Monday, April 21, 2008

The only good thing about the old rave is that they never called it art

I came home last night after an epic 8-hour nerdfest with Brendan and Dave to find a fucking rave in my apartment building. For those of you not familiar with my homestead, I live in a loft building on Broadway. Nearly everyone I know in Brooklyn has been to a party in it's walls at some point in time. It has one of the best rooftops in the hood and is quickly becoming the Southside equivalent of the McKibbin dorms. I'm basically like the grumpy ass RA of the building.

About 6 months ago the loft below mine was occupied by a couple with an unfortunate fondness for electronica and an equally unfortunate selective hearing malady; the word "bass" and the phrase "too loud" do not compute when added together in the same sentence. I'm a pro at the weekly 3 am door-pound and actually find it strangely satisfying. My roommates also find it satisfying, mainly because they are too pussy to complain and would rather be kept awake all night than face the electronica duo downstairs.

I fucking hate techno. I hate everything about it. I think that any music that requires the ground to shake for it to be properly enjoyed isn't music. I only dance to rock 'n' roll and the occassional Jonathan Toubin Soul Clap getdown. The thought of a bunch of sweaty fucking apes pumping away to drum and bass makes me want to relive disco bloodbath fantasies of yore. The nu-rave is just the old rave with tight pants. When is ecstasy going to make a comeback? Let's quicken natural selection, turning all those greasy retards into e-tards. Can't wait! I've been saying it since I first heard the whispers from across the pond. FUCK THE NU?NEU?NEW?RAVE!

Anyway, last night, I am not sure what it was. I don't think it was nu-rave. I think it was a bunch of East Village holdovers from the first rave. Serious office job nerds with blogs even worse than this one letting loose in a wild and crazy Brooklyn loft! Yeah, I think everyone there was named Chad and was wearing cargo shorts. Yes...after three hours of trying to wait it out, I finally infiltrated the rave. I live on the 4th floor. I don't give a fuck if it's Saturday night or not. It's totally unacceptable for me to be able to hear and feel (my bed was vibrating) a party in the basement.

I walked down the stairs and was horrified at what I saw. A small yellow sign with bubble letters proclaiming "Raeve! $5" and another one with just the word "RAVE" and an arrow pointing the way to apartment 108. Okay...wait, am I not getting something? Is a "raeve" different than a "rave" Is that the new-nu rave? Next lev rave? I rounded the corner, passed through the doorway half blind as I had taken out my contacts hours ago in preparation for sleep that still hadn't come (despite two sleeping pills and a pair of earplugs) in my gigantic Shred Bundy shirt and made a beeline for the back patio for there was the open door that was leaking all the music outside of the basement where it ricocheted against the brick outer walls of the buildings directly into my window. Before I reached my goal I had two beers spilled on me and some bitch almost knocked me over. Still I perservered and managed to convince the dude who lived there to spend the rest of the party manning the patio door making sure that it stayed closed. Ha, I didn't even have to threaten to call the cops like I did when I busted up the rave on the 3rd floor at 7 am, which is pretty funny because seriously, like I would really call the cops? Give me a break, that's the most empty fucking threat in the world. I did consider threatening to call our Hassid landlord on Passover because I thought that would be funny but I doubt anyone would get the joke.

But seriously, what is happening to my life? How the hell are raves and epidemic in my universe? Something is seriously out of whack.

1 comment:

brendan donnelly said...

i wish i lived in your building