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Cohen, Rachel Fadem, Suhail Gharaibeh
CONTENTS 1 LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
8 NYU LECTURER MISHA
2 THE PARTIES, DRUGS AND PORN OF 33 UNION SQUARE WEST
DANILIN ON ’90S AND 2000S CONCERT CULTURE, HIS OWN BANDS AND THE IMPORTANCE OF SHOPPING FOR MUSIC
4 GALLATIN PROF JULIAN 10 MODEL AND NYU STUDENT CORNELL ON ’70S AND ’80S PUNK, FEUDING WITH ROCKERS, DEPRESSIVE AESTHETICS
JAYLEN TAYLOR ON THE EAST VILLAGE IN THE 2010S AND 2020S, CREATING PERSONAL AESTHETICS
6 FROM THE FRINGES TO THE 12 THE FACTORY REVIVED
SPOLIGHT: THE ART OF NYC DRAG
14 FRINGE PHOTOSHOOT
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
SABRINA CHOUDHARY CULTURE EDITOR
We’ve been excited about Fringe since the beginning of the semester. Neither of us had worked on a Fringe issue before, and emerging from quarantine, we were itching to work on a big, bold creative project. We were ambitious, and we wanted to choose a theme that encompassed what we care about as college students and would allow us to be truly imaginative. Everyone talks about returning to normal after COVID-19. For us college students, normalcy means connecting with people, forming relationships, going to parties and clubs, experimenting and growing up. We wanted our theme to be about enjoying life and the city — however that might look. We drew inspiration from Andy Warhol’s Factory and the New York City counterculture of the 1970s. We think the art and culture from that era hits on a lot of the same themes. It explores identity, performance, sexuality, drugs, fashion, music and pushing the boundaries of what’s normal. A million and one thanks to Multimedia Editor Manasa Gudavalli and Social Media
JOEY HUNG BEAUTY & STYLE EDITOR
Editor Ryan Walker for bringing our vision to life and for dragging our asses to the beach for a 4 a.m. photo shoot. Your collaborative leadership and artistic direction made this all possible. Thank you to the Under the Arch team for collaborating with us! It was so rewarding to watch the creative process of such a talented crew. Special shoutout to Brooke Nguyen for hyping us up as we shivered on the beach trying to pose for photos <3. Thank you to the other culture editors, Alex Tran and Gabby Lozano, and all of our staff and contributing writers for your passion, amicability and dedication this semester. Together, we revived the culture desk and made it what it is today, and we’re so proud of the work we’ve accomplished. A gigantic shoutout to our creative directors, Charitssa Stone and Susan Behrends Valenzuela, for your expertise in creating a sexy layout. You created order out of absolute chaos and never complained when we threw new ideas at you at the last minute. Thank you for your flexibility! Huge shoutouts to all of our models —
Dylan Campana, Yudi Feng, Senia Langston, Mitesh Shrestha and Jaylen Taylor — for dragging suitcases full of clothes up a sixfloor walk-up, running through the city for a photoshoot on a Friday night, and waking up at 3:30 a.m. to do it all again — and in 30-degree weather, no less. Without you all, this wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you for lending your faces and swag. Thank you to management for giving us the platform to do this. A special thanks to Managing Editor Alex Chan for keeping us on track and Editor-in-Chief Ashley Wu for inspiring and encouraging us to execute the Factory theme. From Joey: Thank you to my culture editor for spearheading the culture desk for this Fringe issue. You were so easy and fun to work with, and you made this experience so enjoyable. I’m so happy we grew closer because of it. From Sabrina: Thank you to my beauty & style editor for being consistently amazing to work with. Somehow, we always get our articles done, and you always make me laugh in the process. I’m so glad I got to know you this semester.
