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ebola-kun · 5 years ago

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L.A.'s Music Industry Women Are Sick of the Same Old Song When It Comes to Equality | L.A. Weekly

"Threats, hate accounts, weird fan interactions, being hacked several times over the last year — reporting harassment and blocking just became a part of life as I now know it," Addams says. "For some fans it became their life's mission to watch my every move via social media, create false narratives, all in order to let people know that I am not perfect. The same fake accounts of online detectives trying to prove by my actions that I might possibly be lying. They suggested I deserved what happened to me. They questioned why after 20 years would I destroy a man's life? I did not destroy anybody's life. The man who did what he did to me and many other women destroyed his own life by his egregious actions."

Courtesy Purple Crush

Women in the music industry who come forward with similar stories can expect just as much harassment, judgment and doubt online as support, and probably more of the former because "sex, drugs and rock & roll" is built into its mystique. It's expected. Still, some have been brave enough to speak out regardless. In the pop world, Taylor Swift and Kesha were the biggest names to call out behaviors ranging from inappropriate to abusive. And in R&B and hip-hop, the list of men accused of varying degrees of assault goes on and on: Russell Simmons, R. Kelly, L.A. Reid, Chris Brown —all of whom seem to have been for the most part, unscathed professionally. Indeed, the inherent rebelliousness and seduction of the music world makes for a slippery slope. While I spoke with women in indie and rock music for this story, there are so many more to talk to and the problem is far-reaching. The L.A. Weekly will continue to explore these issues within other genres and L.A. nightlife environments on a regular basis next year.

The dance music world for example, is particularly troublesome. Isla Jones of the electro-dance group Purple Crush and promoter of L.A.'s Banjee Ball parties recalls how she found herself the target of cyberbullying via DJ/producer Diplo's Hollertronix message board. "There was this 'dude bro' persona that Diplo iconified, which legions of internet DJs emulated. Being the outspoken woman that I am, I became an easy target for them and was clowned on a weekly basis," she says. The clowning translated into physical violence a couple times, and Jones, who is known in L.A. for her inclusive LGBTQ events, says that it was celebrated online. "It felt like digital rape."

Alice Glass, former frontwoman of Crystal Castles, is one of the few indie artists who came out with a story similar to Addams', accusing her ex-bandmate and beau Ethan Kath of physical and sexual abuse in October 2017. He denied it and filed a defamation suit against her, which was later dismissed. She has gone on to make some of the most powerful music of her career and now is seen as an advocate for victims of assault. In general, though, women who want to prove they can rock with the boys seem more likely to suck it up. As one rock legend tells it, it's hard enough getting acknowledged as a musician in the first place.

"The Go-Go's had been together for three years and could sell out any club we played on the West Coast," recalls guitarist/songwriter Jane Wiedlin, "yet not one major label was interested in us. The attitude was, there'd never been a successful all-female band and so there never would be. There was even an article on the front page of the L.A. Times' Calendar section: 'Why Can't The Go-Go's Get a Record Deal?' It was very frustrating. Finally, a new and tiny label, I.R.S. Records, came to see us, loved us, and offered us a record deal."

Brit Witt at Coachella

Zane Roessell

Though I.R.S. was small, it cared about the band and supported them irrespective of sex, which put The Go-Go's on a successful, hit-packed trajectory. Still, when Wiedlin forged a career on her own years later, she was not immune to vulturous actions. "When I first went solo, in 1985, I took a dinner meeting with a record producer who claimed he wanted to work with me," she recalls. "He ended up trapping me in a room and wouldn't let me leave until I 'put out.' I ended up giving in because I didn't know what else to do. For decades I thought it was my fault, because I hadn't fought back. Now I feel differently about it. Now I know I was assaulted by a sexual predator."

Wiedlin's story is not revelatory but it does reflect how women who accepted these behaviors back then view their experiences now. And whether onstage or off-, the challenges remain the same. Even when women seemingly are in control, they often have to deal with limitations that hinder their success if they don't act a certain way. Men in power were — and are — allowed to wield it without judgment; women, not so much.

Michelle Carr at Jabberjaw

Courtesy Jabberjaw

Britt Witt has made a name for herself booking and running the Hi Hat in Highland Park, but it didn't come easy. "I think I was in denial. I think I still am because I've always just focused on getting the job done rather than why I can't," she explains. "I [used to] attribute being dismissed, ignored and underpaid to just not being good enough. Nowadays, I realize that I'm constantly overcoming the challenge of being considered intimidating, brash or bitchy just because I put my foot down in the same places men do. Encountering skepticism with ideas and facts where a man repeats the same statement minutes later to celebration."

From management to booking to being a club owner, the frustrations I've heard from women working in the music biz over the years have played like a badly broken record. "Owning a music venue with a guy was very frustrating in that I was never taken seriously," says Michelle Carr, proprietress of legendary '90s music venue Jabberjaw, where Nirvana famously first played L.A. "Most would not take my word. They more often than not would seek out Gary [her former partner] for any wants or needs — he was the default. What was most surprising was when even the Riot Grrrl contingent would treat me as such."

Dayle Gloria, who booked the legendary L.A. club Scream, helping to discover bands like Jane's Addiction in the process, and later the Viper Room, echoes Carr's complaints about being taken seriously. "In order to do that I had to really 'man up,' leaving so much of my femininity behind," she admits. "I was always a tomboy but had to be harder than that. If I asked for something once, it was never enough. It was getting to the point where to be heard I had to yell and scream. To get things done. It's not a great way to live."

"I wanted to be seen as a professional manager and executive, and not looked upon as a groupie, girlfriend or disposable mommy," echoes Vicky Hamilton, known for her work managing Guns N' Roses and Poison in the '80s. "To be treated fairly and paid equal to a man for the work done. I have a much better track record then many of my male counterparts, and the bands I have worked with have sold over 250 million records collectively, but I feel it is much harder to get financial backing for my new record company than it would be for a white male with lesser achievements."

Dayle Gloria with Scott Weiland

Courtesy Dayle Gloria

Witt books some of the hottest shows in L.A. right now, but Gloria and Carr are happily out of the music and club business (though Carr is working on a documentary about Jabberjaw). Hamilton soldiers on with a new label, Dark Spark Music, even after years of not being acknowledged for her contributions. "[When] I was an A&R person at a major label, the executive who was supposed to be mentoring me, who took full credit for a band that I brought to the label, told me that my snake in the grass was about recognition and credit. My response was, 'No shit, since I never seem to get either around here.' A month later my contract option was not renewed," she recalls.

Fear of not being seen as a team player or even losing one's job has been a factor for many women in terms of the varying levels of bad treatment they might accept. It's one of the reasons the news about FYF Fest founder Sean Carlson took so long to surface. Nobody wanted to be the first one, possibly standing alone against a powerful man, to put the truth out there. But as detailed in a 2017 Spin magazine article, Carlson's misconduct was "an open secret" for quite some time. Though the Spin piece featured all but one woman sharing stories anonymously, the tales of assault at FYF-associated parties were corroborated by many on social media afterward, and Carlson himself issued a statement to Spin acknowledging his behavior. "I acted inappropriately and shamefully, and deeply regret my actions," he wrote, though the end of the statement went for the all-too-common "blame it on the alcohol" type of excuses that some felt were disingenuous.

Goldenvoice severed all ties with Carlson just before the story broke around this time last year. Soon after, in what should have been a validating and somewhat victorious moment for women, Goldenvoice announced that FYF would go on, unveiling a female-heavy lineup minus Carlson's input, curated mostly by women at the company, including Goldenvoice vet Jennifer Yacoubian, who previously booked the El Rey Theatre and the Shrine Auditorium. The lineup, one of the best FYF would ever see, included Janet Jackson as headliner along with Florence + the Machine, St. Vincent, The Breeders, The xx, U.S. Girls, My Bloody Valentine, Charlotte Gainsbourg and more. But a few months later the entire fest was canceled, reportedly due to low ticket sales. Many journalists, including this one, were dumbfounded that a lineup like that could fail, and a fair share wondered online if there was more to the cancellation. Many of us are hoping that FYF will try again for a similarly gender-equal lineup next year. We'll see.

Vicky Hamilton with Bret Michaels

Courtesy Vicky Hamilton

Festival culture has in many ways become a microcosm of the music world these days, reflecting sexual culture and pop culture in general. The biggest, Coachella, also put together by Goldenvoice/AEG, has made some strides in representing the concerns of women onstage and off-, but for many of us more is needed, and all the major promoters could do better. Warped Tour brought in a group called Safe Spaces to monitor safety for young girls at the event, and even amidst controversy concerning the group's tactics, it was a signal for change that had a positive impact. Unfortunately, Warped is now kaput.

Warped vet Monique Powell of the ska-punk outfit Save Ferris has used her social media to call out the disparities she's seen as a performer on the festival circuit for years, such as flyers, posters and advertisements that belittle female performers by putting them at the bottom of the bill, even when their bands have bigger followings. She also has told the world about the outright sexism she's encountered on tour from promoters, other bands and even her own bandmates. Like Addams, Powell became the victim of brutal online harassment after a legal battle ensued over use of Save Ferris' name when she sought to forge a comeback after a long hiatus. It got worse when she won the case.

"People didn't like that I was bringing it back and I was doing it my way," she says wearily. "I was trolled. I got death threats. And the commonality was unmistakable: They were all young men, 25 to 35 and they all liked a specific band from Orange County."

Powell stops short of naming the band but says a long-held rivalry with a male singer in the scene has led to her feeling unsafe and targeted in recent years, even by the media (TMZ, Perez Hilton and O.C. Weekly's reports about the lawsuit all seem to subtly villainize her). Powell, who lives in L.A. now but grew up in Orange County, says she became "a punching bag. I believe that in Orange County, and in L.A. as well, there's still an accepted underlying misogyny, where strong women who have a voice are not considered ladylike, and therefore not to be trusted."

Save Ferris' Monique Powell

Josh Coffman

To counteract this perception, Powell is shining a light on it, sharing her experiences online and hashtagging them with #dontskirttheissue. She hopes to take the conversation that has emerged and turn it into something bigger, with meetups and a bona fide watchdog group that points out women in music being overlooked and judged by their gender unfairly, in promos, media and more.

Mobilization is coming from all fronts right now, and speaking out is only the beginning. Like the women mentioned thus far, Daisy O'Dell, Ana Calderon, Michelle Pesce and Kate Mazzuca are all names known in local music circles nightlife and beyond, the first three as top L.A. DJs and music curators/supervisors and the latter as a marketing and events entrepreneur. Last year, around the same time that #MeToo started building steam, they sought to make change for women in nightlife by creating a group called, fittingly, woman. The collective grew out of a weekly lunch gathering of female DJs, and its goals were many, but the main one was to create welcoming and safe environments for women in a music and club scene where objectification and discrimination had become commonplace and stories of assault and druggings at venues, some where the gals spun, had started to become more frequent. The women of woman. realized that it was the mindset — of venue owners and promoters, who were all male — that needed to change.

Calderon recalls her aggravation sitting in on club meetings. "We would hear some of the most obscene discussions that you would never expect to hear today about women and women attending venues," she reveals, going on to recount the conversation that made her quit doing clubs in bottle service–driven West Hollywood. "I was brought in to bring more interesting people to the club, and it was a lot of Eastside creatives and LGBT, but at one particular meeting a promoter said he appreciated the mix I brought in but he wondered if I could 'target prettier trans people.' I walked out. I was sad and grossed out and felt like something needed to be done. We couldn't have clubs owned and run just by men anymore."

"What's interesting is that these feelings of unrest, of wanting to take action in terms of sexism and misogyny — even though we were all somewhat isolated from each other — happened simultaneously," interjects O'Dell, who encountered a lot of both as a touring DJ for concerts and in clubs. She realized it was embedded into the system she was a part of. "We were all coming to the same realization that, as veterans in this industry, we had to do something because the younger generation kind of looks to us to lead anyway."

Courtesy woman.

Earlier this year, the ladies pulled together their resources and sought to open an all-female-run nightclub. But as fate would have it, on the day they were going to sign the lease for the perfect Hollywood space, an accusation of abuse emerged against one of the building's owners by his former girlfriend. Though he was a male ally to their vision, they opted not to move forward. Hesitant to qualify the allegations as true or false (charges have since been dropped), they admit there was internal conflict. "It was a very difficult decision to make because we had worked so hard and we had come so far and we had gotten so close," O'Dell says. Adds Calderon, "It was heartbreaking."

