article about NYC clubs

Shallow Viewpoint, for a Shallow Club Scene

The nineties were a tumultuous time for the whole club scene. With humanities culture shock of the club kid movement running ramped through the New York City nightlife, atrocities like “Tunnel” and “the Limelight” fed the fuel. For in these clubs was a festering cesspool of drug addicted, adrenaline hopped up junkies looking for an escape from reality. This was a place where the crazier the better became the everyday. This was where kids can dress like babies, or monsters, or whatever their hearts desire was. The scene was scary; as one insane act tried to out do another. With a cult like leader such as Michael Alig guiding his troops of abominations, there seemed to be no hope for today’s generation. But alas, we come to the year 2009 where things have greatly changed…perhaps for the worse.

Places like the Limelight catered to no particular person. Anybody could walk in and find what they were looking for. These clubs were about being you and finding some inner beast and unleashing it. Eccentricity was encouraged, while being normal was strange. Flip back to 2009 and this is not the case. In today’s world mediocrity and lack of creativity is praised. Everyone wants to be like the person next to them. Guys strive to be the “cool guy” until there is no cool guy, just a bunch of dudes who look like clones. Stepping into a club is like transporting into some strange realm where monotony, self-indulgence, and looking alike prevail.

It’s amazing to see clubs geared for a certain group of people. One club is for a hip-hop crowd, while another is for a techno crowd. Still other clubs are just for upper class, while a few cater to the artsy. Girls waiting online are checked out up and down to make sure their measurements and “hotness” factor are to club standards. The most attractive get in for free, the moderate looking get in for half, while the “not so much” get the boot. The looks checklist doesn’t normally apply for guys, who conveniently have to shell out paper to get their way in. Groups of club goers are turned down or leave because unfortunately their friends did not meet the standards of the particular club. Who’s to say that bouncers know what true beauty is anyway? They are just a bunch of goons standing by a door making judgments of every living thing that walks. Shamefully for some, these same meatheads are preventing them from getting lost in a trance of sweaty grinding and an alcohol littered night out with friends.

If you are lucky enough to get in past the bouncers and ticket booth, just ahead lies the coat check. After dishing out some more cash just for a place to hold your coat, on comes maybe the first section of many dance floors. Here is where you encounter the pulsing ambiance of the DJ. Right away you’ll know if you like his music, and if you don’t you’re at loss anyway. The bass is turned up so loud that dancing is almost a robotic instinct as guidos fist pump, and girls twirl and bump on men and woman alike. Sexual orientation doesn’t matter as girls to dance up on each other in a club setting.

Next is the VIP section where only the hottest girls and richest guys or lucky by association get in. Here is where you’ll find leather couches and a bar swelling with drinks. A girl walks around telling the guys that it’s her birthday and she is rewarded with free drinks all night. With drinks being about fifteen bucks a pop, she shares the drinks with her “less fortunate” friends. An outpouring of cranberry vodka and Long Island ice tea’s make up the alcohol diet of the girls at the bar, while the men go for shots of hard liquor or specially mixed cocktails.

The liquid courage gives the guys balls of steal, as they hit on anything that moves whether knockout or creature of the night. In all reality it’s mostly the beer goggles talking as they lean in for unsuccessful kisses or failed attempts at number exchanging. While some hit the jackpot, others get bruised egos by girls that actually have some self-respect.

Then there’s always the room on the side or beginning where everyone is an equal. The DJ is playing hip-hop, as the crowd jives to the latest top 40 hits in a crowded claustrophobic room. The smell of body odor, booze, and Aqua DiGio cologne infiltrates the senses all the while getting blasted by the noise, and blinded by the spotlights flashing through the dark. Oddly enough through the mountains of people and all the dancing, the temperature remains quite comfortable. Maybe the ultra enhanced or flooded senses are not noticing the changes with so much going on, especially the things happening under their noses.

A stark difference between now and the nineties is that the drugs go unnoticed if they are even present at all. Perhaps the people are buying it before they get there, or are just really discrete about it. It seems more likely that the vice of choice these days is alcohol anyway. It makes you wonder, how many of these people in here are even of legal drinking age? The owners don’t really care; it’s all about making that “dollar dollar bill”. The people are the consumers and the club is the product. Without the selling of drugs and having so many inside promoters, the owners will take whatever money they get to quell their pockets.

It’s clearly evident that the obscene nature of the nineties club scene did little to destroy the future stake of profits to be made in New York City nightlife. Even with the economy plummeting it’s astounding to see people going out and having a great time. Funny how young adults are so stingy with money, but they have no problem dropping a couple hundred on some drinks every Friday night. You have to ask yourself, where will this lead to? What’s going to be the next big movement? The club kids are out, the party gangster movement is in progress, what now? Perhaps the answer lies within one of the out of the ordinary people standing amongst the polos, gelled hair, fake tans, and revealing miniskirts. They are just standing there taking it all in looking for their niche, and formulating the next big thing. Give it another ten years and maybe this article will be irrelevant, but for now…welcome to the club era.

What Makes Someone a True New Yorker?

An essay/article I wrote about NYC after a trip for journalism class


What Makes Someone a True New Yorker?
The journey began at the Eltingville train station on Staten Island. Waiting for the train in the chilly morning air is always enough to fully awaken even the groggiest morning person. On the train were a collaboration of business suits and the bright uniformed sweaters of Monsignor Farrell students. The faces and the atmosphere told the story of monotony, as the train was quiet except with the sounds of newspaper pages turning. The operator came on after a delay and announced, “Due to fallen leaves on the tracks we are forced to ride slower today. We may still make the nine o’clock ferry”. The train became filled with the concerned and panicked moans of the patrons on board worried about being late for their obligations.

Worry turned into ease as the train arrived with five minutes to spare. The once flustered crowd settled into their standing room spots until the ferry doors opened. Then like before it all turned into chaos as everyone rushed on board like there were no seats left. People disperse and tourists stand on the outside in hopes of capturing a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. They then line up to take a photograph of the incoming skyline of a noticeably empty Twin Towers. To the average person the skyline becomes routine, but perhaps for the true New Yorker it’s an act of trying to not bring back memories of that fateful day.

Pulling into the Manhattan terminal was like déjà vu. The boat empties, and there goes the rush of people moving with no regard to life except for their own to make the bus or train. Out the doors a few people stop to grab some fresh fruit or pastry from the little market upstairs. Beyond the fruit stands and escalators is a whole new world right through those doors. All around is a city of skyscrapers that descend up forever. To think just eight years ago, in what seems like an eternity and yesterday at the same time, these very streets were filled with confusion, destruction, and death. Not more than a few blocks away are the former sites of the World Trade Center.

Known to the average person as ground zero, most considered it a piece of their home. Sadly at this juncture in time not much progress has been made to restore it back to its former glory. What was once filled with the hustle and bustle of workers, and the ca-ching of money being made through firms and businesses is now filled with the sounds of passing trucks and construction work. Cranes and caution tape cover a fence put up to obstruct any view of the crater that once was the World Trade Center. At the corner next to the tribute museum is a Burger King. In such a historic place the only scent is that of Whoppers and the dust of construction. The sacredness of the once thriving business capital of the world is gone. At least there is a consolation of hope in being between Liberty and Church Street, but what’s really in a name.

A trip on the Subway brings you to a new city. Gone are the monstrous buildings and traffic infested streets. Walking around W165th Street feels more like a quiet part of Brooklyn or even a small city in California. The people are classy looking and dressed casually sharp. Local eateries and fancy restaurants and cafés dominate the lining of the streets. In the middle of it all is Columbia University. Walking inside is kind of like walking into the European charter schools you see in the movies. The architecture resembles London with the high arching ceilings and old rustic textures of the buildings. Even the libraries look like grand churches or law buildings. Oddly enough walking the grounds is a bohemian and Cali kid population. Students are wearing flip-flops and shorts, and almost all but absent is a baseball cap. The girls are wearing hoodies, and most aren’t socializing but just trying to get to class. Passing through from one side of campus to the other transports you back to the quiet city experienced before. This stays intact until the East Side.

