In 1994 I was eight years old. I didn’t understand sex, drugs, rock music, or the concept of VICE, where I’m not even an official intern. I moved to Brooklyn and just hang around the office until people get sick of me and send me out on deranged courier missions through Manhattan. Sometimes they have me move furniture or perform other delinquent work. Today I am writing about the 15-year anniversary Halloween bash that’s been all over the internet because I am wide-eyed and they think it’s cute.
Saturday evening I was banging around on a 16-foot ladder, perched precariously near an I-beam, positioning drapes in the green room and trying to be quiet while H.R. from Bad Brains dozed on a leather sofa and chanted some Rastafarian advice to me. I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, but I suppose it would be similar to listening to a fortune cookie writer deliver a collegiate commencement speech. The ladder slammed down on the concrete floor and he told me to “Walk like a feather, step lightly my son. Be the sound.”
I promised the event organizer I wouldn’t get obliterated while shooting photos of the party, but somehow managed to ingest 15 different types of beers that flew into the pit during The Jesus Lizard set.
In the pit, if you are wearing a mini skirt you might lose your undies. I also learned never to crowd surf or you might lose your iPhone/Blackberry/6-way slider/walkie-talkie. An unlikely scenario during crowd surfing but important tip to remember is that at any time someone could grab your shirt and pull you head-first into the pit so that you bash your head on the speakers and start gushing blood on everyone around you. I learned these lessons, because in the pit I found a cell phone and ripped panties, and now have someone’s blood spattered across my gray sweatshirt.
I felt like I was in the produce aisle of Whole Foods because there were way too many assholes dressed like gigantic bananas. Thankfully one costume resembling a Ziploc bag full of coke reminded me where I was.
Another photographer leaned over and shouted into my earplugs, “What’s that bulge? Is the lead singer wearing a bulletproof vest?” If that wasn’t enough of an indicator of how the Bad Brains set was going to unfold, two songs into their act security shutdown the whole production for several moments to restore order and move the crowd barricade away from the stage.
Wearing two layers of white hooded sweatshirts and his hands layered in white bath towels, H.R. calmly walked back to the mic, a glowing messiah of punk rock. It was uncomfortably hot in the warehouse, which led to condensation on the ceiling and an eventual sweaty rain drizzling from above. H.R. chanted the crowd into another frenzy in which more casualties were tallied up from the melee. I got kicked in the head, but the pain was relieved by a flying beer-soaked wig, probably from a Kurt Cobain tribute costume.
Ecstasy Tarzan girl was out of her mind, stabbing every balloon with a broken glass bottle till security dragged her out of the party. The bands’ tour manager was wide-eyed, screaming double-fisted into a cell phone and a walkie-talkie. Everyone around me was in panic; I felt my own anxiety levels rising so I whipped around and did a hyena-gazelle maneuver and latched onto the neck of the nearest thing resembling a brunette. I later learned that was a VICE/VBS employee, but figured if I keep quiet I might get to stick around.
I woke up disoriented and naked in a Polish neighborhood apartment. I gathered it was Polish because every store sign around read “Polish Restaurant, Polish Hardware Store, Polish Deli, etc.” Polish hookers sounded enticing, but hunger was my primary concern. The most rational idea I could summon was to purchase a Polish donut and listen to bootleg disco dance music on the street.
I stumbled upon mile marker #12 of the NYC Marathon and couldn’t fathom jogging to the subway entrance or even doing anything remotely healthy. My Donnie Darko garb was shredded to pieces; only a quarter of my original costume remained. It was a glorious walk of shame, but that’s what you get for chasing after a blonde dominatrix while trying to dress up as some cult movie character from an era not even close to 1994. I’ve photographed nearly 200 events this year and seen nothing like last night in that grimy warehouse. VICE Magazine’s Halloween Party took the cake, quite literally; Happy 15th Anniversary!
Photos also by Ben DeCamp; find more pics of the madness on our Photo Blog.
Tags: 15-year anniversary, 1994, Parties, Photography
this party was a really nice time
the dude dressed as a coke bag wins
HAPPY BIRFDAY VICE!
for something i wasn’t sure i’d leave alive, i haven’t felt that alive in a long time.
coke baggie guy was good but the dude dressed as amish paradise was my favorite, hands down.
The pictures capture the mayhem perfectly, kudos donnie.
What? No deaths? Well, I suppose that’s cool.
I was there. I had to wait in line forever but it was worth it. Great sound system for the bands and the DJ at the downstairs rave was SPOT ON. I was having Hornitos-triggered flashbacks among the sweaty hipsters…. and I was groped several times by chicks (and I am a dude) and that was rad.
let’s do 16 in 2010. This time I will get there at 5pm.
the whole thing’s a blur
Epicly fucking tater’d. Great party.
i came, i saw, the jesus lizard conquered.
a bag of red dead heroin would have been more appropriate.
There was no reason for the line… it was empty inside. this party was kind of a bust unless you like to get groped while crowd surfing at a dirty grungy party…
I felt bad for the people waiting hours outside. If it makes you feel better, Jesus Lizard wasn’t anything special. NOT! You idiots missed out on the sickest fucking party everrrrrrrrrr.
I didn’t see anyone dressed as Oasis. So I am listening to “Rock n’ Roll Star” right now to make up for it. Mad ferret!
i snuck in and sucker punched a security guard in the dark hallway.
The London party sucked BALLS. That’s what I get for leaving Brooklyn.
David Yow is a hero 100% of the time.
this dude sounds like a total tampon