The first basement show I had the luxury of attending was in Crown Heights, Brooklyn. You had to walk down these sticky-with-Hennessy steps and through a long hall which was lined with miscellaneous crap to get to the main room, if you could even call it that, where the DJ booth was. Behind it was a short hispanic kid with glasses and a Supreme sweatshirt on. Around him lounged modelesque teenagers wearing a seamless mixture of thrift shop and designer. needless to say, I fell in love.
I’ve been to two or three more basement shows after that, many of which had the same vibe; three unspoken rules to live by: byob, pass to the left & dress like you’re famous.
The latter of which I had no trouble adhering to, but was incredulous every time I arrived at a show and no one offered me a drink. Also- the left? I was lost and out of place but aesthetically at home- these shows are the feeding pools for NYFW inspiration- and so in a way, I was exactly where I needed to be. I’ve been enamored by the shows since the first one I’ve ever attended and at the last one, aimed to capture the magic that is teenage squalor on film. This is what I got: