Matthew Dear x The Swimmer

Sporting a tutu and a pair of rollerskates, Jeffrey tumbled out of Verboten and into the Brooklyn sun just past 7am. “Look at those fucking assholes,” he whispered motioning to the friends I came with. “We’re here for the music,” I told him, which apparently wasn’t good enough. As he skated away, he screamed “ Well, the music’s not here for you.” This was Brooklyn in a nutshell, a mix of brain fried young people blowing off steam, over wired semi-adults, and international techno heads that came to New York to burn it down. We had just seen Matthew Dear and Delano Smith deejay at SUBVERSION, Dear’s monthly residency at Verboten. My head was still throbbing, there were no cabs in sight, and I still couldn’t figure out how I was the asshole. 

The previous Thursday, Verboten was seized by the New York State Department of Taxation and Finance for tax evasion amidst rumors of sexual and racial harassment behind the scenes. The club didn’t release a statement and all their social media went dark. That is, until Friday evening, when they instagrammed a video of a disco ball shining over an empty dancefloor, with a caption reading “The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated - Mark Twain.” As one commenter put it, “@bkrav @hankinit @sea2292 battle stations!!!!” 

I had been ready to go to Flash Factory to see David Morales DJ his legendary Better Days party, but Verboten had too much going for it. I arrived at 1230, a respectable time for this sort of thing, but as it turns out the club was already packed. The lights seemed to shine brighter than before, the wall projections trippier, and of course, the music sounded better. Everything about the night felt earned, as if we collectively overcame a great evil, and in a way, we all had. Verboten was something of an institution, and it was all thanks to the loyal patrons. Even though no one helped Verboten file their taxes, it was the weirdos and diehards that forced it to keep going. Verboten was home for people that loved music, dancing, and being really, really intoxicated. It had the cool, underground atmosphere that made New York’s golden years, whether it be the Roaring 20’s or the Sleazy 70’s. This is why people came to New York. 

At this point I had already noticed a middle aged rollerskating ballet dancer, but also noticed a number of well dressed folk who weren’t doing much. They bounced to the beat, they had a drink in their hand and maybe they were on drugs, but they weren’t doing really anything. They didn’t look engaged, they didn’t look like they were having fun, they didn’t even look like they were there. Then in a span of two minutes, I saw enough to convince me they truly weren’t present. As a number of small drug deals took place, I saw three separate groups take the exact same photograph in the exact same spot, then all quietly sit. It would’ve been more than three had a fight not broken out. A woman had spilled champagne on some guys sneakers. They hadn’t come to groove till breakfast, they’d come to be seen, to be cool, for bragging rights, and of course, drugs. This could’ve been anywhere and it wouldn’t have made a difference. They simply did not care. 

From this I learned that anyone can be consumed by anything in their own different way. The regulars were sucked into Verboten by music, community and love. This was their playground, a place they could be themselves. To them, real Balmain won’t help you dance better any more than fake will. Others however, were swallowed whole by their lifestyle. While the weirdos danced like no one was watching, this crowd danced as if everyone was. Like Neddy Merrill in Cheever’s The Swimmer, they dove into whichever pool of hedonism they can, rising only to plunge into another one. Like Merrill, one day they’ll wake up, and find everything around them to be alone, decaying and dead, just like they will be. Lucky for me, much later, I realized I wasn’t an asshole. I just looked like one.