I've always found that good music cures the Martha blues.
Speaking of good music, Brion now spins on the radio! Check him out on Fridays, 4-6pm EST live (that's right now as I type this):
http://eastvillageradio.com/
Mucho fundo!
Friday, September 21, 2007
DJ Brion on NY Radio!
Martha Stewart, stop emailing me!
I've always found that good music cures the Martha blues.
Speaking of good music, Brion now spins on the radio! Check him out on Fridays, 4-6pm EST live (that's right now as I type this):
http://eastvillageradio.com/
Mucho fundo!
I've always found that good music cures the Martha blues.
Speaking of good music, Brion now spins on the radio! Check him out on Fridays, 4-6pm EST live (that's right now as I type this):
http://eastvillageradio.com/
Mucho fundo!
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sundays in New York with Brion.
Sunday has always been a no work day for me. I really have always just allowed it to happen. No plans except for a starter . . . like a good brunch with friends. Brunch consisting of an array of fluids creating a beverage buffet. This is essential while waiting for a nourishing pancake sandwich after a night out DJing then drinking.
People don't understand the important balancing that a good spread of beverages can supply. I would gladly down at least half of the above selections. I have always needed fluids to survive even the most easily laid plans. So a typical brunch starts with a huge glass of water, fresh juice when available (preferably chunky orange), coffee (iced), and a mimosa.
The plans could then be laid to topsy turvy through town, take an afternoon nap and catch up later or play through. One thing has remained secure aside from small lapses, a good Sunday night party.
First, of course, and for four years of my life was Body & Soul. A gorgeous foray into the world of house music. Three DJs (Francois K, Danny Krivit, Joe Claussell) and a 1000 people. Every color, every creed, every age, every sex. A stunning array of humanity dancing. DANCING! FULL ON! And sweat. For the first two years I wore almost the same t-shirt every week and became a recognizable figure within the community of regulars. It said God is a DJ in big white letters, Zoe and I got them in the most bizarre way at a Faithless concert. People would come up and offer me money for it. Even large and laded with sweat! I learned not to be embarrassed by anything and just allow myself the freedom to be...me.
The greatest thing was meeting so many people that have become such stalwarts of my time in NY. Best friends for years, met on a dance floor or after at some bar calming down.
One term came of those days and still sticks although not used as often due to lacking circumstances, was "puddling." It was used mostly for me being the most intense sweat'er outside my friends Todd and John. Puddling basically means to stand in one place and be in the middle of small body of water that has dripped from your sodden t-shirt to the floor. You can never fault something that creates new vocabulary.
After B&S ended there was a dearth for a moment while we were all reeling from the loss. Everyone put on weight from not having that marathon session at least once a week.
Then I found a party in full swing that I had heard about, Sundays at APT. Hosted by the remarkable Patrick Duffy and the mild-mannered bon vivant Juan Skinner. It became a stop on my social register. This was a gathering of sin and decadence and friends, never about the music. That sounds harsh and well I guess it is...
APT is one of those places that I have an extreme love/hate relationship with. It is a two level space with a gorgeous upstairs fashioned like a lovely apartment loft and a downstairs bar. Upstairs is the meet and greet and downstairs is the dance. APT has always had a tradition of serving up the best music that a space could offer and for years that has held true with very little wavering.
My problem is the downstairs space is like a death dream come true. The best music but you have to suffer the space. It makes me think of Phantasm, a creepy little horror film from the 70's. Within a half hour of being in the space I get creeped. Severely. At the beginning I always thought I was the only one. Then one night Matthew Herbert was playing and my friend Jason (DJ MSG) came up and said:
"You must be in heaven."
"Yea, I would be if it weren't for this space".
"I know! My girlfriend and I have to stand by the door, we can't take it".
It sucks because downstairs always has the best music.
SO for the last years I have been going to APT and loving my friends but suffering through what can only be termed coke-house. I have got to once again though give it up to the party for giving me some new vocab. The party was great again for its brilliance in giving great door. During Xander's tenure at the door the space was a brilliant mix of everything. I once observed him telling three secretaries at the door:
"Listen girls! This is a New York party and you have got to carry! If you think you can carry then I'm going to let you in...but if you don't THINK you can carry then you should probably go".
They left. Love.
