On paper, this night made so much sense. It checked all the boxes in my life and was destined to be a non-stop party with all my cultural kinfolk. Sadly, it wasn’t meant to be. The trap kids didn’t seem as nostalgically enamored with Manny Fresh. The Clams Casino air craps dancing crowd didn’t care for Duck Sauce disco. Molly popping glowstick charmers (insert Diplomats homo-phobic interjection) didn’t care for the fact A-Train (#notypo) only used two turntables, mostly no headphones, and did some Roc Raida-esque body tricks on a juggle. WTF? How? Why?
Has over genrizing music and culture muddled the fuck out of taste? You paid $25 on a Saturday to come to Terminal 5, which isn’t close to anything else dope, to lose your shit. Stop doing your best American Apparel window mannequin impersonation when Dipset “Salute” closes the night because you don’t feel the wom-woms down your spine. Stop throwing flags during a DJ Snake track because he ain’t hiiiip hoooopppp. Let loose.
Other than me getting mad frustrated at people not allowing themselves to enjoy the night, this entire event fucking rooled and was mind blowing.
Here’s me trying to breakdown an A-Trak set: