September 2022: The Party Issue

SEPTEMBER 2022

The Party Issue

PG. 23

Working Hard, Partying Sober: Staying Dry at the Social Ivy PG. 28

The Little Magazine Shop Frozen in Time PG. 10

Inside the Fight to Save the UC Townhomes PG. 17

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Contents September 2022

EXECUTIVE BOARD

Emily White, Editor–in–Chief white@34st.com Eva Ingber, Digital Managing Editor ingber@34st.com Walden Green, Print Managing Editor green@34st.com Arielle Stanger, Assignments Editor stanger@34st.com Mira Sydow, Creative Director sydow@34st.com EDITORS

Jesse Zhang CAMPUS

7 Ego of the Month: Justin Acheampong 10 The World According to John Shahidi CITY

14 Helen Gym on the Power of Voice and Perseverance 17 ‘The Big Change’: Inside the Fight to Save the UC Townhomes THE PARTY ISSUE

23 Pace & Blossom Is More Than Just Another West & Down 28 Working Hard, Partying Sober CULTURE

38 Take It to the Streets: What to Do in Philly This Month 40 Where Singer–Songwriter Meets Popstar: A Conversation with Ella Jane

46 Maggie Rogers’ ‘Surrender’ Burns Bright in Its Emotional Catharsis 48 Comedy Television’s Narrowing Scope: Disease or Symptom?

ON THE COVER

September is for dizzying lights and Starbucks mixed drinks and aluminum foil photoshoot backgrounds and reunions. This cover shoot was inspired by the glamor and instability of nightlife at Penn.

Photo by Jesse Zhang CONTACTING 34th STREET MAGAZINE

If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Emily White, Editor–in–Chief, at white@34st.com.

You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com © 2021 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors. All rights reserved.

baffled era

Kira Wang, Features Editor Hannah Lonser, Features Editor Jean Paik, Focus Editor Natalia Castillo, Style Editor Alana Bess, Ego Editor Kate Ratner, Music Editor Irma Kiss–Barath, Arts Editor Jacob A. Pollack, Film & TV Editor Andrew Yang, Multimedia Editor Kira Wang, Social Media Editor THIS ISSUE

Tyler Kliem, Design Editor Caleb Crain, Issue Design Director Collin Wang, Deputy Design Editor Sophie Apfel, Copy Editor STAFF

Features Staff Writers Sejal Sangani, Gemma Hong, Avalon Hinchman Focus Beat Writers Connor Nakamura, Sruthi Srinivas, Samara Himmelfarb Style Beat Writers Shelby Abayie, Naima Small, Shahana Banerjee Music Beat Writers Derek Wong, Grayson Catlett Arts Beat Writers Jessa Glassman, Emily Maiorano, Grace Busser Film & TV Beat Writers Jacob A. Pollack, Kayla Cotter, Julia Polster Ego Beat Writers Anjali Kishore Staff Writers Emma Marks, Daniel Kochupura Multimedia Associates Roger Ge, Max Mester, Derek Wong, Andrea Barajas, Rachel Zhang Audience Engagement Associates Kayla Cotter, Yamila Frej, Katherine Han, Emily Xiong, Gemma Hong

LET TER FROM THE EDITOR

I

In which we say some goodbyes, and a few hellos

f you’ve picked up a copy of Street before, you might notice something different about this one.

The cover is graced with a new logo, the old newsprint has been replaced by glossy paper, and the issue itself has expanded to 52 pages. Put like that, the last eight months of work feel rather simple—a mere facelift, as is par for the course for many 54–year–olds.

But this issue represents more than that. It’s the culmination of not only my dream, but those of so many of my predecessors.

In Street’s inaugural edition, then–editor William K. Mandel outlined a vision for the magazine as a place for “members of the

Emily White

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community who have had little or no previous outlet in print.” That issue’s feature story was a first–person reflection on the writer’s interactions with police as an anti–war protester, titled “Don’t Oink Back.” It was followed by your standard fare of film recommendations and boutique ads under mildly pretentious titles like “Polychromes” and “The Trodden Boards.”

Between then and now, we’ve been through a lot. We cut the Round Up and with it our sceniest tendencies, launched a tech section that died as quickly as Dogecoin (sorry crypto bros), and started publishing our magazine outside the folds of The Daily Pennsylvanian.

We’ve covered BLM, BBLs, MLMs, and just about any other acronym you can think of that matters to a 20–year–old. We’ve investigated the University’s wrongdoing and told you the best places to get a matcha latte on your way to class.

The monthly, glossy version of Street still has all that, just dialed up to 11. It’s the same bold photography, innovative design, and sharp writing you’ve come to expect, finally packaged in the way it deserves.

So whether you’ve been a longtime reader or are picking up a copy of our magazine for the first time, allow us to welcome you to our first monthly issue.

We hope you enjoy 34th Street.

CAMPUS

WORD ON THE STREET

‘A Queen in Bucks County’ Delivers Erotica via SEPTA The sexier the better in Kay Gabriel’s buzzy, boozy collection— and what’s sexier than economic revolution?

OLLIE DUPEY

Kilahra Lott

Everybody’s Wife

I’ve been haunted by yellow fever since I was a kid.

OLLIE KIM DUPUY

Content warning: This article contains references to anti–Asian racism and descriptions of graphic imagery, which may be disturbing and/or triggering to some readers.

T

his is a ghost story.

Remember eighth grade? You’re so close to being a young adult you can taste it, so you’re already trying to pretend—with mascara dolled onto eyelashes and a liquid liner flicked into a cat eye you

don’t know is already out of style. You’re getting dinner with a friend at a restaurant with outdoor seating, and it’s one of those nights where the air moves electric. Just for this moment, you’ve caught the snowflake of independence on your tongue.

In the middle of learning what cavatappi is, a man approaches your table. He asks if you attend the college on the sweatshirt you’re wearing, and you (a little embarrassed) say no. He tells you that his ex–wife

attended that school. You don’t know what to say to this, so you nod. He tells you you’re very beautiful, that you look like his ex–wife, and asks if you’re Asian. He is looking at you like he’s expecting something, but you don’t know what to offer him.

He goes away soon, but his presence has sat down at the table. The snowflake has melted on your tongue.

SEPTEMBER 2022

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CAMPUS

I

’m being arrogant. I assume you’re reading this as me, or someone like me, but maybe you remember it differently: passing a night– warm restaurant, a girl’s form catching your eye, sickening you with desire. She might remind you of someone. She might not. But you have to tell her you know what she is, and therefore that she could, one day, belong to you…

My mother says sometimes I’m determined to believe the worst of people. This brings me to another story.

One of my grandfathers (the one I do not call “haraboji”) served in the Korean War. I know this because when I was 14, he helped me unpack boxes of war memorabilia in his back room. We find his discharge letter, written by a superior officer and addressed to my grandfather’s family. It comes with warnings: “LOCK YOUR DAUGHTERS IN THEIR ROOMS” and “Be especially watchful when he is in the company of women, particularly young and beautiful specimens.”

There are also boxes of projection slides.

Mostly bar and club scenes, the men all white, the women all Korean. We look at them together, and my grandfather goes quiet as the women and men dip and kiss for posterity. When we finish the box, he laughs.

“Thank God that’s it,” he jokes. Or doesn’t.

Would you give him the benefit of the doubt? Would you believe the best of him?

T

his story could have ended differently.

Let me tell you how.

You’re 18, and an adult now. You’re working a school event on campus. Last week you missed a step going down some stairs, so your

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foot is in a boot, meaning you cannot run.

A visitor has started asking you questions about the panel, and you are smiling because you like to smile and you like to talk to strangers, especially about things you’re knowledgeable about. It’s all going well. It’s going like it should. Until he says you’re very pretty, and asks if you are Asian.

“I’m Korean,” you say back, but your heart is beating faster.

Technically, “to mourn” means to express sorrow over something you’ve lost. But you can also mourn something you have. You could call it being haunted.

I am full of ghosts, but probably not the ones you’re thinking of. I’m talking about the things you are forced to carry with you, or the things that follow no matter what. The university–attending ex–wife is a kind of ghost.

The women in my grandfather’s pictures are

I want to believe that the man who tells me I remind him of his wife says that because he’s lonely, and he misses his wife. I want to be honored by that, because to be a reminder of anyone’s loved one is an honor.

But that’s not what this is.

In response, he tells you he served in the Korean War. And to prove it, there is a box in his attic full of Korean ears.

You think, run, run, run.

I

want to believe that the man who tells me I remind him of his wife says that because he’s lonely, and he misses his wife. I want to be honored by that, because to be a reminder of anyone’s loved one is an honor.

But that is not what this is.

ghosts. The box of ears, what of my mother can be found in my face, a country cut in two—all of those are ghosts, too.

Some of these I’ve chosen to bear. Others have been dumped in my lap. Some of them make me so angry I forget to breathe, and others make me despair so much I want to.

None of this will change that they are there, with me, in pictures of me at bars and in the tips of my ears. Or that I will probably continue collecting them until I am a ghost myself. ❋

CAMPUS

Hometown

Spotswood, N.J. ————————————————————————————

Major

Psychology with a minor in sociology ————————————————————————————

Activities

Justin Acheampong Meet the senior making Penn a better place and looking good while doing it.

BY ARIELLE STANGER Can you describe what you do with SCUE and CAPSAB? With SCUE, I’m heading a project called Marginalized Community Studies, which is meant to enhance Penn’s way of teaching about marginalized and diverse communi-

ties in the United States. I felt like the General Education program didn’t touch on it enough. Especially with so many students here that are going to be major figures in their fields, I want to make sure that people are more understanding so they don’t per-

Project Chair on the Student Committee on Undergraduate Education (SCUE), Counseling and Psychological Services Advisory Board (CAPSAB), Reach–A–Peer Helpline (RAP–Line), co–State Director of the Every Voice Coalition Pennsylvania branch, MOVE Activist Archive, President of Carriage Senior Society, Onyx Senior Honor Society ———————————————————————————— Upon chatting with Justin Acheampong (C ‘23) for the first time, one thing is abundantly clear: They are dedicated to leaving Penn a better place than they found it. They foster a strong sense of community in each of their advocacy spaces, whether on or off campus. Justin’s welcoming yet spunky personality makes them the kind of friend to show you a good time while also making sure you feel safe. And to top it all off, they have the coolest philosophy on fashion—it’s an empowering form of self–care, love, and expression.

