In the precarious world of New York City nightlife, club promoters can find themselves the hottest property in town on Friday and back on the street with nothing but an empty Svedka bottle and a lint remover on Monday. But at least they had a hell of a party over the weekend.
The economics of nightlife have become so rough that increasingly we’re finding weekly club events that don’t even make it to their third week, as entrepreneurs pull the plug on what may have been tons of fun but was not exactly lucrative (a fact that tends to suck all that fun out of the situation like a toothless hooker looking for a tip).
Even the best promoters are totally at the mercy of the club owners and their financial demands and/or whims. I hear the long-running Vandam promoters were getting stiffed, so they moved the party elsewhere earlier this year, but that didn’t last long because the new space didn’t have the proper dance floor or other ambient touches that would have made it a hit. Other times, promoters might land on the right space, but the wrong night. It’s important to nab a night people actually go out on (not a Monday, for example), while making sure there are other options that night (to create a “caravan effect,” whereby people will trot from one place to another), but not so many that the competition could crush you. You also have to be certain to hire the right bartenders, dancers, and performers to assure something that’s friendly and accessible while also being somehow edgy and forbidding. It’s not easy to achieve that delicate balance.
Worst of all, you have to deal with a large roomful of egos. I recently wrote a splashy newspaper article about how today’s promoters have to join together on invites in order to guarantee a crowd. The promoters, basically, have become a crowd. One invite I talked about had no fewer than 18 names on it — promoters, hosts, DJs — all begging for your admission so the bash could remain lively and stay afloat. For the piece, I talked to what I considered the top five promoters of that particular event, certain the club would be thrilled with the press. But the second the article came out, the other promoters threw a fit, mad that those five seemed to be taking the credit (though they had simply responded to my interview request and revealed what their input was to the party). Astoundingly, two of them were promptly fired for their alleged transgression! Two others instantly quit in solidarity, and the fifth one ultimately came back from a trip and found he was out the door, too! As one of the departed promoters told me, “Only at this place could someone get fired for getting a huge article.” At least the party’s invites seem way less crowded and hard to read these days.
So, apparently, a promoter can get canned for being successful as well as for not being so. A 42-year-old native New Yorker and longtime clubgoer named Sloan Morgan has seen all sides of this issue and fully knows of the perils of promoting. Starting last November, Morgan did a fun party called House of O at Kenmare Street restaurant Maison O, which filled two kitschy levels with a bracing mix of newbies and survivors, all reveling in the joys of old-school conversation and performance. But it was a Monday — remember that rule? — so Morgan eventually moved the bash to a Sunday and added promoter Frankie Sharp as a partner. Entertainers included powerful singer Coby Koehl and raunchy chanteuse Bridget Everett. Attendees ranged from Ernie Glam, who once wore a chicken suit at Limelight’s Disco 2000 bash, to 26-year-old Alex Grossman (aka drag queen Lady Havokk), who was there hoping to catch a revival of the old club-kid spirit. You had old looking for young and young hoping for old, an interesting contrast.
The combo was loads of fun, but after one week, Sharp bailed out, and after a few more, the club owner got antsy (they were about to go el foldo), so it was time to move House of O to a new space. So it’s now at Chrystie 141, a sleek restaurant/club with shiny surfaces and real potted plants.
At its recent debut, a colorful crowd came out for dinner, making the place seem like a high-school cafeteria crossed with the Starship Enterprise.
Legendary Anita Sarko (the Mudd Club, Palladium) DJed, always playing either bracing new stuff or fresh takes on the seemingly familiar. William Francis is another of the night’s great DJs and avant-garde hero Casey Spooner did a set, too. And later on, the room transformed, making way for performances by the intergalactic trio The Ones (featuring the club’s deadpan emcee, Jackie 60 presence Paul Alexander), plus Jamil LaBeija, all in celebration of Geoffrey Mac’s designs and performer One-Half NelSon’s birthday. It takes a village!
Another party with possibilities happens Wednesday night at Goldbar at 389 Broome St. For the bash — called Bijoux and subtitled “Tools and Jewels” — the fashion-drenched Deryck Todd brings together a Williamsburg-meets-Hell’s-Kitchen-y mix of outsized drag queens, gay porn stars and frisky clubbies. They bop around the space’s appealing faux-elegance complete with sparkly chandeliers and hanging drapes. The opening night result was fun, but who knows if this party (or any party) has what it takes to last in the current crunch?
I’m afraid to even go back for fear I’ll find the inevitable sign: “Coming soon in this space: A TD Bank.”
Michael Musto is a contributing journalist for TheBlot Magazine.
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