O'Dell and Calderon say they will open up a club one day but in the meantime they are channeling their energy into initiatives: The first is a list of guidelines for the nightclub industry touting inclusion and equality; and the second is an even bigger objective that goes beyond clubs and into events, including the all-important music festival arena.

soteria.

Named for the Greek goddess of safety and salvation, "soteria." is a designated safe space and service hub at music events created to ensure "the safety and well-being of any visitor experiencing trauma trigger, harassment, sexual misconduct and/or assault."

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They already instituted soteria. (which they stress is for everyone who might feel vulnerable at music events, not just women) at the Form festival in Arizona and the Summit LA18 event last month in DTLA with great success, providing safety ambassadors and crisis managers on the ground as well as a private "sanctuary room" and lounge area. They promise much more to come, changing the game for people who love music and those who make it at events.coalition

Sadly, Addams is not making music any longer, but for those who are, like Glass, and new female artists, establishing boundaries is key so that the various forms of mistreatment outlined here will no longer be normalized. Despite the challenges, more women than ever are out there rocking, and in L.A. acts like Starcrawler, Deap Vally, The Regrettes, Cherry Glazerr, Kate Crash, Beck Black, Feels, Dorothy, War Paint, Best Coast and so many more are re-defining the roles, audaciously and unapologetically, scoring huge opening-band tour slots and higher rankings on festival lineups in the process. Local female ground-breakers like L7, Allison Wolfe, Abby Travis, Alice Bag, and Miss Wiedlin herself, are still at it too.

In addition to woman. other groups are providing even more platforms: the Women of Rock project has been collecting stories for some time now, and there's the Girl Cult coalition (which has an event this weekend). There's also Women in Music L.A, and the new book Women Who Rock has spawned an activist group as well. Private women's groups on Facebook have been a resource for women from all walks of life (the music world included) such as "Girls Night Out" and "Binders Full of Women Writers," both of which throw events in town. The latter has led to a popular annual event called BinderCon in various cities.

Beyond supporting each other and holding certain men responsible for their actions, the cultural reckoning happening right now is about finding power in numbers. In the L.A. music scene, it's transcending talk, taking action and hopefully transforming old norms so that real change can occur and everyone, no matter what gender they identify with, can unite and celebrate life. "Solutions are the future of the conversation," O'Dell says hopefully. "It's so exciting to see what was born out of women in nightlife and music holding space for each other."

This content was originally published here.

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vesselblock65-blog · 6 years ago

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M.I.A.’s first show and the birth of the mash-up: Remembering Hollertronix, where mixtapes and mosh pits ruled

A show at North Philly’s Warehouse on Watts this weekend turns the clock back to the early 2000s in homage to one of the most legendary parties in Philadelphia history.

“Red Bull Presents: Hollerboard Redux” is a celebratory throwback to Hollertronix, the wild, sweaty, sonically innovative recurring party started in 2002 by DJ Lowbudget (aka Michael McGuire) and Diplo (Wesley Pentz). Friday night’s show features appearances by some of the key players in the scene — including Lowbudget, Cosmo Baker, Nick Catchdubs, Dirty South Joe, and Spank Rock (in his final performance under that stage name).

What’s to commemorate? After starting out as a strictly local affair, Hollertronix became a hot topic on the infamous online “Hollerboard” message boards and gained a cult following. It hosted one of M.I.A’s first shows. In 2003, the New York Times named the Hollertronix mixtape Never Scared one of the best albums of the year, calling it “a near-perfect party mix.”

Hollertronix was a laboratory that allowed Wes and Mike to popularize lesser-known musical genres (think Baltimore club) and experiment with mashing up musical styles in a way that’s now commonplace, but was then pioneering. It was a way to channel crate-digger geekiness and creativity with pure, technically-brilliant party rock. It was shaped by Philadelphia’s rich pre-Serato DJing history and an influx of New York folks fleeing Giuliani-era enforcement of cabaret laws. The dance floor featured a mélange of kids, black and white, gay and straight, hailing everywhere from Baltimore to Connecticut.

The result was something the Philly nightlife scene had never seen before — and has really never seen since.

Courtesy Christopher Ross

Michael McGuire aka DJ Lowbudget (DJ and musician): Me and Wes kept bumping into each other, and eventually we decided to do a party at this place called the Ukrainian Club, the Ukie. We wanted to play down south music, ‘80s stuff, and electro. The first Hollertronix party was actually my birthday.