Patrick and Juan decided to end the hosting duties after a successful five year run. I needed another Sunday getaway.
I have found it. It might be my favorite.
Tubway Sundays with DJs Nita and Gant!
WHAT A RELIEF! It is at Mr. Black the last good gay club in New York. Refreshing and honest it's approach it is FUN with a wonderful old school attitude.
I wandered in and watched that first time listening as the party moved into the night. I love watching a party develop until I am swept up finding myself disappearing as it becomes more colourful and vibrant. Don't get me wrong I participate! I dance like a fool! I sweat! I holler "WORK" at the top of my lungs.
Nita and Gant are spinning together in what must be the truest symbiosis of DJ talent I have seen in a long time. Look, being a DJ myself, I am the first to admit that listening to others is sometimes tough. I mean we all have egos and insecurities to match. But this is something special and my hat is OFF. Expertly splicing loops and samples, overlaying a cappella vocals and tying it together in a fresh yet somehow rough retro way. Skank, but with a purpose. Masterful but with edge and experimentation that never verges on planned. Drifting off into tangents then swirling you right back to a chopped beat and vocal a plenty.
This is the first time in a long time that I felt cute at a party. And for me that means music, atmosphere and dancing. It takes a lot for me to leave behind all the walls I've built and this party does that for me.
There is a tradition here as well that predates much of the current gay scene. An appreciation of being on the floor and working it not just for yourself but for others benefit. Cruising, instead of serious glances, becomes fantastical moves to the beat. Vogueing is here and alive and swirls into the eye with avid back bends and ankle falls that serve gasps and applause.
This is the first time I have felt sexy at a club...I think ever. The kids are up in my business too. I guess I am finally a daddy. :/ :\ :)
So here it is and this is where you will find me. I can think of no place I'd rather be. In fact, I already start thinking of it midweek. We will sit and have a talk with Nita and Gant as soon as they let me. I feel honored to have such a place to set down each week.
People don't understand the important balancing that a good spread of beverages can supply. I would gladly down at least half of the above selections. I have always needed fluids to survive even the most easily laid plans. So a typical brunch starts with a huge glass of water, fresh juice when available (preferably chunky orange), coffee (iced), and a mimosa.
The plans could then be laid to topsy turvy through town, take an afternoon nap and catch up later or play through. One thing has remained secure aside from small lapses, a good Sunday night party.
First, of course, and for four years of my life was Body & Soul. A gorgeous foray into the world of house music. Three DJs (Francois K, Danny Krivit, Joe Claussell) and a 1000 people. Every color, every creed, every age, every sex. A stunning array of humanity dancing. DANCING! FULL ON! And sweat. For the first two years I wore almost the same t-shirt every week and became a recognizable figure within the community of regulars. It said God is a DJ in big white letters, Zoe and I got them in the most bizarre way at a Faithless concert. People would come up and offer me money for it. Even large and laded with sweat! I learned not to be embarrassed by anything and just allow myself the freedom to be...me.
The greatest thing was meeting so many people that have become such stalwarts of my time in NY. Best friends for years, met on a dance floor or after at some bar calming down.
One term came of those days and still sticks although not used as often due to lacking circumstances, was "puddling." It was used mostly for me being the most intense sweat'er outside my friends Todd and John. Puddling basically means to stand in one place and be in the middle of small body of water that has dripped from your sodden t-shirt to the floor. You can never fault something that creates new vocabulary.
After B&S ended there was a dearth for a moment while we were all reeling from the loss. Everyone put on weight from not having that marathon session at least once a week.
Then I found a party in full swing that I had heard about, Sundays at APT. Hosted by the remarkable Patrick Duffy and the mild-mannered bon vivant Juan Skinner. It became a stop on my social register. This was a gathering of sin and decadence and friends, never about the music. That sounds harsh and well I guess it is...
APT is one of those places that I have an extreme love/hate relationship with. It is a two level space with a gorgeous upstairs fashioned like a lovely apartment loft and a downstairs bar. Upstairs is the meet and greet and downstairs is the dance. APT has always had a tradition of serving up the best music that a space could offer and for years that has held true with very little wavering.
My problem is the downstairs space is like a death dream come true. The best music but you have to suffer the space. It makes me think of Phantasm, a creepy little horror film from the 70's. Within a half hour of being in the space I get creeped. Severely. At the beginning I always thought I was the only one. Then one night Matthew Herbert was playing and my friend Jason (DJ MSG) came up and said:
"You must be in heaven."
