http://www.blackbookmag.com/article/the-greatest-show-on-earth/16163
The phone calls began around noon on Sunday. Desperate rockers caught wind of a performance by Guns N' Roses (and Axl Rose) in the intimate confines of Rose Bar. I politely instructed them to cultivate a relationship with Nur Khan, Rose Bar's knight in shining armor, so that in the future they're invited to parties. I wouldn't get involved. I wouldn't make inquiries. Nur, I'm sure, was inundated with requests from his own family of thousands. I had no intention of attending as Sundays are reserved for visits with my parental units. Nur texted me around 7:30 to invite me and well, the prospect of seeing a stadium act in a living room setting was undeniable. He also invited me to the Purple Magazine party on the roof. I took a deep breath and thought, maybe the whole scene should. With all the talk of the 98 Kenmare space with my gangster hero Paul Sevigny, maybe this was a flashpoint. Maybe this is the start of a big decade for clubdom.
The scene is seething, waiting for answers to the questions. Is this really fun? Is this really cool? Is this all there is? Will it ever be great again? I’m not talking three bottles, some models and a B-list actor cool. I’m talking a cool that is so cool that it turns that crowd off. I’m not talking follow the leader cool but trendsetter cool, new music cool. Isn’t it time to send those mix format DJs back to weddings and their menial labor jobs? Isn’t it time that DJs aren’t just Serrato geeks playing the same track as the guy next door? That shit’s got to be over soon.
Now, it’s very arguable that an aging Axl with a band called Guns N’ Roses (which has been slashed down to basically a parody) isn’t really that cool. However, the performance in a small joint with a super exclusive invited crowd is a déjà vu event. It felt very warm, fuzzy and familiar and brought up the possibilities and the rewards of doing it right, of not selling out to greed. Nur likes loot as much as the next fellow but he hasn’t, in my experience, lost sight of the ball. He hasn’t caved in as most of the other joints have and considered a five bottle buying bean counter a VIP. He denies them and builds his relationships with artists and talent. It’s the theory that clubs can be built around smart, sharp, hip crowds and not meccas for bottle bullies and their mail order brides and escorts. Nur was gushing all about sound check, and, as all great club deities are the superest of salesmen, his pleas hit home and I said ‘yes’.
Nur is taking it to the next level. Another fashion week for him at Rose Bar, and he still puts acts into a room not big enough to house their equipment, let alone the pretty people. “Eight seasons into fashion week and I’m still doing this shit!,†he offered in unbridled glee. He gushed about past shows, “The Cult, Jane’s Addiction, The Black Keys, The Kooks, Velvet Revolver, Arckid, and I forget who else right now.†I left him to his cell phone and the pleas of thousands and finished dinner with the flock.
The most impressive thing about the event is how professionally it was handled at the door. It wasn’t the madhouse associated with every major fashion week event. Calmness and professionalism separated the invited from the rest and it was done with polite but sure words. It was a room filled with hot, smart women and familiar faces. Guys who looked like rock stars wearing “Who’s Cooler Than Me†hats. Mickey Rourke and crew with Vegas and his posse. Russell Simmons meticulously saying hello to everyone. Ever dapper, always dashing Andre Balazs with crew attached parted the crowds as easily as Moses would part the waters of a guppy tank. I smiled, said hello and got the warm acknowledgment of nightlife’s reigning king. As he moved on, I heard gasps about the tall beautiful woman he was with. I didn’t notice her. Alas, I’ve reached that point. I glad handed Binn and Genz and gushed over Guest of a Guest’s Rachelle Hruska. There were so many bold-face names, I wanted to alert the media. I decided that I was the media and I won’t leak names. As the show neared, the placid hipsters started to resemble those mall shoppers on the day after Thanksgiving. Nearness to the stage was the goal. Security edited a few of the guestlist/door decisions without dampening the excitement. The band hit the stage hard. Axl looked good, if not a little too much like Mickey Rourke. I glanced at Mickey’s table to assure myself. He really should play Axl in the movie. We were all arms length from each other and pogo-ing like it was 1989. Band and audience became one. The crowd was spectacular and, in that frenzied state, as sexy as I’ve ever seen a club crowd.
It can happen. It will happen. There’s nothing much wrong with nightlife, except for the wrong people being in control of the right spaces. Nur will do bigger things, as he said to me, “As a complement to this not instead of thisâ€. How can people lament about how lame nightlife has become when Rose Bar is always there, when Brooklyn Bowl and Skebar still open their doors nightly? With Nur and Paul’s place moments away and Jane rumors abound, we can come back to the future. You can still get fixed up well at 1Oak on most nights, and The Box is turning three this week. I still go and it’s still fun. There’s a lot going on. Avenue is what it is for those who believe in what it is, and it’s undeniably being exactly that. La Esquina still serves me right. I’m having tea later at The Breslin and Provocateur is delivering as promised. The house bastions, Pacha (David Guetta’s there next weekend) Cielo still provide. The dive bars are more fun than ever. Lit Lounge is still my favorite haunt. I think were going to be alright.
