Beats, Basements, and Bowling Balls
Wednesday’s show at the Girbaud Store provided an evening of revelations, less life changing than little light bulbs of understanding through widened perspective.
Events that fall within the realm of ‘in-store fashion event’ are usually so vain and contrived that most people who enjoy passing time doing things considered ‘fun’, or ‘interesting’ can find more enrichment out of watching The Bachelor to see if you know anyone from high school, which I do. This show, however, was different. The champagne was not cheap, the models were hot and professional, the crowd was eccentric and the collaboration was dynamic enough to attract attention to the clothes, the installations, and the music.
Apparently Girbaud’s distribution sent all the low-end clothing to the US, subsequently flooding discount department stores with flagrant, baggy denim, logo-heavy XXL shirts, and even (god no) jean shorts.
This event was part of a recent initiative to bring Girbaud back to the same presence the label maintains in France and Japan. Partnering with NYC-based Frenchman WK Interact under the curatorial direction of Formvavision, the art was a collection of ghetto meets industry-chainsaws, spray paint, skate boards, hatchets, dog tags- all smeared with caution tape and spray paint.
We spun next to the footwear, which everyone should check out and someone should by for me. All in all, good show. Michael Stipe was there too, and we saw him bobbing his head to the beat, so, you know, sweet. Or something.
Here’s one of our current favs that got a lot of attention (and freaked a few people out):
Deichkind - Remmidemmi (Egoexpress Remix D) || Island
On Friday we headed way downtown to No Ordinary Monkey, a party in the basement of an office building with all the accoutrements of an after-hours: $5 cover, red Solo cops, dim lights, and cigarette smoke. The music was a heavy dose of deep Balearic grooves that complimented the hazy sedated climate of the party. Good shit.
Saturday, we went to a party at Galaxie, somewhere in deep Brooklyn.
The interior had everything imaginable, and everything had texture. 2001: A Space Odyssey played on the upstairs projector, and every wall had bubbly plastic design patterns. The bathroom was so well put together I had to ask the bartender if I could put a lease down to live in it. At least for weekends. She laughed, because I am funny.
The greatest surprise was the downstairs, where we had the pleasure of bowling, dancing, and drinking at the same time. Hard to believe, but it really was hardwood, gutters-and-pins bowling lanes, only you had to manually set up the pins. Nuts. Bosley actually hit me with a bowling ball while I was setting up the pins, nailing my arm as I was bending over with “laser-guided precision”. Three Swedish girls who watched Bosley break the unwritten rule of drunken-dancing-party-bowling came to my defense (the same Swedish girls who somehow crashed our party weeks earlier, wtf), attacking Bosley with the intensity and conviction of PETA activists.
Max Pask, JFF, others played. I would go here every weekend.