This is Harlem. From Columbia to Harlem is a rapid change of scenery. Harlem looks like a more built up Flushing Queens, but nevertheless is mostly run down. Graffiti infests the buildings, and the stores alternate between barely living, and brand-new. The air is filled with the chatter of what looks to be an active community with people everywhere doing something. Boom boxes are blaring old school rap, while even the old men walking by are dancing to the beat. The hip-hop scene is clearly evident in the Latino and African-American minority made majority in Harlem. While many of the brownstones were in shambles they still looked beautiful. A sense of pride for some residents was seen with fresh coats of paint and a manicured garden. These few bright spots provided a stark comparison between houses.

The smells of culture ran loose block to block. One moment you could smell chicken or fish being cooked, while the next moment you breathe in lamb or heavy incense. The streets seem to get progressively better looking as the Apollo Theater grew closer in radius. On one of the buildings surrounding the Apollo, was a huge mural expanding over two walls. The mural expressed the importance of themes like: love, self image, respect, and hope. This makes for a wonderful motif for Harlem. Better times are coming, keep persevering.

The day was coming to a close, and yet in this small sampling of culture it’s not hard to see the ecliptic group of people calling this same place home. Though the lifestyles may vary, we are all New Yorkers in the same. What does it mean to be from New York? It means living your life the best way you can in an environment that caters to nearly every person imaginable. It means looking past stereotypes and being able to walk in the shoes of someone else and understand they are just like you in some way. It’s a privilege to able to say, “I’m proud to be from New York”.

I made another blog, this is fun!!!

The blog is about what else, but the local Staten Island Music scene. Check it out.

The S.I. Music Guy

For the Record, Press the Red Button

Nothing beats the feeling of popping in a brand new cd that you’ve been waiting to hear. The expectation of hearing your favorite artist latest work is always gratifying after a long wait. Now imagine if this cd was made by you. Imagine if you have been waiting for this cd for eight years! This is what happened to me. Now bring it back…

Being in a band is something I’ve endured since I was in the eighth grade. I have always had a passion for music, but no matter who I partnered with, it never worked out. The closest thing to recording was on the cassette tapes I made of the band recording a practice. Flash forward a few years and several bands, and now I think the formula is just right. As a band we all get each other. The music flows through each of us like blood through our veins. We have garnered up a local following, and a nice selection of songs. It is time to record.

Process of Fusion, my band, embarked on this journey together, January 6^th 2010. It was a good way to start the new year. We all had our expectations, but none of us really knew what to make of this new experience. Recording at times could be fun, and at times could be tedious and annoying. For me, sometimes it was just downright boring. I am the vocalist, which means, I go last. The drums go first, then the bass, followed by guitars. Since I share lead vocal responsibilities, the other vocalist goes first.

Finally it is my turn, and I must admit how nervous I am feeling. It did take me awhile to get used to playing shows, but this isn’t a show. My stage fright days are behind me, but some odd reason this task seems grueling to me. Maybe it’s the seclusion from the rest of the band in a big empty room. Maybe it’s the big headphones and stationary microphone on its stand, instead of me holding it. Or maybe, just maybe it’s the breaking down and analyzing of my voice piece by piece that frightens me so much. Nevertheless, I had to contribute my long awaited parts to the song. Eventually, I grew accustomed to recording and began to enjoy it…then we finished. Perhaps next time I can record with the same energy from beginning of session until the end, but lets get through this first.

