Tribal Awakening

The RNC was just a warm up, spring training for the tribal convergences that form and reform New York f'ing city in a viciously delightful rhythm. The extremists (you know black bloc anarchists, aging hippies and Republicans) might be more ready for radical actions and streetwise experiments, but its the fashion designers, gallery owners and A&R execs who know how to call the tribes with the mass professionalism.

The RNC left the city deathly still provided you could avoid the minor leaguers (still going like Ricky Henderson!) Police, labor leaders, lobbyists. They can't turn it out the way pros can. Now its September the shity is live and direct. 9-11's gone in forgotten, they tossed the light show in a parking lot across from ground zero and no one noticed. Too busy gathering their tribes.

Thursday was for the sonics. Interpol and there 80's clad indie rock brethren, did some fake art gallery thing, with real art via Shep Fairey. The nationwide omnipotent Polaroid Scene (rumor: being sued by Polaroid) documents. Then Fader brings M.I.A. in via London via Sri Lanka. We remain unconvinced.

At least we finally met the abstract personas of S/FJ aka Sasha Frere-Jones and the Cowboy Poodle aka Julianne Shepherd in the flesh. Meeting all these imaginary blog peoples in the pseudo reality of Manhattan's Occupied Zones is vaguely incomprehensible. One day when we make our peace with time, we'll have to contemplate just what is the bloggish abstract dynamics domain we've nurtured. There are tribes online two I suppose, but they are not yet professional I think.

And yeah, blog talk did rapidly devolve to the bragging and boasting worthy of an early Sugar Hill track, but unlike what might be implied we bear no guilt. For the straight record, Abstract Dynamics takes no position on the Faculty Lounge Sticker Shock rivalry, other then that there should be some MP3s somewhere, no? We're the Vince McMahon up in here, running things for all sides of the wild rumpus.

Sipping the spillings of the music marketing industry ain't bad, but Friday brought the real money, art fashion and porn. All wrapped in the one personality of Terry Richardson, who sole existence seems to be getting away with filthier and nastier photos at each snap. Now that punk rock is for prep school I guess you can call him the punk Helmut Newton. That plus free alcohol and a sinking building will get Deitch to shut down a couple blocks and make your opening a block party complete with art stars. But even the art world can't free booze a glamours block and that meant a mass mobbing of Hiro. In turn that transformed into a battle ground to put the MP3 blog wars to shame. This one is rooted in time. Hipsters and fashionista's versus the masses of over scrubbed bridge and tunnelers who have made the meat packing district a hell away from home. Of course the masses win in the end, leaving the pitiful high rent postbohemians to slink off towards unchartered pastures.

Round about yesterday those pastures where the Dark Room, something of a cross breed of 151 and Piano's destined to be going out of style at exactly the same time it sneaks into vogue. Is there any reason at all to start a bar on Ludlow Street? Other then making an assload of money that is.

Pull up to Saturday and we slip downtown to connect with a lost tribe. Now that a digital video is establishment I'm not quite sure what separates Resfest from the rest of the filmfest pack, other then perhaps its globetrotting nature. And as the 90's vibes continue die away, taking with them any status attached to designers, djs and video editors, we suspect rough waters are ahead. And really that's a good thing, cause something interesting is bound to happen while the media forgets about this space. This year we peeped some of the shorts, which left us really wanted to ride our bicycle even more. Which I suppose says good things about "The Bicycle Gangs of New York". But really I'm hoping they drop the quarter assed attempt to mimic Warriors, and really come out to play on a new edit.

The 90's themselves are begging for a new edit, but we tread fearfully. The 80's revival (rearing into a Azzedine Alaia phase) is about to crash headlong into the tail end of 90's fashion, still not flushed from the system. What sort of cognitive dissonance can we expect when the trend chasers realize they are running after their own ass end? Does that mean designers will need to be creative again? Does it just get messy, or do we get some real fireworks? Fuck it, its New York, no one will notice anyway, unless they can get a good PR firm organize it all with free liquor...

Posted by William Blaze at September 13, 2004 11:45 PM | TrackBack