Sometimes I like to go celebrity hunting just for the hell of it. I don’t try to talk to them or anything, just laugh at them, or, at the very least, study the animals in their own natural habitat. (At where else? Chic bars with long lines, with music serving as wallpaper, and blonde bimbolinas serving whoever, whatever, wherever.)
Three times this week, Chloë Sevigny and I were in clubbing tandem. I braved the unwashed masses—(otherwise known as indie rockers) last Thursday for the Clinic show at the Bowery Ballroom, but was upset to find out that opening act The Rapture—who apparently channel PiL and early ’80s musique—weren’t there for that particular gig. Bah! Should have gone to the Tuesday show, because I would’ve sighted arbiter-of-all-things-cool Miss Chloë cloaked in a gigantic hood, described by one friend as “druid-esque.” Instead, I endured bad indie rock (oxymoron? double negative?) and a creepy, green-lit stage full of limeys wearing surgical scrubs pumping out a (mercifully) short set of ’60s-inspired garage rock. Also: Indie rockers are rude and smelly! Has anyone else noticed this?
I also missed Sevigny at a crushed-to-the-gills underground party somewhere on Canal Street Saturday night. She might’ve been standing right next to me, but it was so dark and crowded, it was impossible to make out much besides a curly-haired hippie guy who stamped on my companion’s foot. (This is the result of pushing clubs into the city’s illegal underbelly—fire hazards abound!) I did make out Thomas of Wicked /A.R.E Weapons sitting on top of a speaker near the bar, nodding his head to the beats, and Chez Music‘s Neil Aline and Freeskool‘s Sean B. standing against a wall with grins on their faces. After some chick splashed beer on my face, I called it a night.
There was so much celebrity karma this week, and I wasn’t even trying. At Luxx on Saturday night, I spotted fashion designer Alexander McQueen, who was not at all pasty and gaunt like I thought he would be but tanned, muscled, and wearing a white sleeveness V-neck T-shirt and jeans. With sunglasses. Inside.
How to Tell a Party Is Really Bad, Rule #530: When you see the editor of the magazine of said event dancing the night away at another party, which is what Daniel Shumate of Flyer magazine was doing at Luxx Saturday. Apparently, the Flyer fete at Boylan Studios wasn’t as shit-hot as the guide itself, and so when Shumate couldn’t get a friend into his own party, he bailed for Brooklyn. Cheers!
It was bold-faced-name heaven on Monday night at the Tribeca Grand, where we stopped after the Details mag party for Manito at the Screening Room. (Note: Hunky lead Frankie G. is sure to be the next supastar; he’s already got a gig opposite Ed Norton.)
At the Grand, we were given snotty ‘tude by the bouncers, who let in a dorky guy in a dorky suit with a forgettable GF on his arm, while me and two lovely ladies were given the third degree, but ultimately let in. Right away, we spotted the ugly dude in N’Sync, the one my friend describes as having “inexcusably bad hair,” with dreds and various colors weaved in. The dreds are gone, but Chris Kirkpatrick was especially frumpy, wearing a ski cap and sporting a goatee. That didn’t prevent a gaggle of girls from cooing over him in the VIP area, where they gorged on caviar and champagne. Could it be the money, the money, or the money that makes him so very attractive to the ladies?
Later in the evening, Marky Mark, I mean, the distinguished actor Mark Wahlberg, paid a visit doing his best Russell Crowe imitation—looking scruffy with grown-out hair and a baseball hat. What’s with these celebs, who have more money than god, and a zoo of personal assistants, yet can’t figure out how to dress properly? I want glamour from my cultural icons, dammit. Hip-hop impresario Russell Simmons at least looked the part—dashing and dapper in a blue jacket and a nice pair of white sneaks. His wife, Kimora Lee, played the princess role well, too.
Finally, finally, finally sighted C.S! After Matter:/Form producer Elan “Don’t call me a promoter!” Akerman stood me up (yes, you punk!) at the Park on Tuesday, I hooked up with one of his partners, Ariel, and we played a game of Spot the Celebrity, in which whoever spots the most, wins. (I won.) While sucking down our free drinks, we drooled over Virgin Suicides director Sofia Coppola, who looked lovely in black pants and a white shirt, then realized that the tall, handsome gentleman striding across the room was Tim Robbins (Susan Sarandon taps that ass!). We made eyes, or pretended to, with Rosie Perez (she’s short enough that I can look right in ’em) and saw Patricia Arquette throw her hat into the celebrity karaoke fest and sing (wail?) Janis Joplin’s ” Piece of My Heart,” and then there she was: Chloë! Blonde, curly-haired, looking a little sleepy-eyed, and possibly drunk. Cute white top, stylish pants, as always. And thankfully, not a druid-esque hood in sight.
Danny and Junior—friends 4ever??? New York’s biggest celebrity DJs are kissing and making up. Maybe they aren’t best friends, but it looks like the longest running feud in New York club history is over. Danny Tenaglia and Junior Vasquez seem to have gotten past their differences—or, at least, that’s what a recent posting by DT himself on dtourism.com seems to indicate. (Does anyone even remember what those differences were? “You stepped on my foot!” “No, you stepped on my foot!” “You took my Chelsea Fag Muscle Boy crowd!” “No, it was my Chelsea Fag Muscle Boy crowd first!!”)
Anyways, Danny writes: “I am happy to say that I was very welcomed by my peer Junior Vasquez at Exit this past Sunday ‘Easter morning.’ I am writing this for those of you who wanted it to be confirmed. Well here it is, plain and simple. Junior & I knew each other since we met at The Better Days on 49th St. back in 1981, and yes there were many changes in all of our lives, but nothing ever stopped us from having respect for each other’s career, talent & success. I was happy to hug the man and I hope you are all happy that we are both happy for each other.”
Aw, ain’t it sweet? Wonder if they’ll (French) kiss and make up? And wonder if we’ll soon see a double bill with the both of them? Wonder also if there’s a venue big enough to host all the fans that would no doubt fill the place? (The new Shelter? Limelight? Both floors of Centro-fly? The moon?)
More music news: Uber-trance superstar Sasha has finally finished a full-length solo album, and what’s more, it’s supposed to be really good (i.e., not like anything he spins). But I heard that his audience consisted of two publicists, and you know what they say about publicists. Still, I got wind from other sources that the album is supreme—with comparisons to Underworld being the most prominent. The record is due out in September on Kinetic. All those snotty critics who were above Sasha and Digweed (yes, me too) might have to eat their words in the fall.
Celebrity Hunting, Lesson #45: If a party advertises the presence of celebrities, you won’t see any. We braved the scariest crowd I have ever witnessed at Eugene for the FHM magazine party for the Hilton sisters, Paris and Nicky. Of course, the socialites were nowhere to be found and were probably hidden away in some secret V.I.P. room. We miraculously made our way through the crowd of guidos, fratboys, OZ‘s hot actor Dean Winters, old drunk rich men offering to buy us drinks, and girls with more silicone in their tits than Amanda Lepore, Sophia Lamar, and Joycelyn Wildenstein combined. We practically ran screaming to APT, where Morgan Geist and Darshan Jesrani were playing to a room of mating, dry-humping preppy couples and an assortment of music nerds, including one Richie Hawtin, who was getting jiggy with it, bumping and grinding and drinking bottles of bubbly! Hawtin on his new hometown: “No complaints yet!” Who says minimal techno producers can’t behave like rock stars, too?!
“Fly Life” by José Germosén