Photos courtesy of Justin Acheampong This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity. petuate oppression. Through that project, we’re trying to expand upon the Gen Ed requirements to include marginalized communities, and also host informative events.

We had a preceptorial this past spring on understanding gender, which was cool.

SEPTEMBER 2022

7

EGO On the Advisory Board to CAPS, we work with the folks at CAPS to get student perspectives on their operations, organize mental health–related events and care packages for students, and things like that. I’m also a part of Reach–A–Peer Helpline, which is an anonymous calling service for students who are in need.

What about your work with the Every Voice Coalition and MOVE? I’m the co–State Director of the Every Voice Coalition Pennsylvania branch, which is trying to pass survivor–centered and prevention–based legislation in the state to better protect and offer support services for survivors of sexual violence on college campuses. We do a lot of grassroots organizing, passing legislation, drafting, talking with legislators, etc.

I work with Dr. Krystal Strong on the MOVE Activist Archive project, where we transcribe, digitize, and preserve materials from the MOVE organization, a Black radical group in Philly. We’re trying to preserve that history and narrative the way they told it—grounded in its radical revolutionary and life–based perspective and practice—in order to combat state narratives and anti– Black perceptions of MOVE. What drew you to your current activities here at Penn?

There’s always been a pull for me to get into more advocacy spaces. I think it started in high school. I did advocacy for students with the Board of Education. We had a moment where we were campaigning for solidarity posters and sending money to Parkland, Fla. after the shooting that happened there. And I think as I grew up from high school and learned more, especially with my sociology minor and experiencing things that are outside of my predominantly white, 2–square mile town, I broadened my horizons and learned a lot more about both myself and the world.

Combining that with what already existed in me during high school really drew me to a lot of things that were grounded in causes I cared about: Advocating for Black liberation and Black radicalism, grounded in that perspective as a Black person. And also queer things and sexual violence, and how those are intertwined, just the intersec-

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tionality of everything. I think those kinds of perspectives really drew me to these spaces. And so my own experience is kind of grounded within it all, especially regarding mental health, Black issues, queer issues, and LGBTQ issues.

How has being involved in these circles influenced your time at Penn?

It’s been a source of community. So many of the friends I’ve been able to make have been in these spaces that I’ve found. Some of my closest friends have been in my advo-

CAMPUS cacy spaces—I met one of my closest friends in SCUE. These spaces offer a community that I wasn’t afforded when I was growing up in a predominantly white town, which I’ve been really thankful for. But coming to Penn, there were just so many people who I really looked up to for the work that they did. Being able to find community with them and expand my own horizons, and learn from them and their experiences and their philosophies and ideologies, that’s been something that’s really been grounding for me.

And there’s the friendship and community that comes with doing work like this: the understanding, the self–care moments, the tough moments of recognizing that this stuff is hard, and we should be here together to talk about why it’s hard and how we’re feeling. I think that’s really been very formative for me.

From the MOVE remains to what’s happening with the UC Townhomes, Penn is complicit in so much gentrification and Black unhousement, and I think that’s where the sense of community is even more helpful, because if I had to deal with some of the stuff alone, it’d take a huge toll on my mental health. Having people that are so like–minded toward change is inspirational.

What does fashion mean to you?

I actually wrote my Common Application essay about it because it’s always meant something to me, especially as a Black, queer, nonbinary person in a town that wasn’t very accepting of that. Fashion was a way for me to express myself that I had full control over. And I could use it as not only a form of self–expression, but as a form of self–care and self–love. A lot of my confidence came from the feeling that I could put together these random pieces of clothes and really pop out.

It’s so empowering for me to be able to dress the way I do. I’m not standing out and breaking boundaries necessarily, but it’s kind of a powerful moment of reclaiming power and just being me. I don’t want to be weighed down by anything. I want to be able to wear nice flowy clothes if I want to, or wear tight clothes if I want to, or wear clothes that are “more feminine” because I want to. Because it’s me, it’s my body. I don’t need anybody else’s approval but my own.

Do you have a particular style icon?

That’s a good question. I was actually just talking to my friend about this because they asked me, “What are your inspirations for fashion?” I was like, “I don't think I have any.” Definitely lots of Black queer people that I see on my timeline, and I’m like, “They look good. They have a good sense of style.”

Anything else you’d like to add?

I want people to search @saveuctownhomes on Instagram and Twitter. Pop out to show support for any actions that are coming up. And be mindful of the way that Penn’s gentrification is, in fact, affecting the Black communities in the area. ❋

Last song you listened to?

“Swamp Bitches” by Doechii.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————— No–skip album?

Ego Death by The Internet.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————— The actor who would play you in a movie?

Daniel Kaluuya. The way he portrays emotions … wow.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————— If you were to describe yourself as a building on campus, which would it be and why?

Fisher Fine Arts. She knows how to dress herself.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————— There are two types of people at Penn …

The ones who love Locust Walk and the ones who avoid it.

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————— And you are?

One who avoids Locust Walk. I have anxiety, I can’t do it.

SEPTEMBER 2022

9

EGO

Emily White

The World According to John Shahidi Avril 50, the combination magazine, coffee, and tobacco shop, has stood the test of time—by staying frozen in it.

BY EMILY WHITE

10 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E

CAMPUS

I

t’s just before noon on the Saturday of St. Patrick’s Day weekend, and two tipsy Penn students stumble into a shop on the 34th block of Sansom Street. One is dressed normally save the green color of his shirt and a string of clover–shaped beads around his neck, while the other wears a St. Patty’s–themed scarf tied around his midsection like a sarong.

“How are you doing, John?” the latter of the students, Oliver Corcoran (C ‘22), says.

“Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” “You’re a bit late,” the owner quips as the students turn toward a glass case across from the register. Noticing their drunken demeanor, he adds, “Watch out for that glass, Oliver.”

The students laugh off the observation and begin detailing what delayed their routine trip to the store. “We’ve been partying straight since yesterday,” Oliver says. His friend, Gilles Gouraige (C ‘23), agrees: “He’s drunk, just give us a bit.”

After a few minutes of browsing and chitchat, Oliver sets down a few cigars—Don Pepin Blues, to be exact—and a Toblerone bar on the counter before handing over his credit card. After a customary fist bump and the cutting of their cigars, the students scurry out the door, returning to the festivities.

This is only one of many similar interactions that John Shahidi, owner of Avril 50, has each day. Since opening the international coffee/tea/magazine/tobacco/snack store in 1984, Shahidi has built a long list of loyal customers, despite the frequent turnover of Penn students who comprise his regulars.

“Everyone who walks through the door is a human being—another person, another customer—not a number or dollar sign,” he explains. “I made a lot of friends through the store. I’ve seen three generations here.”

Beside the analog register sits a purple notebook resting on a display stand. Like a guest book at a wedding, Shahidi collects notes from his regulars—and not a single one has anything bad to say.

Avril got me through law school, one note reads.

It’s like being back in Europe, writes another.

A third customer pens a few stanzas of a poem, a sort of ode to the peace they feel inside the store.

There are dozens, if not hundreds, of

these pages. Some just have signatures, others have paragraphs–long declarations of the writers’ love for Avril 50. When asked how far these notes go back, he sighs. “2008,” he says. “I should have started it in 1984.”

Indeed, the purple book captures something that no Yelp review ever could. Each of these customers knows Shahidi by name, and in turn, he remembers each of them— their lives at Penn, their hometowns, and of course, their daily coffee orders.

When another customer walks in, she grabs a pastry and gives Shahidi a quick wave as she leaves. He pulls a card from a little box under the counter, jots something down, and goes about his day. “Another regular,” he explains.

What he doesn’t explain is why he still uses a Rolodex to track customers’ tabs.

“They call it ‘oasis,’ they call it ‘time capsule.’ Whatever it is, people love it. I love it.

And it’s gonna be that way forever.”

Within minutes of entering the shop, you experience Avril 50 with all of your senses.

The coffee creates a distinct sweetness in the air, without the chemical undertones of a chain like Starbucks. The magazines so generously laid out on the store’s racks— and floor, sometimes—remind you of your grandma’s book collection or a little shop in Paris. The classical music that plays in the background mingles with the whistle of the espresso machine.

Shahidi has never settled on a single word to describe the feeling his shop creates.

“They call it ‘oasis,’ they call it ‘time capsule.’

Whatever it is, people love it. I love it. And it’s gonna be that way forever.”

S

hahidi first came to America in the 1970s to pursue an MBA. His wife, Shiva Vakili, came along to pursue a degree of her own.

After receiving their diplomas, the couple

planned to return home to Tehran, Iran and build a life.

But the Iranian Revolution in 1979 halted their plans. Shahidi isn’t particularly religious, and he took issue with the new regime’s theocratic mode of governance.

The couple decided to remain in the United States, where Shahidi began to pursue a master’s at Penn. As time went on and his family’s finances remained unstable from the revolution, he turned to on–campus employment to pay his bills, running the shops in the basement of Houston Hall.

After sharpening his business acuity there for three years, Shahidi realized he wanted more than to manage the University’s knick–knack shops. When he and his wife saw that the building at 3406 Sansom St. was for rent, she turned to him and said without hesitation, “Let’s do this.”