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THE PARTIES, DRUGS AND PORN OF 33 UNION SQUARE WEST By Sabrina Choudhary Culture Editor
I know Andy Warhol from his pop art of Marilyn Monroe and Campbell’s Soup, which I saw at The Whitney Museum of American Art as a first-year. According to my unbearable class readings (@Fredric Jameson), Warhol’s art is postmodern, meaning he emphasizes surface over depth. His paintings are exactly what they appear to be: celebrities and soup. Influential, sure, but benign. Additionally, Warhol has created spicier works that are also just what they appear to be. His 1964 short film “Blow Job” is pretty much what it sounds like. His 1969 film “Blue Movie” was also called “Fuck” because it featured the actors having sex. The film’s release launched the Golden Age of Porn, the period between 1969 and the early ‘80s when porn became mainstream in America. By mainstream, I don’t mean that it was common to watch in the privacy of your bedroom like it is in the modern day. Instead, spectators watched pornographic movies in theaters, and critics treated it as art. Warhol produced both tame and transgressive films at his studio, the Factory. The name referred to how intensely he and his friends cranked out experimental artwork, but the Factory was more than a congregation of workaholics. It was also a hangout for socialites, celebrities, musicians, models, drag queens and porn stars. The Factory was known for wild parties with rampant drug use, particularly at its original Midtown location. Although the Factory moved from 33 Union Square West to the north side of the park in 1974, the Decker Building was designated a New York City landmark in 1988. (Staff Photo by Manasa Gudavalli) In 1968, the Factory relocated to 33 Union Square West, a stone’s throw from NYU residence hall Carlyle Court. Incidentally, I lived there as a sophomore with no clue how close I was to history. The address is better known as the Decker Building, a New York City landmark since 1988 that is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Surprisingly, its status has nothing to do with Warhol; the building features elaborate Moorish-influenced architecture. But New Yorkers should remember the Decker Building for more than its facade, because what happened inside is much more exciting. Warhol’s ragers continued at the new Union Square Factory, but they came to a dramatic end when one of his former models, the radical feminist Valerie Solanas, shot him in 1968. I’m not one to toss around the term radical feminist lightly, but she literally wrote a manifesto about killing all men. Warhol survived but was permanently injured, and the incident made him much more cautious. Though he produced his explicit “Blue Movie” the year after, the party was over. By 1974, when the Factory relocated again to the north side of Union Square, the studio had transformed. Instead of welcoming an eclectic group of artists and free spirits, Warhol now surrounded himself with upper class, college-educated academics. The entire Factory era ended in 1984 when Warhol purchased the Consolidated Edison building on East 33rd Street. Though NYU Abu Dhabi’s 2016 party in honor of the Factory seemed to feature more popcorn than drugs, it was right to honor Warhol’s legacy. Warhol created some of his most provocative art just a block from my old dorm. Heck, he almost died there. As NYU students, the history of 1970s New York counterculture, art and invention is right outside our doorstep.
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Contact Sabrina Choudhary at schoudhary@nyunews.com.
The Decker Building at 33 Union Square West served as the Factory’s location from 1968 to 1973. Photo by Manasa Gudavalli
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GALLATIN PROF JULIAN CORNELL ON ’70S AND ’80S PUNK, FEUDING WITH ROCKERS, DEPRESSIVE AESTHETICS As told to Joey Hung Beauty & Style Editor
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This interview has been edited for length and clarity. I was born in 1966, so the first time I ever went to a club I was 13 — that would have been ’79. I was familiar with this club because I had a friend in high school whose family owned it — A Space Odyssey, which is actually where “Saturday Night Fever” took place. I was in a band with the guy and his cousins. I wasn’t in the party scene, but I was very into punk rock. I went to a lot of shows. I’ve been 6-foot-1 since I was 13, so I never got carded. I decided to get a fake ID when I was 14, but no one questioned it because I was 6-foot-1 with an ID that made me look angry. So that’s one of the reasons I got into the punk rock scene — I just got in everywhere! I didn’t have money for alcohol and I didn’t take drugs. I was simply into the punk rock scene. I grew up mostly in Brooklyn. People from Brooklyn would go into Manhattan, but it was mostly working class and lower middle class people, and that’s really who caused it in the punk scene. One of the