fractal cowboys eat new york

This past weekend we (the Fractal Cowboys) visited and played New York City for the first time, and it was a blast and a half.
It has long been on the “bucket list” to play music in New York, and this past weekend, we were two blocks away from Times Square on Saturday night. Along with fellow California psychonaut and friend, The Dog of Tears, Quasar and I were interested to see what kind of trouble we could get into, before, during, and after the show.
The first thing I noticed after de-boarding, was that the cold embraces you like a wet t-shirt. And that the puffy jacket, which I thought was rated for “winter on pluto”, actually let some of the cool in. And quickly any thoughts of me being “climate-tough” from living in the fog bank of San Francisco, were quickly dashed, when a few people walked by in short sleeves.
I took the “A” train to cirqué dú Renné’s house, our hostess, and the impetus for gathering on this occasion. Quasar and I had already been to Psycrowdelica with her last summer, and are psyched to get to stay in a house, which arguably might be the best underground club in that part of Bed-Stuy. It’s No sleep ’til Brooklyn 24/7 here, and with Dog of Tears, Quasar, myself and Marco (a completely kick ass costa rican dj) staying in a house with our hosts, and two nice cats, schmoo and coyote. Space is tight in Brooklyn, which is apparent in Renee’s bathroom. In a spot which Dog of Tears speculated was Hasidic landlord designed, it was not possible to actually sit straight on the toilet. But if you sit sideways, and put your feet in the shower, its on.
Out of respect to Schmoo, whom was bitten at a Goth club and turned Vampire, there are no mirrors in the house.
Saturday, we left club Renneé just in time to train over to the village, and see what’s up ( and catch a sunset). We went to Houston st. (pronounced howzidon) and found ourselves at Miss Lilly’s, a Jamaican place, specializing in Jerk sauces. Upon entering, everything tickles the palate, all at once. The incredibly well selected dub plates, the decor, the fashion of the waiter, and the elegance of the waitresses. We knew we were in the right place. Probably near my lowbrow ideals as to what perfect dining should be. We would probably still be there, waiting to die, if it wasn’t for out appointment with our fashion consultant, Mr. Chris Frost, also known as the King of the woman’s handbag, at the classic café Reggio.
Mr. Frost is a bit of a keeper of good stories, and we considered ourselves lucky to have such fine entertainment for the later afternoon.
We head over to an Israeli run bar (The dog of tears is huge in Israel, we forget this, until we are at the bar, and we are followed by the Israeli popprozzi). Quasar and I try to balance the offerings of free alcohol that are coming our way, due to our friendship with “the dog”. Undoubtedly, this must be what touring with Oprah must be like. While this was going on, Mr. Frost told us the reason for losing his facial hair, and how he was going to sneak into his high school reunion later that nite. After lighting a menorah we got from a truck of people going by doing good deeds, it was time to go to the party.
We make our way to times square, grab a snack and get ready for the party. The Dog of Tear played first, and had a great crowd reaction. The venue was small, and it was hot and crowded, which is probably one of the better ways the party could be.
Playing after him, we kept it going, and got to try out the Quasar, No Sleep ’til Brooklyn remix. Which lead to more West Psy, and before you know it, the 90 minutes are done.
The set went well, and we got to try out about thirty minutes of new stuff, which is always fun. We also got to hear about the 2 for 1 suck out, which is a fetish that someone at the bar was saying they were into. It was later renamed by Mr. Frost as the cuckold cream pie, and that is all that can be said about that.
Sunday was a blur of hazy places and after parties, traffic at five am, and shennaningens.
Here is hoping we get to come back, it is great to go to “the city that never sleeps” from san francisco, which is arguably the city that always sleeps.
While riding around after the party, and between the honks and fightings of our driver, we heard some music by the doors, and my mind starts to think, hmmmm, haven’t done any of them yet.
But first, I must write a song with no samples in it. In exchange, The Dog of Tears says he will write the song which will define West Psy for generations to come. So, things to do when we get back.
Im left with the feeling of happiness, that our music writing hobby can be a vehicle to adventures, neat people, and, most importantly, really ridiculously phat dancefloors.
Next stop, brazil (or is it India)
stay tooned


About ylan D

im an alien you have the breakfast tacos i think we are clear with each other
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