If you were not at this party, what is wrong with you?
Vice must have sold their souls to the big red amigo for more money than Don Johnson reportedly had stashed in his whip (a few billion).
And trust us, the last thing we should do is put your girl’s lips all over a New York publication (glossy at that), but Vice flew down their wily krew (who more than live up to their irreverent hipster bible’s namesake) – every coke-fueled yankee/canuck connect you’d wish to meet – to serve Miamians the tastiest platter of gluttonous electro your eyes will ever hear in Vice City.
Detroit’s Adult. (middle right) played upstairs in sweltering – almost unbearable – heat as drunken, scantily clad vixens danced freely on the edge of the stage. They couldn’t cease even when vocalist Nicola Kuperus told them to “get the fuck off.” Their album, Anxiety Always, drops next month – we’ll cop it as a souvenir.
Down stairs the temp was deadly, as Tommie Sunshine fed lyrics into a mike chancing death by way of electrocution. This bearded champ was decked out in an American flag top with cut-off sleeves and ’80s shades dancing his ass off, as his posse poured him a chalice of champagne. DJ Hell (who bored us at CMJ last October) put the whole room in a frenzy, he let records spin and made heads do the same thing. A poster above him read “Our Scene.” Soho Lounge had suddenly become Plaid. Christ.
Outdoors, James Murphy of DFA and LCD Soundsysyem was showing some edge, tossing on classic rock, we don’t even remember, to a crowd of superstars like Casey Spooner of Fischerspooner and Mandy Coon of W.I.T. (top pic). Kurt Cobain was screaming, “…but that’s ok ’cause I found God,” and suddenly it all made sense.
By the time Miss Kittin (see Omar’s feature) sexed up the casbah with Anti-Pop Consortium’s “Ghost Lawns,” Vice (not party co-sponsor Spin) had lit up our scene like Iraq on a bad day.
For more info visit www.viceland.com (remember not to subscribe).