Not That I Want To Call It "Our Woodstck," But...

My roommate said he used to play this song when he DJed parties and he would laugh at all the people dancing and not understanding that the joke was in fact on them. That's kind of cruel, kind of awesome, and kind of ironic all at the same time.

NUMBER 8: YOU CAN SAY WERE THERE

Hey here’s a “No duh” moment: we put a lot of cultural cachet in being an early adopter. I’m not going to go into the hows and whys or even criticize it, because right now pumping up that idea plays right the point I’m trying to make.

Years from now, when Bird Dog is an internationally renowned party promoter and DJ and I’m a bitter old failure and drug addict, your horrible, horrible children will be scrolling through your MP7 collection and making fun of all your music. At some point though, they’ll get to something like Ava Luna or Red Wire Black Wire. They’ll turn to you with those awful accusing eyes and say, “Parent, what is this incredible music coming over the holospeakers?”

For a moment, you’ll forget all about the bitterness you feel towards your spousal unit and with pride you’ll tell those little fuckers about how YOU WERE THERE when it felt like lo-fi was going to swallow up the world and when Vultures wormed its way into your heart and you looked over and your spousal unit was looking at you too and you were both tearing up and knew then and there you were meant for each other. You’ll babble on about how YOU WERE THERE when Bushwick felt wide open and untamed, when it was a place where artists went to make art and meet each other and be seen. Before we swallowed ourselves up in a Hipster Runoff apocalypse and sold out and got jobs and suits and spousal units.

Your kids won’t be listening really, but they will like the music. A couple years later, one of them will have formed a band that sounds like what we’re listening to now but with a modern sheen and Pitchfork will give it a 9.2, for a debut album no less. Rolling Stone will catch up a couple years later, with a cover with big block print screamvertising THE BUSHWICK REVIVAL SOUND and you kids will be there smirking and ironically wearing skinny jeans (by then, denim will be almost totally obsolete). Your rotten kids won’t thank you for having such great taste and Rolling Stone won’t run your letters telling them how YOU WERE THERE when it all started, but that won’t mean they’ll be able to take that away from you. So if for some reason you want to miss out on all that, by all means, skip the Bushwick Rooftop Festival.