Shahidi immediately got to work picking out his inventory: a collection of his favorite magazines, premium tobacco, and a boatload of coffee. In his mind, all three would be enjoyed together in the building’s basement cafe: You’d come in, grab a cigar or espresso and a magazine, and forget that the outside world existed.

This was a time before no–smoking rules were enforced, when reading the news still meant ink on paper. Shahidi quickly carved out his niche among other newsstands by providing something few others did: international publications.

Whether you were an international student who wanted to keep up to date with your home country’s news or an international relations major trying to pass your next exam, Avril 50 was your window to the rest of the world.

Tobacco is yet another of his favorite things that’ve lost popularity over the years.

In the ‘80s, students would buy a pack of cigarettes to smoke as they studied or read the paper.

While the basement cafe closed only a few years into the shop’s existence, the coffee remains as popular as ever. Even on a Saturday morning when most people would be sleeping in or out at brunch, Shahidi gets dozens of students passing through looking for a latte or espresso shot to get them through the day.

Over the years, he’s twice tried expanding Avril 50 to other locations, realizing both SEPTEMBER 2022

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EGO times that it’s impossible to replicate the success he’s had at 3406 Sansom.

A

fter 37 years of operations, Avril 50 has seen much and changed little. It’s the oldest shop on that block of Sansom Street—a fact that’s not entirely surprising given its

Although students and alumni couldn’t be there in person to support Avril 50, they didn’t abandon the place that had been such a cornerstone of their time on campus.

During the early months of the pandemic, Shahidi recalls receiving “40 to 50 calls a day” from customers. Some asked about

ers could: the decline of print journalism, the rise of franchise entrepreneurship, a global pandemic. It’s difficult to say why.

Some might speculate that the store stayed afloat as a result of Shahidi’s financial assets. (Above the shop are apartment units he rents out, a profitable source of income

mail options for their favorite international titles, but most just wanted to see how he was doing. So much more than a mere purveyor of hard–to–find magazines and tobacco, Shahidi felt just as important to them as a longtime coworker or friend.

Thankfully, the closure of Avril 50 was temporary. After just a few months, Shahidi reopened his doors to serve the few students that populated the semi–ghost town that was Penn’s campus in late 2020.

A year later, business was back to normal, and students returned to their drunken cigarette runs and sleep–deprived caffeine hunts.

Shahidi’s shop survived what few oth-

in the competitive real estate market of University City.) Others remark that Avril 50 has some essential, unreplicable quality that keeps them coming back.

“It’s not a good world anymore, so this is the world where you come here and you forget,” Shahidi says. “A lot of people just come here to relax, they don’t even buy things.”

The shop remains this little piece of the world as Shahidi wants to remember it.

There are no high–tech gadgets to indicate that you’re still in 2022; you’ll never find Shahidi using a Square–equipped iPad or even a laptop. Avril 50 today feels just like Avril 50 in 1984, down to the clack of his cash register’s buttons and the sheen of

Emily White

old–timey aura, but impressive nonetheless. While stores around it shuttered their doors, Avril 50 stayed open.

The COVID–19 pandemic was the final nail in the coffin for many University City favorites, and Shahidi came close to becoming another of its casualties. He had to shut his doors for three months to comply with local regulations, and in that time, he considered closing for good—without Penn students bustling around campus, Shahidi wasn’t making enough money to support his operating costs.

“They’re not there, so my life is almost empty,” he told The Daily Pennsylvanian in June of 2020.

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glossy magazine covers.

“Now, a lot of people don’t read. But my customers, they would rather have the [sense of] touch,” he says. “Detail has to be on paper.”

Shahidi believes it can exist this way forever. Even as newspapers go digital–only and Juuls become the primary mode of nicotine delivery, he has faith that people will still want a place to escape all that—to remind themselves of a less complicated world.

“It’s not them that change, the world changes,” he says of his customers.

And for Shahidi, that’s enough to convince him to stay.

E

verything about the store feels tied to some facet of Shahidi’s life in one way or another. Even its name, Avril 50, harkens back to Shahidi’s roots: He was born in April of 1950, where, speaking Farsi, the month would be called “Avril.” It often feels like Shahidi and his store are one and the same.

“This is basically a collage of my brain,” he explains. And he means it.

Aside from a week or two here and there during summer or winter breaks, Shahidi never closes the store. He’s been open every day except Sundays for almost 40 years, save a few months during the COVID–19 pandemic.

For those decades, Shahidi’s life has remained tied to Penn’s campus.

He hasn’t returned to Iran since he first immigrated to the United States, despite still having family living in Tehran. He explains the decision with a simple shrug: “I’m not interested.”

Shahidi lives his life through Penn students—listening to their crazy party stories, watching them struggle to pass MATH 104, and serving them coffee—but he himself remains as much of a fixture at Penn as the shop itself.

“This is my world,” he says.

The entire shop, Shahidi included, can at times feel frozen in amber as everything else swirls around it. But nothing is ever truly preserved—like so many other small businesses, Avril 50 is just one stroke of bad luck away from nonexistence.

Avril 50 likely won’t remain an “oasis” forever, but if Shahidi has anything to say about it, it’ll last at least as long as he does.

And maybe that’s enough. ❋

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A PATCHWORK OF STORIES

for GrownUps

Sunday, September 11 @ 3 PM || Tickets: Pay-What-You-Wish

Sunday, September 23 @ 6 PM || Tickets: Pay-What-You-Wish 4014 Walnut St. | theRotunda.org The_Rotunda_Philly The Rotunda

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FOCUS

Helen Gym on the Power of Voice and Perseverance How this progressive councilwoman at–large puts Philadelphians first

BY AL ANA BES S

I

t’s not every day a politician dedicates herself to her city more than her job title.

For Helen Gym (C ‘93), though, that’s her daily reality.

Since joining the Philadelphia City Council in 2016, Gym’s main focus has been improving Philadelphia as a whole, starting with implementing policies regarding quality education, affordable housing, and environmen-

Emily White

tal protection. Her driving spark can be traced back to her childhood years growing up in Columbus, Ohio.

The daughter of Korean immigrants, Gym grew up in a community that gave her as much as it could. She utilized any and all resources available to her, from public libraries to recreation centers and everything in between. “I went to a great public school, and it really instilled in me an understanding of the importance of what society can and should be bringing to people,” she says.

From a young age, Gym recognized her duty to fulfill her

end of the “constant social contract” between people and society: a mutual giving.

The feeling lasted for a while. Until it didn’t.

“I landed in a very complicated city,” she says of her decision to attend Penn for her undergraduate years. A short while after graduating with a history degree, Gym worked as a public school teacher at Lowell Elementary School, which was a huge wake up call for her.

“I couldn’t imagine [that] a nation, country, society, or city could leave young people behind in schools that lack air conditioning, libraries, modern books, research, science labs, [and] enough mentors,” she recalls. “That really ended this idea that the social contract was a given, but it’s something that is actually fought for, and most importantly, organized towards.” Unless people went out for themselves to demand what they deserved, nothing would be delivered.

Once Gym understood the power of her voice, she refused to relent. “I had the chance for more than two decades to organize alongside a group of teachers, storytellers, artists, activists, and parents who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and who are determined to see the city do something different and be bigger and better than it had been before,” she says. “And they weren’t going to wait.” Political moments are fragile, and people’s trust in what’s possible can easily be broken. Everything Gym does is “fueled by the understanding that what we lost yesterday is the drive that brings us to the urgen-

CITY cy of today and keeps us going in difficult times.”

The one issue that really drove her into office was the discrepancy in quality of public education for thousands of young people in Philadelphia. “When I was considering [running] for office, we had just closed down 30 public schools. We had lost almost all of our nurses and counselors out of the public schools—they were effectively non–existent. They may have been on paper, but in most kids’ lives, they weren’t there,” she says. Philly’s political leadership was willing to walk away from public education, so, in 2015, she made the brave choice to run for public office—this was an issue that could unify an entire city.

Obviously, Gym was right on target. “I think my victory showed that Philadelphians are galvanized by things that unite us. We are fiercely protective of one another,” she says. Continuing that mission since her appointment to City Council, Gym has ensured that everything she does is for the greater good of Philadelphia. She kickstarted a school modernization campaign that’s invested hundreds of millions of dollars toward restoring air conditioning,

it a point to expand labor rights, in particular because we’re the poorest large city,” Gym says. “We can’t have these huge towers [for big corporations] in our city and have people living in such abject poverty who worked for those companies.” So Gym established a new Department of Labor,

Chase Sutton

There’s nobody in Harrisburg and there’s nobody in Washington, D.C. who is going to fight for us harder, louder, and with a more visionary purpose than us ourselves. … It’s that outrage that drives me to action, because the decision has nothing to do with caring for life.

HELEN GYM

remedying mold, and building new public schools. “We were the fourth highest eviction city in the nation pre–pandemic, and … we’ve reduced the evictions by more than half—by 60 percent,” she says humbly.

Her efforts don’t stop there. “I’ve made

jobs, Gym also worked to institute the right to recall: Employers had to offer their formerly laid–off employees a chance to come back before hiring other people.

As the chair of the Children and Youth Committee, Gym leads the agenda to protect vulnerable children. “We spend

where she is working to guarantee the fair and advanced hourly schedule model where hourly workers are rightfully paid if their shifts are canceled or upended at the last minute. During the COVID–19 pandemic, when thousands of people lost their

hundreds of millions of dollars sending young people away when they’re in distress or involved in the juvenile justice system. We send them to places where they can be harmed, abused, and then they’re sent back to us and we have to pick up the pieces,” she says. Because of this, Gym has made it a point to shut down a number of abusive institutions, reconfigure statewide reform and accountability, and establish smaller residential living spaces closer to home for young people in the juvenile justice or child welfare systems.

Beyond enforcing labor regulations and expanding child protection laws, Gym has gone after bad actors to make sure that wage theft and discrimination suits are handled once and for all. “The economic growth and prosperity of our city relies as much on the health and well–being of workers as it does corporate Wall Street,” she says. Philadelphia is not—and never will be—in a vacuum. What matters elsewhere matters here, too.

That sentiment is further proven by Gym’s response to the recent overturning SEPTEMBER 2022

15

FOCUS of Roe v. Wade. “I’m gutted,” she says. But for her, the most important way to respond is to acknowledge that our fight must go local. “There’s nobody in Harrisburg and there’s nobody in Washington, D.C. who is going to fight for us harder, louder, and with a more visionary purpose than us ourselves,” she says. “It’s that outrage that drives me to action, because the decision has nothing to do with caring for life.” Gym believes that if the Supreme Court truly cared for life, it would have fought when baby formula wasn’t available. It would have fought to ensure that there was health care for children and guarantee a strong public school system. “What we need to understand about the Roe decision is that we are tied together in something far beyond abortion rights,” she says.

That’s why Gym is encouraging everyone to get out to the polls in November. Abortion is currently protected in the state of Pennsylvania, but that could change if the ballot swings the other way. “I’m very dedicated to engaging folks for the November elections and supporting turnout in the city that has had far too low turnout, given

our passion and what’s at stake,” Gym says.

Additionally, we should be enacting buffer zones very clearly around abortion providers with protected areas, the coun-

Philly’s political leadership was willing to walk away from public education, so, in 2015, Gym made the brave choice to run for public office—this was an issue that could unify an entire city. cilwoman argues. There are shield laws that are being passed in municipality after municipality to protect the city and its people from participating in criminal

NOW LEASING

investigations enacted by other states. “I want people to know that if they’re from Texas, or if they’re coming here to get an abortion, this is a city that will enact a do– not–cooperate law with Texas, unless they have a court order decree. We are not using our resources to criminalize something that is legal within our boundaries and as a human right,” she says.

“My job is to ensure that everybody understands that this is a city that’s going to protect our rights,” she says. No matter the stage of life someone is in, be it a 9–year– old going through the public school system or a 19–year–old seeking an abortion—Gym is fighting for them.

At her core, Gym is dedicated to helping other people—and she wants us to feel the same way. “When Penn students reach out to organizations working from the ground up, you’ll find yourself [among] people working to make this country a better place and to make this city—the best city in America—the best. Let’s prove that we can do it, in the hardest of times, when everything feels like it’s against us. We’re still going to figure out a way to rise together.” ❋

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‘The Big Change’: Inside the Fight to Save the UC Townhomes A vibrant, joyful community of nearly 70 households make up the University City Townhomes—but they stand to lose everything they love in the face of eviction.

BY KIR A WANG

PHOTOS BY EMILY WHITE

In July of 2021, the residents of the University City Townhomes received a flyer calling them to a gathering in the affordable housing complex’s Second Court.

Residents were hopeful that the meeting would announce the construction of something beautiful: a playground for the complex’s many children or new flowers for its sprawling green lawn. Instead…

A

ltman Management Company, which owns the UC Townhomes, announced that it chose not to extend its annual affordable housing contract with the United States Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD)—a contract it had been renewing for almost 40 years. Residents were given one year—until July 8, 2022—to move out.

This move–out date was later extended by two months, as HUD had not issued most residents Housing Choice Vouchers as of May 2022. These vouchers provide rental assistance for market–rate units and are required to apply for federally subsidized housing. Some residents still hadn't

Krystal Young (with dog Shadow)

18 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E

received their vouchers in July despite the new Sept. 7 move–out date rapidly approaching, and those that have received the vouchers face a closed low–income housing waiting list of nearly 40,000 Philly households. In addition, landlords often discriminate against prospective renters with these housing vouchers, especially in areas with better schools and transportation.

With little time to find housing and a competitive affordable housing market, residents could be left homeless post–eviction.

Located on the corner of 39th and Market streets, the UC Townhomes are situated

Rhonda Moore

in an increasingly gentrified, highly profitable area of Philadelphia that’s occupied by both Penn and Drexel. The townhomes were originally created as a small, 70–unit compensation for the more than 5,000 displaced residents of the Black Bottom, a Black working–class community that stretched from 32nd Street to 40th Street.

To protest the eviction, the Save the UC Townhomes Coalition set up more than 15 tents in front of the townhomes, planning to stay indefinitely until their demands were met. These included a halt to the sale and demolition of the townhomes, more time for residents to find alternative housing, repairs to the complex’s “unsafe and

unsanitary” facilities, and just compensation for each family. The Philadelphia Sheriff's Office tore down the encampment on Aug. 8, enforcing a court ruling that ordered protestors to vacate.

For residents, the townhomes have more value than a dollar sign can measure— they’re a secure space for their families to grow and feel at peace. There’s a car–free street in the Second Court that’s dubbed the “Play Street.” A resident in the First Court hosts movie nights. Community–wide cookouts are held regularly. The buildings are close to child care, supermarkets, convenience stores, and health care facilities. The townhomes’ families feel safe. The complex is their home. Now, that could all change.

K

rystal Young has lived in the UC Townhomes for three years. She studies nursing at the Community College of Philadelphia (CCP), but is considering switching her major to behavioral health. After finishing her studies, she wants to become a children’s mental health advocate.

Young grew up in West Philly on 50th and Cedar streets. She says her neighborhood has become more violent as Penn and Drexel continue to expand. “They’ve been buying a lot of houses and not building [more] houses. … They’re pushing us into a bubble,” she says.

After being falsely accused of a crime in 2016, Young spent two years fighting the charges until her case was thrown out. “I

gave up on my dreams, my hopes, everything … I kind of felt like my life was gone,” she says. “When I got my life back, I really had to get my [mental health] together.” In 2019, she got a call saying that she was next on the waitlist for affordable housing.

She was on the waitlist for seven years— but Young felt blessed to finally get off of it.

After moving into the townhomes, she gave herself five years to go to school and get her life back on track. While living there, Young experienced the deaths of seven loved ones, as well as her cat, during the COVID–19 pandemic. At the same time, she watched her daughter grow into adolescence while balancing a heavy five–class course load at CCP and taking care of her Pomeranian, Shadow.

However, due to the eviction, Young’s five years at the townhomes are now reduced to three. Because of the stresses of finding new housing, she put her education on hold.

Young is anxious about her child’s future. As a single mother to a 14–year–old daughter, she notes that the Sept. 7 move– out deadline coincides with back–to– school season. “[My daughter] is happy here. She has a lot of community here,” she says. “The kids have a relationship with the teachers and to just break [the kids] off from them … that’s not going to happen to my daughter.”

Young doesn’t want to put her daughter in an unfamiliar school—she had the best grades out of her eighth grade class, and dreams of playing basketball in the future.

Her daughter's education should serve as a stable foundation for the rest of her life.

Her anxiety is also tempered by anger and frustration—anger that Altman Management is prioritizing profit over the residents’ lives, frustration that the city government is complicit in Altman Management’s greed.

“They’re tearing this whole world apart, and the government is allowing them because it’s the law,” she says. “I’m going to stand up and help put a stop to [the eviction]. With our voices, we have to stick together.”

L

ynn Green, affectionately known as Miss Lynn, is one of the many residents that have lived in the townhomes for more than two decades. She claims she talks a lot, but in reality, she’s just an excellent storyteller.

Green loves beautiful things—especially flowers. There are flowers and plants lovingly placed throughout her unit, and she enjoys looking at the purple and pink blossoms that are scattered across the field in front of the townhomes. She wanted to plant mums this year, but she won’t be able to because of the eviction.

Raised in West Philly on 62nd and Larchwood streets, Green comes from a large, tight–knit family. She grew up across the street from her grandmother in a home with seven other siblings.

“There were so many of us that we formed a group,” she says. “Every time we played,

[The] big change came. And somehow we weren’t included in this change.

And because we don’t have enough money [to partake in] this change, we have to move. … I always wanted a nice home and beautiful flowers and just never got there.

LYNN GREEN Lynn Green SEPTEMBER 2022

19

FOCUS

Activists covered the UC Townhomes sign with a banner of their own— “The People’s Townhomes”—to emphasize the lives and community built by residents at the property.

A barrier was constructed around the edge of the encampment, with slogans like “stop the sale” painted on the wooden boards and facts about Philly’s housing crisis printed on signs.

UC Townhomes residents and supporters held a march earlier this summer to protest the displacement of nearly 70 families from the complex.

20 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E

we were like The Jackson 5. We sang a lot of songs and imitated a lot of things we saw on TV.” Green had three miscarriages and a tough pregnancy that caused her daughter—now 32 years old—to be born prematurely. “You don’t understand the love I have for her— she was my first,” she says. Her son, who is 31 years old, resembles her in his introversion.

As a single working mother, Green did everything she could to support her children.

She recalls volunteering for her daughter’s second grade class, helping students learn how to read while also giving out lollipops, encouragement, and winter gloves for kids who didn’t have them.

Green was on the affordable housing waitlist for about two years while also enduring an abusive relationship. Spanning three units in 24 years, Green has watched her children grow up and have families of their own throughout her time in the townhomes. Now, she relishes looking after her four grandchildren, especially her 10–year–old granddaughter, the only girl of the bunch.

Teardrop (affectionately nicknamed TT)— her 24–year–old pet cockatoo—has also been

by Green's side. But with the looming threat of eviction, she’s worried that other landlords won’t allow her to keep him.

Green feels lost if she goes too far from home—and she’s made one for herself during her long residency at the townhomes.

“It seems like all my memories I have to throw away. There’s nothing that feels like home anymore,” she says.

As the move–out date nears, Green can also feel her health decline. She suffers from panic attacks and lung disease, and she can feel them worsen as she copes with the stresses of displacement. It’ll be harder for her to seek out the medical attention she needs when she’s no longer blocks away from Penn Presbyterian Medical Center.

As the move–out date nears, she continues to look for housing to no avail. “[The] big change came. And somehow we weren’t included in this change. And because we don’t have enough money [to partake in] this change, we have to move. … I always wanted a nice home and beautiful flowers and just never got there.”

CITY

Save the UC Townhomes coalition members hung a sign with one of their main slogans—“housing is a human right”—in the center of the courtyard at 40th and Market streets.

Since last July, Green hasn’t been able to celebrate her favorite holidays—Christmas and Thanksgiving—instead keeping her belongings packed, preparing to relocate.

“Think of your family,” she says through tears. “I’m a mother. I’m a sister. I’m a grandmother. I’m a friend. Think about those people out in the streets because of people who got money—the people who don’t [have money] have to move.”

R

honda Moore has been living in the townhomes for almost two decades.

She loves solitary activities, but despite her self–proclaimed introversion, the eviction has caused her to become a fierce activist who aims to fight housing injustice for the rest of her life.

After growing up in Germantown, Moore moved to West Philly at 12 years old. She fondly remembers the games she used to play with her friends—a drastic departure from how kids today spend too much time on their phones, she laments.

Moore has watched cohorts of children grow up together at the townhomes. When a play area was built, she watched them play kickball and tag. “Those are my happy memories. Seeing them actually play like we played when I was little, I loved it,” she says.

She reflects fondly on a corner store called Uncle Sam, which served chicken wings, french fries, and cheeseburgers so good that the lunch line would stretch out the door. There was a check cashing estab-

lishment nearby where Moore paid her bills and a beauty supply store where she got her daughter’s hair products.

All of that has disappeared.

At first, Moore thought the stores simply moved somewhere else. But as more and more businesses closed, she realized they were bought out so Penn and Drexel could build what they wanted. And she was right— the blocks adjacent to the complex are now home to Green Line Cafe, STUMP, and a smattering of student apartments.

“I’m going to miss the convenience and the close–knit [nature of our community],” she says. “I don’t know where I’m going, but if I’m living on a residential block, when I walk out the house, I’m not going to see familiar faces.”

Lately, Moore has been channeling her love for her community into activism. She felt the need to take action and defend the community that she loves so dearly, so she gathered a group of her neighbors and held meetings to talk about the displacement.

Those meetings soon expanded and drew support from activists, politicians, and the general public.

“In the beginning, I thought it was just us. … [But] it’s close to 37 other properties that are going to go through what we’re going through now,” she says. “I can’t sit there and not do anything.”

J

ust blocks from the edge of Penn’s and Drexel’s campuses, the UC Townho-

mes lay on a prime location for luxury housing or commercial space—and Altman Management stands to make upwards of $100 million by selling it. Just like the corporate greed that drove out residents of the Black Bottom, gentrification is displacing the community of the UC Townhomes for the sake of Penn’s and Drexel’s expansions.

Altman Management’s decision will ultimately uproot the lives of nearly 70 families like Young's, Green's, and Moore's. Not only will they lose their homes, they’ll lose a vibrant community that’s given them love and support during moments of fear, joy, grief, and anger. Young’s daughter could lose the support of her peers and teachers that her current school provides. Green could lose her cockatoo, her flowers, and the ability for her grandchildren to safely visit her. Moore could lose watching the children of the townhomes that she loves so dearly grow up.

Her anxiety is also tempered by anger and frustration—anger that Altman Management is prioritizing profit over the residents’ lives, frustration that the city government is complicit in Altman Management’s greed.

Bolstered with love for their community and for the homes they’ve created, the residents of the UC Townhomes aren’t going to go down without a fight.

But this resident–led fight isn’t just about the townhomes. The purpose of the movement extends beyond saving the affordable housing complex—it also serves as a reminder to the city that forced displacement won’t be tolerated. Moore says, “We’re making a statement. … [This movement] isn't just about us—it’s about anybody who’s been displaced.” ❋ SEPTEMBER 2022

21

STYLE

H

aving opened just last August, Alchemy Coffee x Keystone Wellness Shop quickly became a staple on the corner of 21st and Moravian streets. The cafe uniquely merges coffee culture with wellness, selling Keystone Wellness Shop’s CBD oils, herbs, and topicals alongside lattes and pastries.

The cafe’s interior is stunningly pristine, with all of its furniture and decor (yes, even the coffee machine) coated in a stark shade of white. But despite its immaculate, almost dystopian appearance, the shop is incredibly welcoming and comfortable. We sat down at one of the tables, tucked into our own aesthetically pleasing corner, and began sipping our drinks.

On one of the hottest days of an already– steaming Philly summer, we ordered the mint shakerato, the iced matcha latte, and the iced Moroccan mint tea to cool down.

The mint shakerato was a cool and creamy combination of frothy oat milk and fragrant cold brew swirled with crisp mint syrup. The drink was light but also indulgent, making the walk to Rittenhouse in nearly 100–degree weather worth it. The matcha latte was earthy and decadent, with a base of cold, velvety oat milk to temper the lush flavors of the matcha. And while Alchemy Coffee is known for its cold brew and espresso drinks, their teas are worth the stop alone. In spite of the iced Moroccan mint’s unassuming nature, the herbal tea was lightly sweet thanks to the fresh mint and incredibly refreshing—perfect for a scorching summer day.

Perusing the wellness display shelf nestled into a corner of the store, you’ll find CBD oils, herbs, topicals, pre–rolled flower cones, and other various wellness products. There were also healing balms and assorted shirts that displayed the cafe’s easily recognizable hemp leaf logo. Clearly, Alchemy Coffee strives to be a place where people can simply relax, collect their thoughts, and unwind—the shop perfectly combines the caffeinated stimulation of coffee culture with the tranquility associated with the wellness industry.

Despite the peacefulness of the cafe, every table was full of people working on their laptops, enjoying a cup of coffee, or chatting with their friends. Alchemy prides itself on being a place where “coffee becomes community,” and through its delectable drinks and the cheerful crowd, it’s surely achieved that mission. ❋ TL;DR: Stop by Alchemy Coffee x Keystone Wellness Shop for great drinks, great wellness products, and great vibes.

Location: 119 S. 21st Street in Rittenhouse Hours: Mondays–Fridays: 7 a.m. to 5 p.m.; Saturdays and Sundays: 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.

Price: $$

Alchemy Coffee Is a Welcome Break from the Rush of Coffee Culture Alchemy Coffee x Keystone Wellness Shop offers a tranquil gathering space for coffee lovers and CBD enthusiasts alike.

BY KIRA WANG

Emily White

Pace & Blossom Is More Than Just Another West & Down

I

t’s around 10 p.m. on a Friday, and I’m shuffling my feet on the corner of 36th and Market streets outside of an imposing black storefront accentuated with magenta flowers and neon blue lightning bolts. The awning reads “Pace Blossom,” the words split by a circle of petals with a heartbeat graphic in the middle. The street is eerily quiet, save a few speeding cars, and the stanchions posted outside of the building’s doors sit stiff like security guards.

I’m close to messaging the manager—a guy called Eric—on Instagram when a flurry of activity interrupts my thoughts. Pace & Blossom’s massive doors crack open, and a few people dressed in black pour out, talking and laughing to themselves. Aida, a hostess with a strong smile, sees me first.

“Oh! You’re the one writing the article!” I nod, and she takes pity on me and waves me over to a podium at the door.

Pace & Blossom, a Philly nightlife newcomer, dominates University City’s Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights. It’s the

Meet the cast of kooky characters who staff the new University City nightclub.

BY MIRA SYDOW

Emily White second generation of barely–legals’ beloved West & Down, a popular bar and club that was tucked under Bonchon on 38th and Chestnut streets. On Feb. 10, West & Down took to Instagram to assuage their nearly 8,000 adoring fans’ fears—the club wasn’t closing, it was just moving to a different location. “It is not a goodbye but a ‘SEE YA LATER MFERS!’” West & Down wrote.

In early June, the Pace & Blossom crew welcomed back University City’s rowdiest MFERS. The new spot is an explosion of neon lasers, bubbles, color–changing drinks, women in lacy thongs, men in all–black suits, and Aida in her elegant midi skirt. This bizarre ecosystem is strung together by an equally indomitable and unlikely tie: family.

“I

don’t usually do nightlife,” Aida tells me, leaning on the hostess desk outside of Pace & Blossom. This is her first time working at a club—during the day, she’s a manager at a bakery, which does its best

to accommodate her late–night schedule.

“That’s the best of both worlds, Miley Cyrus type of thing,” she says.

I ask Aida what you need to be a hostess at a place like Pace & Blossom. She says it takes people skills, but also something less formal than that. “I’m just here to have a good time,” she shrugs.

“I thought a lot of good ones,” a tall blond kid interrupts, stepping closer to Aida’s podium. She yields, smiling. “Fluff knows his stuff.”

Fluff is Jack Manogue, who works as security at Pace & Blossom and detests the textured nickname bestowed upon him by his co–workers. By day, he’s a product manager at PECO and a mechanical engineering student on co–op at Drexel. By night, he checks IDs at the door and tinkers with Pace & Blossom’s special effects—like bubbles, lasers, and a fog machine—in his honorary role: production specialist.

Jack and Aida, two halves of the same door, couldn’t be more different. He’s a vetSEPTEMBER 2022

23

STYLE eran of the Philly nightlife scene and spends the latter part of our conversation explaining the rules of 78, a twist on beer pong with six players and 78 cups on each side. What does it take to do door at Pace & Blossom?

“Patience,” Jack says, without hesitation.

I retire to the podium where Aida lingers—still hesitant to try my luck with Pace & Blossom’s massive door. “Would you like a tour?” she asks.

T

he entrance parts easily for Aida.

It’s a few minutes past opening, and Pace & Blossom pulses under mounted LED screens and multicolored lights. To my right is the VIP section, plump black booths with wooden tables on a gated platform, reserved for the club’s special guests. To my left sits a long bar with a stone countertop, and on it are glowing plastic cups stacked around silver taps. Tucked in a corner, a black iron staircase slinks into darkness. The main dance floor sprawls in front of me on the first floor, dizzying tile framed by the DJ’s enormous platform.

A

ida hangs left toward the bar, where a motley crew of suave bartenders, women in lingerie, and a large dude in an all–black suit lean over the counter in light conversation. Before flitting off, she introduces me to my next victim: 34–year–old Angel Arroyo, who works the bar.

Angel has an air of reflection absent from his college–aged co–workers. He’s worked with the owners of Pace & Blossom for over a decade, helping open West & Down and seeing the venue through a global pandemic. “[The past two years] really brought us all together, because we were together before the world changed,” he says. “Our staff, we’re all like family.”

If Pace & Blossom is a family, Angel is the dad. Or a cool uncle. He knows everything that goes on around the club, and everything that will go on. “We’re only about 75 percent done with this place,” he says. In Pace & Blossom’s future are new screens and tables, an upstairs bar, a kickass chan-

delier, and a restaurant set to open in the fall.

W

ithout Aida, I slide down the bar until I bump into Kenzie Taylor, who carefully arranges glasses behind the counter.

The first thing I notice about Kenzie is that she’s mostly naked. Tonight, she wears only a black lacy bra with embroidered flowers on the cups and a high–waisted thong.

Kenzie started working at West & Down when she was 19—she got the job through Instagram. “I had no experience whatsoever, they gave me a chance, and I learned how to bartend in about a week,” she says.

Kenzie, and the three other girls that mill about her behind the bar, are part of the Blossom Babes—scantily–clad staff with their own designated Instagram. When I ask Kenzie if she thinks people come to Pace & Blossom because of the Blossom Babes, she cracks a huge smile. “One hundred percent,” she says. “One hundred percent, that is a big reason why they come.”

Emily White

24 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E

T H E PA RT Y I S S U E

Joining the Blossom Babes changed Kenzie’s life. “It gave me the family I never had,” she says.

It’s a sweet sentiment, even when a tall figure down the bar interjects that the Pace & Blossom family can be absolutely rabid,

If Pace & Blossom is a family, Angel is the dad. Or a cool uncle.

He knows everything that goes on around the club, and everything that will go on. too. Marc Jordine is the VIP host. When a prized guest waltzes through the door, a besuited Marc greets them with an expensive bottle and a flattering smile.

Marc the VIP host is the suave intermediary between his identity as a marketing and communications major at Drexel and Marc after dark, who corralled the Pace & Blos-

som staff into attending his 22nd birthday party at their sister club in Chinatown.

“Every day I have class, and the days I have off I try to get my homework done on time,” Marc says. In the same breath, he regales me with the story of his 22nd birthday—he decided to take 22 shots, but ended up blacking out and doing 34.

T

he energy in Pace & Blossom is amping up, but exhaustion works its way between my bones. I have an early flight the next day, so I head outside to thank Aida for her guidance. That’s when I catch him—the manager I had messaged with on Instagram and the man of the hour.

The man in question is Eric Haff, the general manager of Pace & Blossom and total dad of this ragtag family (sorry, Angel). He’s been in the nightlife industry for half his life, since he started bartending at 16, and he moved to Philly about eight years ago.

Eric waxes poetic about Pace & Blossom with a solemnity even Angel can’t match. He often works ten–hour days when the club isn’t even open, just to make sure everything runs smoothly once it is. “What’s that saying? ‘If you love what you do, you don’t work a day in your life,’” Eric preaches. “So I love what I do … but it’s also very hard.”

As Eric speaks, a steady stream of people shake his hand and clap him on the back.

I catch one of them telling him, “Happy

Emily White Birthday, man.” He jokes back, “Hey, it’s not midnight yet. Let me be 34 for another 20 minutes.”

That night, as I complete my bedtime social media scroll, I click on Eric’s Instagram story. It’s an explosion of sound and color and community. Pace & Blossom is alive for Eric’s birthday—Marc waves a massive glowing sign above his head that reads “Happy Birthday Asshole.” Kenzie and the Blossom Babes carry in a bottle of champagne framed with sparklers on their shoulders. The crowd rises and falls together in celebration. And from out of the frame, I hear Aida’s laugh ringing. ❋ SEPTEMBER 2022

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34 th Street’s Ultimate Party Playlist Music can make or break a No Doubt – “Hella Good” party. From trap and house

BY ARIELLE STANGER to teen pop and EDM, a single energetic song can revive an Everyone loves queen Gwen Stefani, and while her otherwise dead atmosphere. For solo hits have made many an appearance at Penn this issue on party culture at Penn, parties, I never hear songs from her No Doubt Street staff is sharing some of their era. “Hella Good,” from the band’s 2001 album favorite party anthems, including the Rock Steady, has all the ingredients to be a most overplayed tracks at formals and the party classic: a danceable, energetic beat most underrated bops while pregaming. and lyrics that are easy to sing along to (all you gotta know is “keep on

BY EVAN QIANG dancing”). It’s funky, it’s loud, and it’s fucking Beyoncé – “CUFF IT” sexy.

Tove Lo – “disco tits”

BY KIRA WANG Complete with references to hard nipples and getting “high as fuck,” Tove Lo’s “disco tits” embodies everything a pregame anthem should be. With sexually charged lyrics and clean, campy production, this track is mindlessly fun and downright infectious in its confidence. Encapsulating the irreverent haze of losing yourself at the club, “disco tits” sets the stage for a perfect night out.

Robyn – “Dancing On My Own”

BY JACOB POLLACK Don’t be fooled by its title—“Dancing On My Own” is the perfect party song for everyone to dance to together. While more suited for a house party than a frat basement, the song is all about dancing like no one else is watching. From the first notes of its iconic synth beat, “Dancing On My Own” is one of music’s best sad disco anthems.

Kings

in

“Back That Azz Up” is a timeless triumph of hip–hop, capable of attracting swarms of people to any dance floor within its first few instantly recognizable seconds. Some say it’s equally as challenging to climb Mount Everest as it is to not shake ass to this beat.

n–

Fourteen years ago, our fathers (Kings of Leon) brought forth on this continent a song to end all songs (“Sex on Fire”), and the world has never been the same. There is no song like it. I love synth–saturated dance–pop as much as, if not more than, the next teenager, but something about “Sex on Fire”’s classically head–banging, hair–tossing, and heart–racing frenzy of guitars and drums gone wild hits a deliciously different note.

Cra

BY JESSA GLASSMAN

of Le o

“Sex o

BY A N n F i re JALI ” KISH ORE

leb

With little more than a ramshackle drum track, an infectious air raid horn sample, and M.I.A.’s swaggy emceeing, “XR2” can turn any dance floor into a war zone. As questionably as Kala’s—and by extension, Maya Arulpragasam’s—politics have aged, its minimalist, glitchy, globalist party bangers have never sounded more refreshing. And “XR2,” a rave track about raving with nonsensical lyrics and a brain–meltingly good dynamic build–up, is the best argument for that less–is–more JUVENILE, Lil Wayne, Mannie approach to club Fresh – “Back That Azz Up” tracks.

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“Después de la Playa” paints a splashy image of a humid Puerto Rican summer and a salty ocean breeze—it’s certain to satisfy cravings for a sexy summer anthem. Bad Bunny masterfully marries new–wave Perreo and classic merengue in this song from his hit album Un Verano Sin Ti. This song is a certifiable party soundtrack and s” jumps out of the speakers in your car ton t u or on the dance floor—I just – “B g g can’t get enough of Do E p it. o IT o

start off arguing its merits with a straight man, but by 20 seconds in, everyone is feeling themselves, and by 60 seconds in, they’re feeling each other. And that’s the power of “Buttons.”

Ca

BY WALDEN GREEN

BY NATALIA CASTILLO

n H ft. S I LY W s l Without fail, ol t D B Y E M I request “Buttons” a c y uss at every party I go to—and P it never disappoints. I always The

BY NAIMA SMALL With her long–awaited seventh studio album RENAISSANCE, Beyoncé brings together the dance pop, house, and R&B genres to create a modern homage to Black dance music of the ‘70s and ‘80s. “CUFF IT” begins with the exclamation, “I feel like falling in love / I’m in the mood to fuck somethin’ up,” exemplifying the song’s flirty and carefree vibe. Bey released RENAISSANCE intending to create a place to “scream, release, [and] feel freedom,” and this song’s flirty lyrics and vibrant dance beat perfectly capture that liberatory feeling.

M.I.A. – “XR2”

Bad Bunny – “Después de la Playa”

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Taio Cruz – “Dynamite” Florence + The

BY SAMARA HIMMELFARB Paramore – “Misery Business” Machine – “Free” Hearing the opening beat of Nicki MiBY SRUTHI SRINIVAS Carly Rae Jepsen – “Call Me naj’s “Super Bass” is like an instant time Maybe” machine to a decade ago in the best way “Misery Business” will make you want to dye Arkells, Cœur De Pirate, Aly possible. Though the song is criminally underyour hair red and scream at your ex in the & AJ – “Dance With You” played now, it feels like everyone still managed to middle of the dance floor—so a normal frat store all the words to Minaj’s rap classic somewhere Lady Gaga ft. Beyoncé – party experience, but this time you’re listening in the back of their minds. Simply no one can resist its “Telephone” to music that’s good.

Nicki Minaj – “Super Bass”

CATCH THE FULL PLAYLIST HERE:

clubby, effervescent dance beat and sugary hook.

SEPTEMBER 2022

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Working Hard, Partying Sober

BY MEG GLADIEUX & WALDEN GREEN

Jesse Zhang

T H E PA RT Y I S S U E

Penn is known for its drug–fueled parties and work–hard–play–harder culture.

