The experience of going to an Awful Records show is similar to entering a carnival – you opt into the madness, things get surreal, and you end up puking after taking a wild ride. But, either way, the choice to enter was yours. I kept reminding myself that I chose this as I nursed a raging hangover the morning after I went to see the full Awful Records crew tear up SOB’s.
I always keep a lookout for shows featuring Father on the bill, because I know they are going to get out of control in the best way. But when pretty much the full Awful Records roster was playing a venue walking distance form my office, I knew I couldn’t miss out. Not only was Father (star of the underground anthem “Look at Wrist”) in attendance, but DJ/ producer Keith Charles Spacebar, bad rapper bitch Lord Narf, and the ever-turnt Slug Chris were also on the bill. Playboi Carti, whose song “Broke Boi” is one of my anthems was also in the mix, along with the tall, dreadlocked Adonis Rich Po Slim. With a line up like that, how could I say no?
Going out to show on a Monday was just one sign of my poor impulse control that night. Another was when I opted for a double of Prosecco as soon as I entered the venue. I didn’t know a “double” glass of bubbly was even possible but when a pint glass filled with that sweet, sweet nectar was placed in front of me, I could swear I saw God. It certainly helped that warm up DJ’s, two super fly girls Angel + Dren who I’m still trying to track down, were playing Future.
I got my partner-in-crime Sophie to down a double glass of Prosecco with me, so by the time Keith Charles Spacebar came on stage to DJ and perform we were more than ready. He started playing a short but turnt up mix of Atlanta rap and trappin music. With every second, more and more people were coming on the stage. At this point, the small venue began to get hot. Like, sweat out my hairstyle hot. Cue more Prosecco and a smoke break outside to cool me down.
I got back inside to see an improbable amount of people on stage, including a skinny white boy about to perform – Slug Christ. His oversized red shirt flapped in the wind as he literally jumped up and down onstage. Honestly, at this point the Prosecco and the head had gone to my head, and I started to feel a bit floaty. Slug played “Fuck this Money” and “I’m the Ocean” with his skinny pale arms flying in the air. At one point, Slug threw up on the mic. The front row probably didn’t appreciate this, but honestly it fit in with the DIY punk rock vibe of the show. Despite vomiting, Slug kept right on performing. This inspired me get more Prosecco. That’s 3 double glasses at this point, or about a full bottle by my estimation. That was the last drink I remember ordering.
My mind may have been going, but the show went on. On stage, Playboi Carti stepped to the front of the mob, and started signing “Broke Boi”. Someone from stage jumped headfirst into the crowd, which was more like a mass of trap arms at this point.
The rest of the show wasn’t really individual sets, it was more like one mass of overlapping performances. So many of tracks featured 2-3 features, all of which were onstage. Things started to feel like one big party, but the performances themselves were tight. The ultra-bae Lord Narf jumped in for the trap anthem “Shooters” and as I watched her in her red bandanna visor, I fell a little bit in love. Rich Po rapped his verse to “Always 1” with his shirt off, dreads flying everywhere. I was ready to sign up to be an Awful Records groupie, and the show wasn’t even half over.
The performances by the Patriarch himself, Father, seems more song-driven and focused. While Slug and Carti went so in they were literally sick on stage, Father delivered his sing song lines perfectly, with no backing track. The heat was getting to everyone, but people were singing every word to songs like “Spoil You Rotten” with a slow mosh that kept going all night.
I was hoping Father and Rich Po would do “BET Uncut”, just to hear Po deliver his “unlock her coochie chakra’s” line but alas, it was not to be. Either I literally blacked out for that or it wasn’t played. In the end, I was flinging champagne as I did trap arms to “Please Stop Wearing Fake Versace” and “Everybody in the Club Getting Shot”. The aggression was real, and so was my commitment to getting turnt.
Continuing my string of great choices, we decided to attend the after party. There I stalked my new DJ girl-crushes Angel and Dren as they tore up their set. I remember lots of dancing, rapping along to a Nicki Minaj song, and my friend Dharmic passing out in a bodega. I do not remember falling in the street around 3am but I am told it happened. I believe this because I have a giant bruise on my hip.
Moral of this story is twofold – if you want to get fucking lit, get to an Awful Records show. If you want to remember all of it, lay off the champagne.
