth, Spec Boogie and -- oh my god -- Promise. With Jamaican lager coursing through our veins, MOP's arrival on stage was tantamount to a drunken orgy of fun-loving criminology. After getting us riled up with classics such as "Downtown Swinga", "How About Some Hardcore?" and "Cold as Ice", the duo (who were joined on stage by a bunch of toothless compadres swinging Henny bottles) launched into a vicious version of "Ante Up", which climaxed with their female manager, Fox, diving into the crowd and setting off a mosh pit. One could imagine Talib waiting backstage muttering, "fuck, fuck, fuck." To his credit, Kwe did fine. You just can't come on after MOP. Ever. Read more articles in New York » |
What if Rupert's acquisition of the Wall Street Journal is just the beginning? Coming to grips with being famous on the world wide web. A reexamination of St. Patrick's worthiness as the don dada of Irish sainthood. The War Report: Storch versus Timbaland, Chimps versus Humans, Dick Cheney versus Iran. Compared to the thrill of going to war, getting out of one is a tiresome and humiliating business. The Game's new album is pretty good, Fabolous hires a private gumshoe and all Republicans are gay. |
