I’m not sure what exactly was in air last night at Grand Central besides Zammuto, Explosions in the Sky, and a few discrete kinds of sweet secondhand smoke, but for one reason or another the night took on something of a religious quality. There were lots of closed eyes and raised hands in the crowd, and if you looked around carefully enough, something else too.
In attendance at Bardot last night were all the staples of the bottle service scene — you know, short Persian guys in untucked button-downs, likely some level of rich; Anglo babes of every description, yet all looking vaguely like California swingers; tall former athletes rocking backwards caps, drinking 1664 — but with half of Pitchfork darlings The Juan Maclean in the house, there was also some heavy cross-pollination going on. Pale foxes with pixie cuts squeezing nervously through the throngs, bros with broad-striped polo shirts and five o’clock shadows breaking in their first pair of skinny jeans. To this outsider, it seemed like the Miami Dream realized. And the soundtrack was spot the fuck on.
By his own admission, the Chef is “getting up there” in years but he definitely hasn’t forgotten how to push a crowd’s buttons in the best Wu-Tang-weird fashion.
As I approached Revolution, in downtown Ft. Lauderdale, Freddie Gibbs was leading an audience of 200 or so in a rousing call-and-response rendition of “Fuck the Police” and two of Broward’s Finest were trying out a golf club in the parking lot. Not all of last night’s Raekwon + Gibbs was nearly so synchronous, but it was as satisfying to behold.
Some difficult questions vexed the small crowd at Grand Central last night. Why did marginal stoner metal band Corrosion of Conformity decide to fly to Florida for one show on a Monday night? Where’s Pepper Keenan? Why is Consular so angry? More to the point, Why does this Newcastle cost $7?
Thankfully, a strange and vigorous lineup was on hand to put it all in perspective.