Ian Svenonius by http://www.flickr.com/photos/calamity_hane/
The second night of All Tomorrow’s Parties New York is when people really go hard. Existence's sharp edges sanded down by music and substances, vacationing rock nerds are free to fling themselves around the padded cell of Kutsher's Country Club to their hearts' content. This year, many wandered over to one the resort's dusty bars after Animal Collective's set to dance all night to the smokin' soul 45's of Ian Svenonius. A V.I.P.-less festival meant egalitarian mingling of artists, fans and media; Jim Jarmusch stopped by for a drink and No Age could be seen hanging out.
Clad in a hoodie and baseball cap, Vice's Jesse Pearson unwound after a day of filming Svenonius' awkward interrogations of rock legends for the VBS series Soft Focus.
Who was his favorite band he'd seen so far? "Suicide," he replied without hesitation. Was he disappointed Alan Vega didn't get up to any crazy stage antics? "The craziest thing he could do at this point is piss his own pants." Fair enough.
Out on the patio, I overheard Rich Zerbo of the uber-cool Social Registry label gently ribbing Pitchfork's Ryan Schreiber for publishing a review of The Beatles: Rockband. A more easygoing guy than Pitchfork's severe reputation might have you believe, Scheiber took it good-naturedly, then turned to greet me. Having fun? "Yeah, I'm still going strong," he said, sipping his beer and grinning. "This is literally the best festival that happens." Take it from him.
Back inside, I went over to meet the tall, jumpy Svenonius. Could he talk for a second? He answered a question with a question, asking "Are you a Leo?" followed by "where are you staying?" He then grabbed me and led me in a dance, delivering an accidental head-butt in the process. Further questions were met with similar responses from the eternal ladies' man, until I asked what record he'd play next. "Bobby Womak," he said. "It's the original version of the song. I think you're really gonna like it." I did, and judging from their relentless gyrations on the floor, so did everyone. When the lights came on at 5 a.m., folks were reluctant to leave. "Where's the next thing?" asked one guy. The foggy lakeshore, debauched hotel rooms or dreamland.
Clad in a hoodie and baseball cap, Vice's Jesse Pearson unwound after a day of filming Svenonius' awkward interrogations of rock legends for the VBS series Soft Focus.
Who was his favorite band he'd seen so far? "Suicide," he replied without hesitation. Was he disappointed Alan Vega didn't get up to any crazy stage antics? "The craziest thing he could do at this point is piss his own pants." Fair enough.
Out on the patio, I overheard Rich Zerbo of the uber-cool Social Registry label gently ribbing Pitchfork's Ryan Schreiber for publishing a review of The Beatles: Rockband. A more easygoing guy than Pitchfork's severe reputation might have you believe, Scheiber took it good-naturedly, then turned to greet me. Having fun? "Yeah, I'm still going strong," he said, sipping his beer and grinning. "This is literally the best festival that happens." Take it from him.
Back inside, I went over to meet the tall, jumpy Svenonius. Could he talk for a second? He answered a question with a question, asking "Are you a Leo?" followed by "where are you staying?" He then grabbed me and led me in a dance, delivering an accidental head-butt in the process. Further questions were met with similar responses from the eternal ladies' man, until I asked what record he'd play next. "Bobby Womak," he said. "It's the original version of the song. I think you're really gonna like it." I did, and judging from their relentless gyrations on the floor, so did everyone. When the lights came on at 5 a.m., folks were reluctant to leave. "Where's the next thing?" asked one guy. The foggy lakeshore, debauched hotel rooms or dreamland.