"Yea, I would be if it weren't for this space".
"I know! My girlfriend and I have to stand by the door, we can't take it".
It sucks because downstairs always has the best music.
SO for the last years I have been going to APT and loving my friends but suffering through what can only be termed coke-house. I have got to once again though give it up to the party for giving me some new vocab. The party was great again for its brilliance in giving great door. During Xander's tenure at the door the space was a brilliant mix of everything. I once observed him telling three secretaries at the door:
"Listen girls! This is a New York party and you have got to carry! If you think you can carry then I'm going to let you in...but if you don't THINK you can carry then you should probably go".
They left. Love.
Patrick and Juan decided to end the hosting duties after a successful five year run. I needed another Sunday getaway.
I have found it. It might be my favorite.
Tubway Sundays with DJs Nita and Gant!
WHAT A RELIEF! It is at Mr. Black the last good gay club in New York. Refreshing and honest it's approach it is FUN with a wonderful old school attitude.
I wandered in and watched that first time listening as the party moved into the night. I love watching a party develop until I am swept up finding myself disappearing as it becomes more colourful and vibrant. Don't get me wrong I participate! I dance like a fool! I sweat! I holler "WORK" at the top of my lungs.
Nita and Gant are spinning together in what must be the truest symbiosis of DJ talent I have seen in a long time. Look, being a DJ myself, I am the first to admit that listening to others is sometimes tough. I mean we all have egos and insecurities to match. But this is something special and my hat is OFF. Expertly splicing loops and samples, overlaying a cappella vocals and tying it together in a fresh yet somehow rough retro way. Skank, but with a purpose. Masterful but with edge and experimentation that never verges on planned. Drifting off into tangents then swirling you right back to a chopped beat and vocal a plenty.
This is the first time in a long time that I felt cute at a party. And for me that means music, atmosphere and dancing. It takes a lot for me to leave behind all the walls I've built and this party does that for me.
There is a tradition here as well that predates much of the current gay scene. An appreciation of being on the floor and working it not just for yourself but for others benefit. Cruising, instead of serious glances, becomes fantastical moves to the beat. Vogueing is here and alive and swirls into the eye with avid back bends and ankle falls that serve gasps and applause.
This is the first time I have felt sexy at a club...I think ever. The kids are up in my business too. I guess I am finally a daddy. :/ :\ :)
So here it is and this is where you will find me. I can think of no place I'd rather be. In fact, I already start thinking of it midweek. We will sit and have a talk with Nita and Gant as soon as they let me. I feel honored to have such a place to set down each week.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Kirby Valderrama
Wilmer Valderrama. Who is he and why is his last name so fun to say?
It's hot outside and I couldn't be more thrilled to stay indoors and gain weight.
So why not pass the time with a little more online nostalgia?
Instead of firing up that worthless $500 Playstation 3, why not try something for free? Check out http://nintendo8.com/ where there are TONS of original Nintendo consule games available to play with a simple Java plug in. Favorites include all Super Mario Bros. games (1, 2, and 3), Castlevania (1 and 2 only), and countless others.
I prayed and prayed that the site had my favorite Nintendo game of all time...and it did! Kirby's Adventure is the cutest platform game, pre-Wii (a new space-time-continuum). In the game, you play a little pink puff ball named Kirby who violently eats other living creatures, including big bosses, and then utilizes their special powers on other living creatures in Dreamland.
Eat your heart out, Rogue.
You can blow flames, blow ice, blow me, fight with swords, hit with hammers, explode out of control (after blowing me), sing badly (love it), and even turn into an alien flying saucer with lasers (that one is totally true)!
The game is so ahead of its time and sadly does not appear in later incarnations on other Nintendo systems. Though, I hear the Wii will have a Kirby game soon...
But until then, you can pass the time playing some of your old faves on this groovy, retro site. But don't expect to have the ability to save your games or do any of those other convenient enhancements found on later gaming systems (such as hand jobs from Wilmer Valderrama...which I hear come with a game pack on the new PS3. Can't wait!).
Seriously. Valderrama. Weirdoramma. DramaRamma. M. Night Shamalama.
Ramalama.
Pony.
It's hot outside and I couldn't be more thrilled to stay indoors and gain weight.
So why not pass the time with a little more online nostalgia?
Instead of firing up that worthless $500 Playstation 3, why not try something for free? Check out http://nintendo8.com/ where there are TONS of original Nintendo consule games available to play with a simple Java plug in. Favorites include all Super Mario Bros. games (1, 2, and 3), Castlevania (1 and 2 only), and countless others.
I prayed and prayed that the site had my favorite Nintendo game of all time...and it did! Kirby's Adventure is the cutest platform game, pre-Wii (a new space-time-continuum). In the game, you play a little pink puff ball named Kirby who violently eats other living creatures, including big bosses, and then utilizes their special powers on other living creatures in Dreamland.
Eat your heart out, Rogue.
You can blow flames, blow ice, blow me, fight with swords, hit with hammers, explode out of control (after blowing me), sing badly (love it), and even turn into an alien flying saucer with lasers (that one is totally true)!
The game is so ahead of its time and sadly does not appear in later incarnations on other Nintendo systems. Though, I hear the Wii will have a Kirby game soon...
But until then, you can pass the time playing some of your old faves on this groovy, retro site. But don't expect to have the ability to save your games or do any of those other convenient enhancements found on later gaming systems (such as hand jobs from Wilmer Valderrama...which I hear come with a game pack on the new PS3. Can't wait!).
Seriously. Valderrama. Weirdoramma. DramaRamma. M. Night Shamalama.
Ramalama.
Pony.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Spork & MSG
Now there are two things that you really don't need. . .
A long time ago there came a brill little artist from the north and her name was a confusing amalgam of consonants and one vowel. We sat in coffee shops endlessly permuting the pronunciation until fights broke out. Caffeine + literature = endless amusement.
She was the great hope. Bombast! Strange Noises! Avant vocals!
Alas, as time went by, she became as greedy and plastic as the artists she seemed to disdain . . . in fact more so. The amount of product she piled up in her own name became the stuff of landfill. DVDs of her babyhood. DVDs of her bathroom hi jinks. DVDs in fact of every little piece of her life. 3 x CD singles came in clear plastic boxes with a piece of paper stuck in almost as an after thought.
"This'll keep 'em happy!" she seemed to say in her coy, foreign accent. Despite the fact that they contained no music whatsoever. Tapes. Boxes. Plastic. Best ofs' followed by the promotional best ofs' followed by the one you really wanted after you had already bought the ones that you didn't.
She married a big name conceptual artist and from what could have been the match made in art rock heaven came the firm and final end.
The music steadily and surely crawled away from the avant guard and moved into a nice new home in her ass. She farted a couple times, ran it through her lap top, and called it her fresh new sound. Amazing! Realistic! Natural! No Beats!
Well, of course not, gas is after all . . . gas.
The critics ate it up with spoons and forks.
Hence our name for her:
SPORK!!! Neither a spoon or a fork . . . so you really don't need it.
Now this spring she came through town and played the big temples of sound. You know the ones that really matter. This is New York and as changed as it may be, there are still some honors left. Radio City Music Hall. The United Palace Theater. THE APOLLO!!!
She showed up, lit a sparkler and screamed her comfort word . . . a screeching version of the word "CHAIR." (Maybe she is channeling Cher and it is just her accent that continues to confound.) The fact that she does this while seemingly having a double jointed jaw is supposed to impress us. (It must impress the boyfriend.)
The only moment of the set that mattered was a song from ten years ago. Those years when she was good.
Now here's the rub. The set was an hour long.
An hour. Ave Maria!
You have documented every second of your life and supposedly it has the import of the Gospel According to Loot. And all you can muster is an hour? It came to us from our sources that the following shows were even shorter. Now generally I feel concerts should be at least as long as your album or why should I come out. Being industry I didn't pay (thank the blessed) but friends including my co-author shelled out $$$. Major $$$.
This weekend I saw posters for Spork at Madison Square Garden. And since her album outfit appears to be a candy apple I think it would be wiser to do this instead....
It's foreign and fun.
Sparklers not included.
A long time ago there came a brill little artist from the north and her name was a confusing amalgam of consonants and one vowel. We sat in coffee shops endlessly permuting the pronunciation until fights broke out. Caffeine + literature = endless amusement.
She was the great hope. Bombast! Strange Noises! Avant vocals!
Alas, as time went by, she became as greedy and plastic as the artists she seemed to disdain . . . in fact more so. The amount of product she piled up in her own name became the stuff of landfill. DVDs of her babyhood. DVDs of her bathroom hi jinks. DVDs in fact of every little piece of her life. 3 x CD singles came in clear plastic boxes with a piece of paper stuck in almost as an after thought.
"This'll keep 'em happy!" she seemed to say in her coy, foreign accent. Despite the fact that they contained no music whatsoever. Tapes. Boxes. Plastic. Best ofs' followed by the promotional best ofs' followed by the one you really wanted after you had already bought the ones that you didn't.
She married a big name conceptual artist and from what could have been the match made in art rock heaven came the firm and final end.
The music steadily and surely crawled away from the avant guard and moved into a nice new home in her ass. She farted a couple times, ran it through her lap top, and called it her fresh new sound. Amazing! Realistic! Natural! No Beats!
Well, of course not, gas is after all . . . gas.
The critics ate it up with spoons and forks.
Hence our name for her:
SPORK!!! Neither a spoon or a fork . . . so you really don't need it.
Now this spring she came through town and played the big temples of sound. You know the ones that really matter. This is New York and as changed as it may be, there are still some honors left. Radio City Music Hall. The United Palace Theater. THE APOLLO!!!
She showed up, lit a sparkler and screamed her comfort word . . . a screeching version of the word "CHAIR." (Maybe she is channeling Cher and it is just her accent that continues to confound.) The fact that she does this while seemingly having a double jointed jaw is supposed to impress us. (It must impress the boyfriend.)
The only moment of the set that mattered was a song from ten years ago. Those years when she was good.
Now here's the rub. The set was an hour long.
An hour. Ave Maria!
You have documented every second of your life and supposedly it has the import of the Gospel According to Loot. And all you can muster is an hour? It came to us from our sources that the following shows were even shorter. Now generally I feel concerts should be at least as long as your album or why should I come out. Being industry I didn't pay (thank the blessed) but friends including my co-author shelled out $$$. Major $$$.
This weekend I saw posters for Spork at Madison Square Garden. And since her album outfit appears to be a candy apple I think it would be wiser to do this instead....
It's foreign and fun.
Sparklers not included.
Friday, July 27, 2007
Slushies and Porn is born.
Twas a night like this, about five years ago. Hot and steamy in New York's West Village, working at the record store that shall not be named, when the overpowering (note immediate reference cross-reference) need for a slushie took hold. I searched high and low, to no avail.
It kind of stabbed me on a certain scale that I couldn't find a simple slushie in the city that swelters in those summer months. Italian Ices. Crappichinos. Of course, frozen margs. No slushies. Anywhere.
I just thought the best thing would be to open a slushie store. But it had to be more than just slushies. MORE! It's no secret that I have a fascination with good porn. Always have since I found those mags under my fathers bed. I'm sure they found mine later. A family that snoops together...
Slushies and Porn. Five daily slushie flavours. Five of the hottest gay and five straight porns. And t-shirts. Because let's face it, what person in the world wouldn't want a Slushies and Porn t-shirt. New York. Knoxville. Taipei.
This is our culture dump. For the chilliest ... for the williest. You know and all that goes inbetween. For everything that needs a . . . (dot dot dot)
Now before you run someone over on your broomstick...
GET A DRIVER.
It kind of stabbed me on a certain scale that I couldn't find a simple slushie in the city that swelters in those summer months. Italian Ices. Crappichinos. Of course, frozen margs. No slushies. Anywhere.
I just thought the best thing would be to open a slushie store. But it had to be more than just slushies. MORE! It's no secret that I have a fascination with good porn. Always have since I found those mags under my fathers bed. I'm sure they found mine later. A family that snoops together...
Slushies and Porn. Five daily slushie flavours. Five of the hottest gay and five straight porns. And t-shirts. Because let's face it, what person in the world wouldn't want a Slushies and Porn t-shirt. New York. Knoxville. Taipei.
This is our culture dump. For the chilliest ... for the williest. You know and all that goes inbetween. For everything that needs a . . . (dot dot dot)
Now before you run someone over on your broomstick...
GET A DRIVER.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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