Wesley Pentz aka. Diplo (DJ and producer): I wanted to throw a party where I could play all kinds of hip-hop. The first Hollertronix, the “Get Crunk Now” party, was a lot of 80s stuff. Now, if you heard about this…you’d just be like, who gives a fuck, that’s so redundant. But back then those scenes were so different.

McGuire: The first party was September 2002. We really didn’t do much promotion at all. It was mostly word of mouth. We had about a 150 people come, but it was good, and the word of mouth afterward was even better.

Pentz: In Philly, social clubs had a special license to stay open an extra hour. The Ukrainian Club was dingy and old, but it was right by my house. Also, the parties we were doing were kind of illegal, but we were so far up the northside of Philadelphia that the police weren’t bothering us. I became good friends with the owners. They thought I was actually Ukrainian. I’d go to their meetings sometimes.

Rose Luardo (performance artist, comedian, musician): It looked like an old man’s basement: cheap, yellow, wood paneling, long cafeteria tables. It looked like there was a big Polish wedding the day before and the day after.

Nick Barat aka Nick Catchdubs (Fool’s Gold Records co-founder and DJ): It was all musty and dank. There was a tiny bar in the back, like in a cafeteria, where the lunch lady stands and takes your money. But instead, it was a weird Ukrainian lady who would take your money and then give you a giant bottle of Obolon beer.

Jayson Musson (artist): All the artwork on the walls was Ukrainian history, or Ukrainian people or Ukrainian national messages. By default, everyone was an outsider. It’s not your space, no matter who you are. So that put everyone on a level ground.

McGuire: Part of what gave us confidence was the alcohol was cheap and it stayed open later than 2 a.m. If you started playing something people didn’t like, they weren’t going to leave and go to the next bar, because it was in this weird location. So there was more freedom to be creative. I consider the actual setting of the party just as much a part of the success as our own creative input.

Luardo: People would say, “I went to a really great dance party and had the most incredible time.” And it grew and grew. You just knew you were going to have a balls-to-the-wall time.

McGuire: Social networking was blowing up at the same time. Friendster was just developing. There were these weird local Philly message boards. Everyone would get on there and it was all this Philly drama. People would have all-out beefs. It was a great promotional device. I remember [The Philadelphia] City Paper emailing me, saying, hey, we heard you’re doing this party, we want to list it. I never returned their call. If you had to read City Paper to find out about it, we didn’t want you there.

Courtesy Christopher Ross

Cosmo Baker (DJ and producer): Philadelphia was really the home of the DJ. Cash Money and Jazzy Jeff were two DJs who, in the ‘80s, were the pinnacle of what it meant to be a DJ. We’ve always been a working class city. It’s a very tough city. Nobody can tell us what to do. Everyone’s growing up in a city that’s not really giving you that much. So when it comes time to blow off some steam, they really know how to do it, how to let loose.

Barat: The party could only have existed in Philadelphia. It couldn’t have existed in New York. New York was shitty because of Giuliani, and more importantly, 9/11 had happened and everybody was moving out. It was just sort of dead. You had really expensive rap-video-style, bottle-service club parties, and then you had beard-stroking, my-record’s-more-obscure disco parties that weren’t really for dancing. There were two total extremes.

Joey Massarueh aka Dirty South Joe (DJ and producer): In the summer of 1999, the cabaret laws were put into effect. It was a systematic thing: one by one, at all your favorite little [Lower East Side] spots that held 150 people, there were tables on the dance floor. Giuliani had this major push to clean the streets. New York really felt like a police state. Cops on every corner and halfway down each block. It was like, ok, here we are this vast metropolis, the greatest city on Earth, and you can’t fucking dance.

Baker: I decided, alright, I’m going to move back to Philadelphia. I’m not saying that Giuliani is responsible for the success of Wes and Mike, but a butterfly flaps its wings, and a wave crashes on the other side of the world, right?

Massarueh: There was definitely something special happening in Philly. I remember it being so much more “no bullshit” than any other place I’d ever been. There’s no hustle you’re going to get over here. There’s just too many ways that people are going to shoot it down or see through it. It’s a tough place to learn how to DJ, but you go to other places and you realize you’ve been trained. There’s generation after generation of families that are DJs in Philly. Kids whose dads taught it to them. It’s serious. It has a very blue collar basis here, and part of that is a foundation in classic party-rocking.