But what happens when you’re sober?

I

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It’s what you’d expect from the university named Playboy’s top party school in 2014.

A makeshift rig of colored lights. Sugary sweet, barely–tastes–like–alcohol jungle juice pouring from a Gatorade cooler. A song blaring from buzzy speakers with the bass cranked all the way up (probably “No Hands” by Waka Flocka Flame, “Mr. Brightside,” or that remix of “Heads Will Roll”). A booze–fueled, nearly wasted mass of bodies, jumping in unison, letting go of their inhibitions to the tune of a Friday night frat party.

Jake Federman (C ‘25) is right there in the mix, but he hasn’t had a thing to drink.

“I personally don’t need to have alcohol in me in order to have fun—partying alone is enough,” says Jake. Though he knew drinking was a large part of fraternity culture, it was never something that appealed to him.

He joined his frat to make friends and meet people from backgrounds other than his, even if he knew that’d come with a heavy culture of drinking. He’s never had a drip of alcohol, and he never intends to.

With the rise of trends like sober TikTok, mocktail bars, and dry raves, it’s clear young people are steering away from the idealization of alcohol. It feels increasingly common to come across students who’ve made a conscious decision not to drink, smoke, or do drugs. Even for adults in their 30s and beyond, more casual embraces of sobriety are becoming commonplace, to the point that one could even call it “fashionable” to be sober.

Still, being sober in college, particularly as someone that regularly goes to parties, comes with challenges.

At Penn, partying feels so intertwined with drinking and doing drugs that they’re often inseparable from one another. It begs the question: What’s the point of going out if you’re not getting a little tipsy?

But plenty of Penn’s sober brothers and sisters are out there in the thick of it—they’re proof that it doesn’t take intoxication to be social at the “social Ivy.”

J

ake fits the picture of your average frat guy. He’s tall, laid–back, athletic—a New York transplant who fits naturally into the social culture of Penn. So when he walked into parties at New Student Orientation

(NSO) last August, refusing every beer and red Solo cup offered to him by upperclassmen, people were taken aback. “But I never felt pressured to drink,” says Jake.

Coming into Penn, Jake knew he’d be surrounded by alcohol, but his friends and even random partygoers were understanding of his choice to be sober. “If you make it through NSO, that’s the hardest part,” he says.

By September, Jake felt that he’d mastered the art of partying sans booze—and he loved it. So much so that he started “dirty rushing” frats to fully integrate into the Penn Greek life scene.

Even though he hit it off with most of the brothers he met, almost no frats gave Jake a bid—even one whose living room he cleaned the morning after a party. “At a certain point I think they just dropped me because I wasn’t drinking with everyone else,” he says.

Only one frat invited Jake to pledge, and they were accommodating of his sobriety throughout the process. When they gave him his bid, he was greeted by one of the brothers at his door in the Quad. “He was like, ‘We usually greet new brothers with a beer, but since you don’t drink, I brought you this,’” says Jake, and then the brother handed him a can of Coke.

“It made me feel welcome for who I was,” he adds.

Like Jake, Lauren Schneider (C ‘22) rarely felt out of place in her social circles, although that might’ve been because “most of the time people would forget—even people I was friends with for four years would forget—that I didn’t drink.”

It’s an easy mistake to make. During her first year, Lauren had a more packed social calendar than most of her drinking

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peers. “Freshman year, [I went out] as often as I could. That was my priority,” she explains. “I’d probably go out, like, three, four times a week. There were times when I’d be like, ‘Kweder on Tuesday, Sink or Swim Wednesday, sorority stuff Thursday, Friday, Saturday.’” And she’s never been drunk or buzzed—although she’s had a drink and done a round of green tea shots with friends before.

Then again, not drinking or smoking probably helped Lauren, a Sigma Delta Tau (SDT) sister, from getting totally burnt out.

She could go to bed at 2 a.m. and wake up at 9 a.m., tired but hangover–free. And when out with her friends, “I could go longer than any of them. When I was on the dance floor, I was out,” she says.

For Lauren, being sober wasn’t a weighty choice—neither of her parents drank, she never went out in high school, and she just doesn’t see the appeal of losing control of her mental or physical faculties. None of this detracted from Lauren’s boundless energy: “I just love to dance and talk to people!”

But not everybody is like Jake and Lauren, especially when it comes to how immersed they are in their respective scenes. “I don’t think I met more than one other person that went out like I did and was sober,” Lauren says. Jake feels the same way, that he “might be the only sober attendee at a party. And that’s awkward, but it’s still fun.”

O

f course, there’s a reason most people drink at parties. “Frat parties aren’t all that fun if you’re sober,” says Cheryl Chang (C ‘24). When Cheryl first came to Penn, she had every intention of diving into things headfirst. She’d always romanticized the college parties she’d seen on TV, so it made sense to join a sorority—Zeta Tau Alpha—and drink casually with friends, even if pandemic restrictions meant she wasn’t going to frat parties her first year. But one bad experience led her to swear off alcohol entirely.

“My vomit was pink. Neon, bright–ass pink,” says Cheryl. It started as a night binge drinking with her then–sorority sisters. What

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“My vomit was pink. Neon, bright–ass pink.”

CHERYL CHANG could go wrong with letting loose a little? A few too many shots and snacking on Flamin’ Hot Cheetos was a recipe for severe nausea that ended in a Barbie–colored hue. And ever since, Cheryl has lost her taste for alcohol.

The following fall, Cheryl went to frat parties with her friends but didn’t drink, and soon found that they didn’t quite live up to the hype.

“It was just a lot of sweaty bodies touching yours in a crowded room,” she says. While the people around her could get into the music and feel relaxed after a few drinks, Cheryl, completely sober, couldn’t stop thinking about the strangers’ sweat staining her top or people stepping on her toes. By the end of her sophomore fall, Cheryl had sworn off of Penn parties and dropped out of her sorority, now opting for nights in with a smaller group of friends.

“If you gave me a plethora of options to do for fun, going to a frat party would not be at the top of my list,” says Anthony Hu (C ‘24).

As someone who chooses not to drink, the sticky, structurally questionable basements of frat houses aren’t where he wants to spend his weekends.

Anthony initially opted into the time–honored rituals of one’s first year at college: roving around in packs from frat party to frat party, meeting fellow first years who’d forget his face in the morning, and going to parties along the Schuylkill where “there wasn’t much alcohol, but people were acting drunk

anyway.” But Anthony also “took a lot of passes.” When he found that bailing on going out wasn’t hurting his social life, it took away the pressure to party when it wasn’t on his own terms.

Though he still hangs out with people who drink socially, Anthony gravitates more toward close–knit house gatherings. “At a house party, you basically know everyone, or if you don’t know everyone, you know someone who knows someone,” says Anthony. It’s more casual, there are more familiar faces, and there’s more control.

A

nd sometimes, it does get out of control. “There’s no boundaries,” says Adrian Altieri (C ‘23). Though he’s tried alcohol, he doesn’t like it, doesn’t feel that he needs it to have fun, and has chosen to stay sober. Meanwhile, his roommates drink on weeknights like it’s a part of their daily routine. “It’s a way to uncouple themselves from Penn, which academically is so competitive, and almost cutthroat,” he says.

While he understands the urge to step away from Penn’s stressful environment, Adrian has seen some of the closest people in his life become nearly dependent on getting drunk or high to relax. “It seems a little excessive,” he says.

Lots of Penn students will admit themselves that drinking heavily on weekends is a

Jesse Zhang

coping mechanism used to decompress from a rough week. “In the Penn community, it’s very easy for those types of anxieties to be amplified,” says Jessica Corrar, director of operations at the the Philadelphia Collegiate Recovery Haven, or PCR Haven. Just a few blocks from Penn’s campus, Corrar runs the residential sober living program with Gemma Lund Mears to offer support for young adults in the Philadelphia area, including their fair share of Penn students, who want to get sober.

Lund Mears, who’s been sober since she was 18 years old, notes the cultural tendency to use any and every occasion as an opportunity to drink beyond what would be considered normal or healthy. “[Drinking] is what we do at weddings, at funerals, at sports games—at every darn thing we pop open a

beverage of some kind,” she says, and college parties are one of the best excuses to bring out the booze.

As the “sober brother,” Jake often finds himself intervening at his frat’s parties. According to University policy, social events held by student groups that serve alcohol are required to register ahead of time and have designated sober attendees that can serve as first responders if something goes wrong. Although other members of his frat rotate the responsibility, Jake’s sobriety means that he often takes on a de facto caregiver role.

“I honestly do feel responsible to make sure that no one does anything so beyond stupid that someone gets hurt,” says Jake.

Usually, there aren’t many instances where he has to intervene, but there are always two or three other designated sober brothers at

the party helping to de–escalate when things get out of hand. Occasionally, they’ll cut someone off if they’ve become too “messed up” and encourage them to drink water.

But that responsibility can also grow into a burden. “It was honestly a lot of parenting,” says Cheryl. When she used to go to parties as the sober friend, it was a constant worry of making sure everyone was okay and got home safe.

“My friends didn’t bring me there to be the parent,” says Cheryl, “but that’s obviously just kind of the role of the sober friend.”

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lcohol isn’t the only substance at play— harder drugs are also a fixture at Penn parties. As a result, the choice to be sober at

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Penn depends as much on financial considerations as it does on personal choice.

Adrian lives in a house with members of the sailing team, so he’s observed the feedback loop between money and illicit substances firsthand. Some students who come from wealthier backgrounds were already exposed to hard drugs in high school, and the more disposable income you have in college, the more you can spend on those same drugs.

And yes, when talking about hard drugs at Penn, that usually means cocaine.

“Growing up, you’re like, ‘Oh my god, that’s so scandalous.’ And then you get there, and it’s like: coke pregames! And I’m like, ‘Whoa,’” says Lauren, “it’s crazy how much money is going toward that kind of stuff.”