things that were very much a back-then thing was that there were a lot of people from the outer boroughs — not the wealthy parts — who would have a gathering place in the city for people who felt that they were outsiders — oftentimes, outsiders because of class. Punk had such a loose definition, and there’s more to it than people think. People think of music when they think of punk, but it really has more of an attitude — especially during the time when the country was in the business of transforming to be a little bit more conservative. Punk was for the liberal working class, the lower class, the artsy kids. That’s where people tended to be more open-minded as opposed to the rock scene. There was this joke about them: They don’t go above 72nd Street because that was too far uptown, and really they just stayed below 14th Street for the most part. The band I liked the most back then was the Ramones, and it’s because we identified with them because they were working-class guys from Queens. They were all from Forest Hills — well, except Tommy Ramone, who was originally from Brooklyn but then moved to Queens. Their songs were aggressive and loud. They weren’t very political — at least not then. Their songs were about feeling like an outsider, alienated, feeling like you didn’t belong. They would play in Brooklyn, and that was a big difference between them and other bands. You’d have other groups in different parts of the country and they’d play at CBGB or Peppermint Lounge or The Reds. But the Ramones would play in Brooklyn a lot. There’s a place in Brooklyn called the Moors. The Ramones played there a lot, so I saw them a lot. The only other band that played in Brooklyn was Blondie — actually, Chris Stein grew up two blocks from where I grew up in Brooklyn. He grew up on Ocean Avenue and East 20th Street, and I grew up on Ocean Avenue and East 21st. He was the legend of our part of Brooklyn, you know? He got out of this boring, crappy neighborhood and became a punk rock star! We had to seek out music back then. We’d read British magazines like New Musical Express and The Enemy UK. There was also a lot of word of mouth: A lot of times, somebody would discover something, then make someone a cassette tape and pass it on to them. Because you weren’t going to hear the Ramones on the radio, you weren’t going to hear anything that we liked on the radio. We would also go to record stores. Record Runner was my favorite; so was Bleecker Bob’s. There was a store called Crazy Eddie. And I remember — this was a pivotal experience — my sister asked me to pick up a Led Zeppelin, so I picked up this Led Zeppelin album. And I remember, I picked up Elvis Costello, his first
album, based on the picture because I liked the cover. And I thought he looked really cool because he also looked nerdy. And I remember taking [it to] the front and the guy said, “Oh, you’re gonna love this. This guy is really cool. It’s punk-y, but not really. And it sounds really catchy, but the words are really great, and it’s really different. I’ve got some other things you’re gonna like.” In Brooklyn, the music venues were all in run-down industrial areas because they were the only places in Brooklyn that weren’t zoned for it, with the exception of one place called Zappa’s. I saw a lot of people there, including this really popular underground band called The Fleshtones. I’ve seen them so many times because they would play in Brooklyn! Oh, they’re so loud though, I always say they’re the reason why I can’t hear. We didn’t go to Madison Square Garden because that’s where all the rock bands went, and we thought it was too big for us. We very much thought we were standing on our principles by not going — we only went to small clubs. Back then, there was very much a cliquiness. Like, I still hate Journey with a burning passion. They’re an example of everything that is wrong with the world. Those are the kinds of people where we were like, “Those people are losers.” There were also heavy metal people, but they were just into smoking pot and hanging out and listening to music, so we didn’t really have an issue with them. We liked disco. Because of disco, it was more gender-equitable. It brought discourse and change to sexual and gender identities — but this was before the Disco Sucks movement. We thought it became dumb after white people gentrified it. We called them squares. In Manhattan, they also had Peppermint Lounge and Danceteria for New Wave and punk bands. They had the Knitting Factory for more experimental stuff. It’s in Brooklyn now, but it used to be in SoHo. And there’s another one called Limelight. Limelight was this old church that was actually really beautiful and it was converted into a club. It got a bad reputation in the ’80s, though, because it was a place a lot of people would go to buy drugs. I was in a few bands. We played a few places, like CBGB. They had a very open policy, which was just like, I gave them my tape and if it was decent, they were like, “Yeah, come play.” Then there’d be certain nights where they’d give us maybe 20 minutes on a Sunday, Monday or Tuesday night. I think we played five songs. We tried to have this combination of punkness and Talking Heads edginess and moodiness. My friend Tim’s family owned a club, so we played there a bunch of times. It was also known as the place Darren Aronofsky played — he’s just a few years behind me. We all lied about our ages and stuff like that. I was 17, but I said I was 18. We would make recordings and tapes and we would bring it around to clubs and perform on a Saturday night, where we were paid, like, nothing. The longest band I was in was called Impossible, but we changed our name to The Impossible because it was a new wave thing. That was the one I was in longest because, you know, I’d be in so many bands. We would be together for like three months — you’d make music together, play a set together — then you’d be like, “Well, we suck,” then break up. We wanted to kind of dress like the people in the scene that we would see on the weekends. And so very often I would go to the Lower East Side and would go to thrift stores to go shopping. Our fashion was trench coats and spiky hair. There was this store on Ninth Street. We would all go there to buy our shoes because it was one of the first places to have Doc Martens from England. We also had black jeans, ripped shirts — that sort of thing. I had short spiky hair, but I never did any piercings or tattoos, but my friends did. I had one earring and they had several nose piercings. The one thing I ever did was nail polish, but a lot of my friends would do nail polish, eye shadow, a whole look. My sister tried to look
’70s–’80s like Robert Smith from The Cure. She’d probably admit to that, too. We tried to sound like The Replacements — they were a Minneapolis rock band. They were very much punk and very loose, like amateurish on purpose. And so most of the themes we had, it was about being sad, being depressed, seeing no future, which in retrospect was silly for me to think that way. Like, that’s so just depressing, isn’t it? But, you know, we were very antiestablishment. A lot of things like, “I’m afraid to die in a nuclear war” stuff too — that was a big theme. You know, we’d talk about people’s fakeness and plasticity. When I listened to all the stuff I wrote, I was like, “Wow, this is really sad.” I don’t know why I did that. I’ve never had depression. I haven’t been that sad. I was listening to music and was just like, “Why am I acting so sad?” But it’s just because that’s what I was listening to at the time. We tried to emulate Blondie’s coolness, their detachment, and we’d copy the Ramones’ aggression. We’d also go to Tompkins Square Park and Washington Square Park to observe people. We sort of just hung out and, you know — drank beer, participated in the resistance. Contact Sabrina Choudhary at schoudhary@nyunews.com.
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FROM THE FRINGES TO THE SPOTLIGHT: THE ART OF NYC DRAG By Vivian Stockley Contributing Writer
Drag queens were some of Andy Warhol’s favorite muses. According to him, drag queens used to be “on the fringes” of heteronormative American society, but when the sexual liberation movement gained traction in 1968, more people started to appreciate the eclectic world of drag performance. In 1990, “Paris is Burning” documented the inclusion of transgender people and people of color in 1980s New York City drag ball culture and received critical acclaim. Today, drag is even more mainstream thanks to the worldwide success of drag performers and trailblazing shows such as “RuPaul’s Drag Race.” For some NYU students, drag has kickstarted their journeys towards self-acceptance.
Gallatin sophomore Gary — who requested that only his first name be used — performs in drag with the alias MS Paint. Gary, who hails from North Carolina, attended a drag show after moving to New York City and was instantly drawn to the artistry of the performances and the feeling of togetherness. “[Drag] has shown me that there’s a lot more to being a queer person than just sexual and political identity, that there’s a lot of community and culture around it,” Gary said. Performing in drag has helped Gary accentuate aspects of his identity and personality that he isn’t comfortable expressing in his everyday life. “[A lot of friends who come to my shows] see a much different side of me when I’m in drag than when I’m out of drag, just the way that I interact with people and carry myself,” he said. “I feel like, in a way, it’s a little more genuine, just because I don’t have to mask anything.” Despite the fact that drag has provided a creative outlet for introspection in Gary’s life, it has also bridged a gap between Gary and his friends. “I feel like they understand me a little better, understand a little more where I’m coming from as an artist, but also as a queer person in that sort of environment, assuming this character of myself,” he said.
After seeing his first drag show in New York, Gary began performing in drag himself as a creative outlet. Photo by Sofia Lopez Arredondo
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Andrew Au views their drag alter ego, Angel Au, as an extension of themselves rather than a persona. Photo by Andrew Morinigo
The art of drag also allows performers to examine various aspects of their personalities and lives. Gallatin junior Andrew Au described their drag alter ego, Angel Au, as a different side of themselves. “Instead of a persona, she definitely … is me, it’s like an extension of me,” Au said. Au grew up in New Jersey and hoped to accomplish their goal of being an entertainer in New York City. They were initially drawn to Broadway, but because they are Chinese American, they felt discouraged by the lack of opportunities for, and representation of, Asian actors there. Although they were disheartened by the exclusivity of Broadway, they found comfort within the confines of the progressive drag community. Although it hasn’t been perfect, the drag world has been consistently ahead of its time regarding the inclusion and leadership of people of color. Two drag queens of color, Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera, started the 1969 Stonewall Riots in the city and founded STAR: Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries in 1970. For Au, their introspective exploration of femininity as Angel has helped them discover a crucial piece of their identity. “Drag has really helped me bring out who I always was inside,” Au said. “It’s beautiful that I’m able to craft ... how I feel on the inside and outwardly express it for the world. Now I’m able to use my drag in my everyday life and go out and start expressing more femininely.” For many, moving to New York City from smaller towns or cities forged an introduction to a less judgemental environment where they can feel comfortable. Tisch junior Kyle Farscht, also from New Jersey, remembers feeling a newfound acceptance when he moved to the city. Farscht loves how he can walk down the street in full drag practicing lip-syncing ahead of a performance, without anyone giving him a second glance. “My favorite thing about New York is just — people don’t give a shit!” he said. Using techniques gleaned from his Film and TV education, Farscht was able to develop his drag persona Shimshim She. Drag is a platform he uses to engage in experimental methods of storytelling, a major component of his drag style. Camp, an essential part of drag, is an exaggerated, comedic style that critiques societal norms, especially relating to gender. It has been adopted across various genres and mediums — including fashion, film and performance — because it is so effective at captivating audiences. Drag provides the opportunity for artists to grow and explore their intersectional identities, as well as have fun and bring joy to others. Contemporary drag performers carry on the legacies and traditions of past marginalized people and strive to create spaces where they can be unapologetically themselves. Contact Vivian Stockley at culture@nyunews.com.
Farscht developed his drag persona, Shimshim She, from his knowledge of Film and TV. Photo curtesy of Kyle Farscht
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NYU lecturer Misha Danilin on ’90s and 2000s concert culture, his own bands and the importance of shopping for music
Professor Misha Danilin singing with his band M.D. and The Healers.
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Photo curtesy of Misha Danilin.
’90s–2000s
s
As told to Joey Hung Beauty & Style Editor
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
tial band members. Oh, what a time. So the culture of clubs was more open to musicians back then. They were willing to accept bands even if you only had five people come. That was okay! They would even give you second chances. Today, it’s not like that. One of the clubs that influenced me was this place called Albion Batcave. There used to be three dance floors, a lounge, a bar and a dance floor. It was packed on Saturday nights. There had to be a few thousand people in that building. There were lots of cyber-gothic people. I saw the way people presented themselves in there, and I found myself finding similarities between the way they dressed and who I was. So, from then on, I started dressing in all black. We started as electronic music at first. What many people don’t know is that it didn’t start in Europe where it became mainstream. It started in the Black Latin gay community in the ’60s in the West Village, then it became a huge thing toward the end of the ’90s when it was reborn in Europe before coming back to the U.S. So this community would organize parties where they would party like there was no tomorrow. The vibe, the energy, the way people were able to express themselves attracted non-Black, non-Latin and non-gay people because they wanted to experience this vibe. EDM happened because synths and drum machines were affordable, so artists would purchase and create these really experimental tracks people danced to. We would laugh if you called us rock ‘n’ roll back then — we were post new wave! As a youth, I was very opinionated, and I had this perception that rock ‘n’ roll no longer existed. I never imagined that youngsters in 2001 could play rock ‘n’ roll. I thought of music as a linear continuation. It never occurred to me that in the underground circle of New York rock groups like Gypsy would form. Well, once they happened, I started seriously doubting my own predictions. I realized rock ‘n’ roll takes on different forms in different phases of society. Rock is larger than music — it’s an entity that provides messages for liberation, of freedom, it changes history. Electronic music was the rock ‘n’ roll of the ’90s, and hip-hop is modern rock ‘n’ roll. The most special performance was our second or third performance that took place at Hammers Ki. We were opening for Russia’s Aura Festival. Back then, the biggest Russian bands came and performed there, and our band opened. It also coincided with my birthday, which is great. We also had a short tour in Russia and Ukraine in 2005, and the experience of the audience was so different. People were dancing on tables, going crazy. The club owner himself was dancing in front of the stage. We were so surprised by it all — it was so different from how people reacted in New York! The only modern place in New York that was like what it was back then was Coney Island Baby on Avenue A. They opened in 2017 but have already closed down. The place was just too good to be true — ’80s and ’90s club vibes. I don’t know where else in Manhattan is good today.
I wasn’t in a band when I lived in the Soviet Union. I mean, I was 18 and wanted to be in a band, but it just hadn’t happened yet. I really started making music in New York City. I was inspired to make music when I moved here because I was lonely. I had just moved from the Soviet Union and I didn’t know anyone! It was just me, here on my own, for six months. When I arrived in this city, it had a bottomless nightlife. I started thinking about music projects. I had written some songs in the Soviet Union before I came in the ’90s. Eventually, I found a band: We have Mike Danilin on vocals and keyboards, Mikhail Musayev on guitar and back vocals, Nikita Karakchiev on bass, Boris Zeldin on drums and Andrey Yarygin, our sound engineer. I’m in two bands today: One is an electric band called Interzona and the other is a reggae and world fusion band called MD & The Healers. One is super dark and reserved, whereas the other — you might have guessed — is chilled down. When you spend time on one project, you start to feel like you need change, so I transitioned to another musical identity to keep myself balanced. We started off just like everybody else, trying to book shows and getting our friends to attend the shows. We performed at CBGB, which used to be huge, by the way — The Police and The Ramones and a bunch of others debuted there. I had goosebumps the first time I stepped in there because I knew there was so much history. Back then, it wasn’t considered trendy and mainstream, just a cool place where a bunch of musicians performed. I even have a friend who performed there, and they got $20 back then and they have it framed it to this day — that’s how special this club was to musicians back then. We felt so lucky to perform there. Back then, it wasn’t difficult booking gigs. You could pass a cool venue, enter, and ask who was responsible for booking bands. Normally, they’d tell you to leave your CD here, and if they thought you were okay, you could even get a 45-minute showcase without any difficulties. Right now, you have to sign a bunch of forms and guarantee that a certain number of people will come. A club is just a club. The most important thing that has changed about them — and I wouldn’t blame the clubs, because clubs simply reflect people’s sentiments — is that music is now more background music. We play it while doing something else nowadays because music is so accessible. You no longer have to make any effort to hear it — now you have to make an effort to make yourself heard in the crowds of people trying to become musicians, and that’s why it’s so difficult to book gigs. There is so much talent everywhere. Back then, the effort to find music was considered cool. Shopping for music was a thing and it would take hours — you would hit up this store first, then this one and another. You’d meet people, you’d exchange band recommendations, you met poten- Contact Joey Hung at jhung@nyunews.com.
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Model and NYU student Jaylen Taylor on the East Village in the 2010s and 2020s, creating personal aesthetics As told to Joey Hung Beauty & Style Editor
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
here too. I’ve been to Mercury Lounge. Local bands will play there, so I’ll go there to start the night. I usually find out about them because they’re friends of friends, so I don’t really know them and I don’t really vibe with the music and I don’t remember the band names, so yeah. I mean, it feels kind of shitty not knowing their names, but hey. The last time I went, it was very punk-y? Grunge-y? It wasn’t really my vibe, but some people there were cool. Except people weren’t dancing — they were moshing. And look, I don’t hate moshing, but it’s not my thing. So I was getting thrown around the whole night by some really excited little white dudes. But at least the drinks were really frickin’ cheap! I’m a tequila bitch. I stay drinking tequila. So if they have a margarita? I’m having it. And if they don’t have tequila. I’ll get gin — gin and tonic or gin with anything citrus-y. I recently went to Bowery Electric. There was this dude to whom I was speaking who told me to come hear his band play. Red flag number one. But it was funky there! People were dancing. It was actually super fun. My day-to-day and night-out looks are inspired by things from the internet, especially Pinterest. Sometimes I just like to play around and dip my fingers in some colors and go crazy and see where I get. Trends also inspire me — right now, I’m trying to get into this graphic eyeliner wave. I also have era moments — you know, ’60s makeup looks, ’70s makeup looks. To do that, I’ll go to Pinterest, type in the era I want to replicate and make it my own. My fashion also changes a lot. Right now, my friends currently describe my look as a seductive professor who is also a witch. I’m definitely a witch professor in the fall. I love sweaters, the fall palette and layering. I’ve also stolen a bunch of things from my dad’s closet, so I have a shit ton of man sweaters. Right now, I’m actually wearing one of my dad’s leather jackets from the ’90s — it’s giving Fresh Prince vibes. For fashion, I also get inspiration from stuff I see online. I check to see what’s trending on there. Then, sometimes I see things I just like, whether it’s a trend or not. If it fits me well and looks good on me, then it doesn’t matter whether it’s a trend or not.
When I was younger, I would spend hours listening to 98.7 FM in Mississippi and they would play the stuff from the ’80s, ’90s and today. So I originally got my music taste from whatever was on the radio at the time. My parents also inspired my music style because they’d play music from their own decades. My dad went to school in the ’70s so he’s — well, you know, he’s old. Anyway, he stays bumping to Parliament-Funkadelic ’cause he’s an old head. He still plays that whenever I come home. And my mom went to college in the ’80s, so y’all know she stays throwing it back to Whitney Houston and Chaka Khan. And now? I’d say my music style is a lot of different things. Honestly, I just listen to whatever sounds good. I like funk, hip-hop and — I don’t know, Yebba. I like people who wail like Yebba, and then anyone whose musical style is Yebba-adjacent. Spotify is a really great way to find music. They usually recommend music to me and most times they’re spot on. I also share a lot of playlists with friends. I’m a leech. I always end up stealing music. I have a Hinge account. I tell guys to send one of their favorite playlists to hear what music they’re listening to. And then of course it’s also a great way to know the kind of people they are. I used to live in the East Village. It’s coming back from the pandemic. I lived on St. Marks Place, which was a bad idea because it was so fucking loud. All. The. Time. And there’s a shit ton of NYU students. Just full of them. Everyone. The East Village has its own little culture. There’s a strong bar culture there, it’s not very clubby — at least not in my experience. It’s kind of a “let’s get food, then get drunk at Yuca Bar.” I used to go there every single weekend, but it costs $15 to get in, and I can’t afford to do that anymore. I recently moved to the Lower East Side and I love it. It’s quiet. It’s just a bunch of old people and kids that live in my neighborhood. I like to go to the Delancey — they have Reggaeton Fridays, so that’s super fun. I’ve gone to the Flower Shop — just once. It’s — how should I say this — a little too Caucasian for me. Contact Joey Hung at There are a lot of small concert venues around jhung@nyunews.com.
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2010s–2020s
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THE FACTORY, REVIVED By Ashley Wu Editor-in-Chief
When I was 17, I saw Nan Goldin’s “Ballad of Sexual Dependency” at the Museum of Modern Art. Goldin’s photographs flashed across the screen as the pastoral chords of “I’ll Be Your Mirror” played. I was stuck in the images: a man smoking a cigarette on the edge of a bed bathed in orange light, a heart-shaped bruise above a stockinged thigh. The New York that Goldin portrayed was gritty and illuminated by neon. It was my introduction to the counterculture of the 1970s and ’80s. The Factory — Andy Warhol’s New York studio — was the harbinger of a golden age in the city’s art scene. Young people from around the city congregated there to create transgressive music and art that continues to influence New York’s cultural landscape. When I think about what lured me to New York, I imagine those dark rooms where people gathered under psychedelic digital installations. This was the era of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe, of The Velvet Underground and Nico. Political and economic struggles plagued New York, culminating in an increase in crime and general malaise. Despite these factors, artists were able to turn their disillusionment into powerful artistic expression. During the pandemic, the digital sphere was ripe with criticism about New York’s grim status quo. With op-eds like “NYC IS DEAD FOREVER. HERE’S WHY,” New Yorkers cited the downfall of business, food and culture. It’s no surprise that these elements have been usurped by economic losses incurred during the pandemic, and predatory entities such as Uber Eats, and gentrification. These economic and cultural declines have once again created a disillusioned youth. Our generation seemed suspended in midair. We didn’t have enough time to build a past, and the future seemed grim and without prospect. My friends comforted each other by asserting that New York wasn’t really dead, that in time it would spring forth from this limbo. We missed the warm glow of restaurants and the incessant strobe of bars. Once the immediate effects of COVID-19 started to subside, the street performers returned. Pinc Louds, a band featuring a bun-clad singer, returned to Tompkins Square Park with her eclectic folksy sounds. In Washington Square Park, my friends met an artist dressed as a blue monster (@absurd.soul) handing out zines. Inspired by the spirit of the Factory, my peers started their own artist collectives where they would meet masked in apartments to document their own micro communities. It wasn’t the Factory — it was better. Decentralization caused by the internet put an end to the Factory’s model of artistic production. Of course, physical gathering spaces still existed. But the advent of social media ensured that marginalized artists have new autonomy over their images and personas. In Jessica Lehrman’s New York Times photo essay, she quotes Lil Green: “We were born to be kissed in the dark.” The past two years, we’ve been touch-starved and deprived of contact except from a limited cast of rotating characters. As young people, our fates are still undefined. But nothing is lighter than the sensation of walking down the street and knowing that behind each wall, there are other people preserving New York City’s soul. Contact Ashley Wu at editor@nyunews.com.
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WSN staff Halloween party, 2021. A few of us were on the roof — chatting, taking in the skyline, generally having a good time — when we realized that the two people in the window across the street were about to have sex. The visibility of this act was very much aided by the fact that all the lights in their room were on and glaringly so. Have you heard of morbid curiosity? I swear I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Thankfully, it was far away enough that we couldn’t see any details beyond silhouettes. The man kept his shirt on the whole time. It lasted less than five minutes -Caitlin Hsu
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During my semester of acting out, I somehow managed to befriend my now ex-Tinder boy’s roommate’s finance bro best friend. We bonded over our mental instability and love for the same drugs, so I started getting invited to his and his other finance friends’ parties. The highlight of that semester was standing on top of a table in a TriBeCa penthouse screaming the lyrics to Taylor Swift’s “Enchanted” with two ex-frat boy investment bankers from J.P. Morgan. Later that night, we took some pills (I have no fucking clue what they were) and proceeded to have a long discourse on stock markets and quant trading, which somehow ended up with me doing calculus on a whiteboard in the middle of the room. I have now forever been labeled as Trevor’s (now ex-Tinder boy’s roommate’s finance bro best friend) art-hoe side piece that’s good with numbers.
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-Anonymous WSN editor #1
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Freshman year, my roommate and her boyfriend invited me to a party. I agreed, because why not, and we got on the train, though I didn’t know exactly where we were going. Anyway, we end up on the Upper East Side at some random person’s rooftop. There’s live classical jazz playing, panoramic city views and everyone is stoned out of their minds — except me, I’m a child of God. It was pretty fun though, and I met a cute boy, so it wasn’t a total loss.
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-Ryan Walker
It was one of those smarmy summer nights in Georgia. It was midnight, and there was a line of more than 500 people in front of a local church. My friends and I were social media friends with the bouncer, an up-and-coming fashion designer creating high-end tie-dye pants. We skipped the line and walked inside the church, where Lil Yachty was sitting on a throne underneath the cross. Someone had attached a swing wrapped in vines to the rafters, and a woman in a flowy white dress was swinging back and forth into the crowd. In front of the throne, Lil Yachty was pouring champagne over the revelers. I’m pretty sure Trippie Redd was there too. A man approached us wearing cargo pants with a million different pockets embellished with studs. In each pocket, he had lollipops that he was handing out. It was a surreal Atlanta night, but the champagne was a bitch to get out of my clothes. -Ashley Wu
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When I was a freshman, the Latin dance club I’d barely participated in threw a fight club-themed birthday party for two of the e-board members. They rented out a boxing gym, and the email invitation promised that the birthday boys would fight at midnight. I had to see it, so I dragged two of my friends with me to check it out, and boy, it delivered. Also, my sophomore year roommates and I threw a KFC-themed party for the release of the Colonel Sanders dating sim, so that was pretty iconic. -Sabrina Choudhary
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