Courtesy Christopher Ross

McGuire: At Hollertronix, people would start coming in early and head immediately for the dance floor. No “Let me get a drink first, let me wait till they start playing music I like.” Just right to the dance floor. As a DJ, this is great, I can play whatever I want. They’re not being picky, they’re ready to party.

Naeem Juwan aka Spank Rock (rapper): I would be traditionally the first person on the dance floor. Me and my friends would walk in and start dancing. We’d be like the first five people on the floor — dancing relentlessly, all night. I loved dancing with people that didn’t know how to dance well.

Luardo: The combination of Wes and Mike was phenomenal. They had such different sensibilities. You want to talk about a mash-up—two guys with different music tastes, bringing music and people together.

McGuire: Wes was more out there, really wanting to push the envelope. I was more geared towards rocking the crowd. If it was just me, the party might not have been interesting enough. If it was just him, it might have been too weird, might have alienated people. Together, it was a great balance.

Barat: It’s easier for Wes to be the weirdo and Mike to be the voice of rap reason, but the reality of it was, they both had really extensive taste and both had as much vested interest in pop records and other stuff. Mike definitely brought a little more of the working DJ sense, because he had a lot more experience with it. And he scratched better.

Massarueh: The one thing Mike and Wes would both tell you is, there was a very direct relation going on between the record store Armand’s and the music that was played at Hollertronix.

Baker: Armand’s was the definitive record store in Philadelphia for years. It had everything. It became a ritual — you’d go down to Armand’s once or twice a week. It kind of gave DJs a sense of community — it’s how I met Dirty South Joe. You’d spend hours on end there, listening to records, digesting records, being around other DJs and seeing how they reacted to records. But there was also a sense of competition. You’d make sure that you got there at the right time, so that if there’s only three copies of a hot new record, you were going to be one of the three guys that got it.

Barat: This was DJing before Serato came out — Serato is a software that basically lets you DJ off your laptop. Which, for a working DJ, is a godsend, because you don’t have to lug records everywhere. But it did change the craft and approach. Anybody who can download music and copy it to their hard drive can just get out there and start doing it. But when Hollertronix stuff was going on, if Wes and Mike wanted to play a weird record, they’d really have to seek it out.

McGuire: This was not only before Serato, but also laptops and even CDs. Just two turntables, man. We were doing this with just turntables and a mixer and we had a little sampler for sound effects. People can’t believe we did that with just two turntables.

Massarueh: DJing pre-Serato didn’t just require a lot more skill, it required a lot more dedication from every aspect of your life. There were certain days you had to set aside each week to go get new weapons. You had to go clean and load your gun with new shit. If the labels were too slow, you’d get the kill cuts and bootlegs. You’d take a cab or drive anywhere from four to eight crates to a gig and pack them up at the end of the night. Everywhere you went, you kept them behind you in the booth. You were only as good as the records you had.

Barat: Wes and Mike would take these dollar-bin records from Armand’s and sort of build a context around them. They would play a Trick Daddy record and realize it’s the same tempo as this new Metro Area disco song.

Pentz: Lowbudget was the first to actually go down to Baltimore to pick up the records. We’d buy mixtapes — they worked so well for us.

Baker: It goes back to the vision they had, of throwing all these things together and creating a perfect blend. They weren’t the first guys to mix things half-time and they weren’t the first guys to play Baltimore club or Southern rap or Joy Division records, but they were playing all of them together. On paper, it didn’t make sense. But within the confines of the party, it made perfect sense.

Musson: Baltimore is played around the world because of Hollertronix. It’s in the music of Nick and Naeem, and more DJs in general drop Baltimore shit now. And that’s because of Hollertronix. They didn’t make the wheel, but they were definitely like, yo, there’s this wheel over here.

Juwan: Before, you had these very specific music scenes that had all these fucking rules. Rock sounded like rock, punk sounded like punk, and hip-hop sounded like hip-hop. But when you had everyone mixing together, all these different people with different musical backgrounds together and dancing at that party, it inspired everybody.

