SATURDAY, MARCH 24: Studio B is this weird all-Polish Disco in Greenpoint—for those not in the know, Greenpoint is in Brooklyn and would be oh, lets say, the Echo Park of New York. Actually, while we’re here, let’s just do this for future reference and whatnot: Brooklyn is like the whole eastside, Williamsburg is most definitely Silverlake—actually, Silverlake is Williamsburg—but that’s a WHOLE other story! Bushwick is like Koreatown and the Lower East Side is pretty much Hollywood—well, at least that strip of Cahuenga that everybody stumbles up toward Hollywood Blvd. and Star Shoes, but I haven’t been there in awhile, so you tell me!
Anyhoo, for the first show we trek out to Greenpoint, the total Polish part of Brooklyn, in the most freezing sub-zero temps to hit NY in recent memory. Expecting the crowd to be tiny—per usual on frosty nights—and, due to the location of said event—cheesers Polish disco—we were quite surprised to find that all of NYU had taken the L train into the borough. (As Stanford once said in Sex in the City: “If we’re all here, who’s watching the Island?”) After two grueling hours of staring at Urban Outfitters leg warmers, we made it inside and backstage—oh, oh, BTW, I’m with the band. Once we were inside, Hearts of Darnesses played their first show ever and it was a pretty fucking sweet set. A Talking-Heads-meets-Frank-Black-on-acid sort of deal. It was good. But Girl Talk really made them go ape-shit—teenage girls screaming and writhing and tearing their hair out like Beatles fans in heat. I don’t think the security guards were expecting to work for their money. Soon a group of people had rushed the stage and torn off Gregg’s (a.k.a Girl Talk’s) shirt. It was a blistering good time, as he pretty much duplicated all of Night Ripper, which for the teenagers in attendance was extra cream in their jeans. Since I saw my first punk show at the Whisky in 1995, I’ve only seen a crowd like that a couple of times before. It was insane.
Last night was Ellen Allien, who owns BitchPatrol records and puts out a good amount of house and techno herself. I’m not much of a house fan, having barely escaped the rave scene of yore—I consider you a success if you can count how many raves you’ve been to on one hand. In any event, people really seem to dig her and, again, the wait situation outside was—as Gwen so cleverly shouts—B-A-N-A-N-A-S. Which leads me to my main ramble. I think it’s obvious what this whole thing is about: Studio B and the return of the Hipster DJ. Crappy discos are coming back into fashion all over Brooklyn which means in two years L.A. will re-open all of theirs. Consider this a message from future—you have time to stop it before it gets too far! —and soon the slimeballs will be hitting the floor right behind. In fact, just last night as Miss Kitten took over for Miss Alien, a heinous Euro scab grabbed my face and tried to lick it. But I guess all of that, too, is not so bad. After all, I look better in bell-bottoms.
Reporting live from New York,
I’m Nikki Darling, and you’re not.