The next step is mixing. This is when you go through every song looking for things to tweak or add. Usually it’s just a matter of raising volumes on various parts like cymbals or notes, but sometimes we can add cool effects to the voice or music. The point is to experiment and play with your sound until you get the perfect one. Once mixing is done, now it’s time to master. Mastering is bringing the music up to the level of quality you would hear on the radio or any other cd. As our producer said, “You’ll sound big”. The moment of truth is almost here…

“Quick, pop the cd in,” exclaims my excited guitar player. We all lean forward to await the familiar sound of guitars coming through the speakers. “Der ner ner ner, dun dun dun…” There it is, the guitar, here comes the drums! I cannot properly put into words what the feeling of hearing yourself professionally recorded coming through the stereo sounds like. If you have recorded a professional album, and you are reading this, you know what I speak of. I guess the next big move would be to radio, but for now the easy part is out of the way. Time to market, press copies, and promote our album and up coming shows. Now it gets hard…

Reflections of the Mind and Not the Heart

I wrote this my senior year of highschool. I recently stumbled across it while cleaning my room. I feel like I'm back at that intellectual essence of writing style I used to do. Now I guess I'm more polished. WHat do you guys think?

Reflections of the Mind and Not the Heart

It's kind of hard to know when to give it up. We clutch on to that last sliver of hope. It's this hope that keeps us on our onward pursuit for making the right or wrong decisions. The only problem is you never really know until it actually takes place. This journey, or now perhaps struggle, can drive a man beyond the edge of reason. It could make you do stupid and crazy things. Yet you see that as a way of giving back, and don't even think rationally despite what others tell you. We risk life and limb selfishly and don't care.

What makes us do this? Is there an actual answer to this, or is it just something instilled in us before birth? Maybe it's just part of the complex infrastructure of the human mind. Maybe it's the fact that deep down inside of us we see the true nature of people living in a world full of problems. Quite possibly it becomes our way of escaping this life for a better more fulfilling one.

But, on the flipside I could be wrong. It could be with you for a long time and then suddenly leave you alone. It could leave you so alone that you may do juvenial and insane things. You suddenly become irrational and contemplate things you would have never imagined before. So what else is there really to say? What am I even talking about? I'll tell you if you haven't figured it out yet. It's those four powerful letters. Letters that could change a world and and a life. It could only be you "Love". Which example of it are you?

What I'm Here To Do

This Font seemed cool enough for me to lay out the schematics for my blog...

Basically I want to blog to get me in the habit of writing a lot, often, and anything else you can think of to express "doing more". My hopes is along the way people can read my blogs and share some insight or something cool, or maybe just give me some positive feedback to encourage me. I'm calling it "A Mixed Bag of Insight" because I hope to talk about anything.

I will list some things:

1. Random Music reviews or Plugs for bands or artist.

2. The occasional sports rant leading to irrelevance.

3. The sharing of a good book or reading.

4. A poem or song.

5. Something on my mind.

6. Or perhaps when lucky, something inspirational.

Anyway, I guess that takes care of the basics. I hope to share and blog along with everyone who read this.

- Justin

Let's Start Off With A Poem Shall We

"11:16 PM"
You are what's wrong with me, or at least the half of it
I can't shell these emotions, I'm real not plastic
I'm sick of falling for the wrong types of girls
I could sell you my soul, but you'd still want the world
Why is it never good enough that I give you all that I can
I'd give you my heart even if I wasn't strong enough to stand
If I could empty my head and spill out my thoughts
You would see the on going battles most lost but I fought
Because that's all I can do is keep trying to persevere
No more two steps forward, one step back I got to face my fear
Because loneliness hurts, it attacks the bones
Like alcohol does your wallet, you drink yourself alone
But what do I know I'm just 19 years old
I know that you love once, and then you're left in the cold
I've treaded this water so many times before
Stop playing me like kids in a revolving door
When I say it, I mean it
WHen I show you I felt it
Because emotion is something that can't be controlled
Like an ocean of waves that cover our world
I wish that one would just stop and take me away
To a sky full of angels and there I will lay
In sweet rest of the clouds away from the crowds
Of people so loud, a place to be found
I place to be me, I place I can see
A place where I'm free, a place I can breathe
So here at 11:16
Writing a poem so interesting
On paper with a pen filled with light blue ink
Where do I go now, I'll dream, I'll think
Can I ever come back?
I don't know we'll see

- Justin Sarachik