Roxy Summers aka Roxy Cottontail (party promoter and DJ): Fixed-gear guys next to tall-T guys next to regular South Philly dudes.

Musson: You’d have your indie kids. It was this kind of post-electro period. Racially, I guess it was really solidly diverse. You had white people, black people — it was just “the kids.”

Luardo: I really felt like, it doesn’t matter who you are in this city: if you are straight edge, if you are punk rock from punk rock, if you are a 90-year-old hippie, if you’re a high-school kid — if you show up to this party, you are down for whatever.

Courtesy Christopher Ross

Massarueh: By the end of the night, that’s when it would get really crunk — head busting, people jumping off the stage. Me and Jayson and Mike had an unofficial group called the Philadelphia Crunk Lords. Everybody knew there was eventually going to be a mosh pit and we were all going to playfully beat each others’ asses and try not to slip on all the beer on the floor.

Musson: They’d play shit to incite mosh pit. The mosh pit was like a boardroom meeting of faces. It was a duty. I felt like if I wasn’t there, I was letting someone down.

Luardo: It was a lot of Sodom and Gomorrah. Crazy shit happened all the time.

McGuire: You’re not going to leave this party looking good. You can get as dolled up as you want, but when you leave you’re going to be nasty and you’re not going to be dolled up anymore. You’re going to break a sweat here.

Luardo: I know that I would crowd surf, I know that I would jump on top of people, I did things like that and everybody else did too. It was that kind of abandon.

McGuire: Our Halloween parties kind of became a thing. I remember the first one, just seeing so many crazy costumes. Jesus and Bin Laden dancing together. Dudes dancing in their underwear. Just people acting nuts.

Barat: M.I.A.’s “Galang” had come out on this little record company called Showbiz in the UK. Wes had found that 12-inch, sought her out, and they started working on stuff together. She signed, got her record deal, came to Philly, and made a mixtape. One of her earliest performances was at Hollertronix on Halloween.

Pentz: That was the first time M.I.A. had ever done a show. She’d done like a little Fader show in a parking lot but this was the first show after that. She was super nervous.

Juwan: By the time that big Halloween party happened, Hollertronix had really made a name for itself. It was big enough that they could get Bun B to come out. I was going on for Plastic Little, so I was fucking stoked.

Massarueh: Halloween was Naeem’s debut and M.I.A.’s debut. She was just getting her whole performing thing together. And friggin Bunn B was there.

Courtesy Christopher Ross

Barat: They started getting all this attention when The New York Times said that the mix CD was one of the best records of the year — not just [best] mixtapes, but actual records. It became this phenomenon, and got really, really big, up to the point that it wasn’t sustainable anymore.

Summers: I remember Never Scared was in The New York Times as one of the best albums. It wasn’t even an album. I was like, huh? How could a mixtape get best album? But that just goes to show the power of the music they were playing.

Massarueh: They really changed idea of touring DJs. At the time, you had three or four dudes in the world that DJed rap on tour — Jazzy Jeff, Stretch Armstrong, Cash Money, early 2000s guys like that. Wes and Mike opened it up to more of a get-in-a-van, punk rock kind of thing. They took that party to different cities, starting with New York.

Barat: They wanted to do bigger things, move on to bigger challenges. M.I.A. happened, Wes’s thing as a DJ and producer happened. You couldn’t go back again.

Summers: Those times will never be replicated. And you know, when you’re in them, you don’t realize that. You just think they’re going to go on forever.

Barat: When the party stopped, it was almost like you didn’t realize it. It wasn’t like they played a last show and were like, alright guys, it’s done. They just didn’t do another one. I liked that it was left open-ended like that.

Luardo: Whenever I have a really fun time, I’m like, it feels like Hollertronix. It created a standard. The people I met there, we’re not really finding any more places that are what that party was. I don’t think there should be and I don’t think there can be. And I don’t think Wes and Mike knew it was going to be that amazing. When we look at all the lines, and trace it all back, it’s almost coincidental, random. Like when someone knocked a little bit of salt into the chocolate chip cookies and were like, oh my god, they’re so good. I’m nostalgic just talking about it. It was so good!

Source: https://billypenn.com/2018/09/28/m-i-a-s-first-show-and-the-birth-of-the-mash-up-remembering-hollertronix-where-mixtapes-and-mosh-pits-ruled/

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