Everything from replacement Puff Bars, to Adderall for last–minute cramming, to bar–hopping on a Friday night, is another expense for an already cash–strapped student.

“If you’re someone who has to balance academics with work and other shit on your

plate, you might not actually have the time to go partying and drinking with friends and then recover from the hangover,” says Cheryl, “because that shit takes time.” It’s time—and for that matter, money—that some students don’t have to throw around.

Not to mention, the sense of obligation to go out every weekend, pack your schedule, and spend your money eventually fades for sober students, just like it does for most people at Penn.

Even Lauren—the girl with the five– night–a–week social calendar—found that

Street’s Five Favorite Drinks

—Alcohol Optional

Level up your pregame with these five recipes —while keeping it sober–friendly.

How to finally use your Trader Joe’s basil plant: Plum Basil Spritz • ½ plum, chopped and pit removed • 5 basil leaves • 0.5 oz. simple syrup • Seltzer water Before midterms season hits and you accidentally kill your basil plant by forgetting to water it, try your hand at making an herbal mocktail. Begin by muddling the plum, basil, and simple syrup in a tall glass. Top with seltzer water, then strain into a different glass and garnish with a few more basil leaves.

Alcoholic option: Add 1.5 oz. gin.

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BY EMILY WHITE

For the (sober) bougie bitch: Virgin Mojito • A sprig of mint • 0.5 oz. simple syrup • 1 oz. lime juice • Sparkling water As the throes of seasonal depression start to set in but you don’t want to drink your problems away, make this summery mocktail as a (less effective, but much healthier) alternative to blacking out. Muddle the mint, simple syrup, and lime juice in a glass, then strain into another and top with sparkling water. You can also add a handful of fresh fruit before the muddling—blackberries are my personal favorite—for the only drink that’ll rival your SSRIs. Alcoholic option: Add 1.5 oz. white rum

T H E PA RT Y I S S U E

frat parties were starting to lose their luster once she became an upperclassman. “As you get older, everyone gets younger,” she laments.

Since she wasn’t seeing her friends on the dance floor anymore, Lauren started going to Smokes’ more often; it was the best way to run into people without having to make plans. As she distanced herself from nights spent in frat basements, Lauren started forming other habits in place of partying.

Senior year, she went to Pottruck every day, plus SoulCycle in Center City once a week.

She spent more time with her friends in off– campus apartments. She “started to value other things.”

At the same time, the interactions Lauren had grown accustomed to at frat parties—with their familiar drunken cadence—began to feel more and more superficial. She says, “I was tired of people maybe not remembering me, or I didn’t know if they remembered me, or I felt like I was building some sort of relationship with somebody and they didn’t even know.”

Most pitcher–friendly: Virgin Paloma • 2 oz. red grapefruit juice • 0.5 oz. lime juice • 0.5 oz. simple syrup • Club soda This is probably the easiest mocktail on this list, which makes it perfect for throwing together last minute when you finally wrangle your sober bestie into going out. Combine the lime juice, simple syrup, and grapefruit juice in a glass, add ice and club soda, and serve with a garnish of mint leaves or lime slices.

Alcoholic option: Add 1.5 oz. tequila.

Best to drink through a swirly straw: Spicy Mango Lemonade Slushie • 2 oz. mango lemonade ice cubes • 3 oz. mango lemonade (liquid) • ¼ cup frozen mango chunks • Cayenne pepper, to taste

It’s not like Lauren has undergone a radical personality shift; she still loves to dance and talk to people. “Being around that energy” is the reason she joined SDT in the first place. It’s just that, like drinking or doing drugs, party culture can be something that you grow out of, rather than something you do or don’t.

“M

ore and more, there’s this normalization of being a sober young person,

Mocktails on hard mode: The Rose Fizz • 1 egg white • 0.5 oz. lemon juice • 0.5 oz. simple syrup • ¼ teaspoon rosewater • Sparkling water Maybe you dream of becoming a bartender someday; maybe you’re a masochist who ran out of other way to torture yourself. Either way, this mocktail will test your mixology skills, requiring you to dry shake an egg white with lemon juice, rosewater, and simple syrup to create a foamy texture. Pour it into a fancy coupe glass of your choosing, and top with sparkling water.

Alcoholic option: Add 1.5 oz. gin.

Start by giving the ice cubes a good 3 hours to freeze properly (or longer if you got your mini fridge from Facebook Marketplace). Then, combine all the ingredients in a blender and hope your RA doesn’t care that you violated the Student Compact by owning one.

Alcoholic option: Replace 1.5 oz. of the mango lemonade with vodka.

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that it’s not crazy, and that it doesn’t mean you have to go hang out in church basements for the rest of your life and never have fun,” says PCR Haven’s Lund Mears. Many colleges and universities, including Penn, are starting to pick up on this sentiment: an increased demand for organized social spaces that aren’t centered around drinking.

In a statement to Street, Executive Director of Strategic Initiatives Mark Elias detailed an upcoming partnership between Wellness at Penn and University Life that’ll focus on hosting “substance–free, late–night programming” on campus this fall. This dovetails with the launch of the new SUPER (Substance Use, Prevention, Education, and Recovery) program, a wellness initiative focusing on students who are actively in recovery or trying to get sober.

Corrar thinks this is a marked improvement over traditional zero–tolerance policies for alcohol in colleges. “If a student is reaching out and saying, ‘Hey, I might have an issue,’ or, ‘I need help,’ that could mean they’re risking their college career,” she says. “Sometimes that can be a real deterrent, because there isn’t a clear place to go that doesn’t feel like it’s going to be punitive.”

It remains to be seen whether the SUPER program and other new initiatives will offer a viable alternative to Penn’s alcohol–centric party culture. Regardless, they represent a step toward a more sober–inclusive social scene for students who want it.

That said, Jake is certainly proof that sober students can still thrive in a traditional party environment, choosing frat basement over church basement without sacrificing his sobriety. Still, he struggles to understand the reliance on alcohol that feels so prevalent among his peers.

“It’s strange to me that people feel the need to drink in order to have fun,” says Jake.

He gets drunk on the party, the people, the energy of coming together at the end of the week in the collective catharsis of the dance floor.

“Jumping up and down, seeing my friends, seeing people I met all around campus in different spots—it’s really fun, despite not having any substances in me,” says Jake. And when the night’s over, without the looming threat of a hangover, he’ll be ready to do it all over again at the next party. ❋

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Clockwise from top left: Photos courtesy of Cheryl Chang, Jake Federman, Lauren Schneider, and Anthony Hu

“Jumping up and down, seeing my friends, seeing people I met all around campus in different spots—it’s really fun, despite not having any substances in me.”

JAKE FEDERMAN

T H E PA RT Y I S S U E

Promo Code: BESTNIGHTEVERRR Penn sophomore Emma Shockley talks the who/ what/when/where of student party promoting— just don’t ask her for the addy.

BY GRACE BUSSER SEPTEMBER 2022

35

EGO

T

o many, college life at Penn is synonymous with a particular kind of partying. Fraternities and sororities often rent out nightclubs for events, and many Thursday nights bear witness to a parade of mini dresses exiting Uber XLs onto the sticky sidewalk in front of whatever venue is hosting the hottest ticket of the night. Filled with top–rated DJs and bottom–shelf liquor, these parties bring in hordes of Penn students every weekend. To get cheaper tickets and ensure a (hopefully) quick and easy interaction with the bouncer, many partygoers turn to club promoters.

Promoters are employed by organizations that host parties—whether that’s an event– planning company or a nightclub itself.

They’re tasked with marketing events and boosting attendance. For Gen Z–ers in college, the marketing often takes the form of Instagram Stories designed to induce a glaring sense of FOMO. Who doesn’t want to have fun and look good while doing it?

The job description isn’t set in stone; there are many types of promoters. According to self–described “top club promoter” C. “Nez” Byrd, there are three types. Up first, street promoters. Often integral parts of the New York club scene, street promoters interrupt passersby to bring them into the party. Then there are head promoters: Well–established, well–connected, and well–paid, they manage other promoters and are in charge of VIP guests. This brings us to the third type: image promoters. They hit social media hard and bring in the target audience—often pretty girls with money to spend.

Last fall, Emma Shockley (C ‘25) started working as an image promoter for Philly

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Welcome Week, a branch of the event–organizing company Welcome Week USA, which throws parties across the country during the first week of the fall semester. After seeing advertisements for Philadelphia’s Welcome Week before she started her first year at Penn, Emma sent an Instagram message to the company. She inquired about promoting, and after allowing them to review her social media, she was in.

Emma praises the flexibility of the job, saying, “All work is done on my own timeline.

Like any good Penn student, Emma adapts the wording of her promoting expertise to something she can put on her LinkedIn. Discussing the skills she’s developed in the field, Emma says, “Being exposed to so many people from all over teaches you how to be adaptable and interact with people in different ways that are tailored to where you are, what you’re doing, and what you know about them.”

When Philly Welcome Week is hosting an event, they turn to their list of promoters.

Being exposed to so many people from all over teaches you how to be adaptable and interact with people in different ways that are tailored to where you are, what you’re doing, and what you know about them.

EMMA SHOCKLEY

There [are] no specific shifts or days that I am working. It’s definitely a ‘you get out what you put in’ situation.” In the same way that WilCaf baristas enjoy the social nature of their employment, Emma loves that she gets to party with new and old friends every time she clocks in a few hours of work. “It is an extrovert’s playground, no doubt!” she says.

Emma gets sent the who/what/when/where of the event as well as personal promo codes that she gives to friends. Once she’s canvassed her inner circle, she turns to the over 4,400 users that follow her on Instagram.

She links a website where interested followers can swipe up on a Story and purchase tickets. Each promoter gets a slightly differ-

All work is done on my own timeline. It’s definitely a ‘you get out what you put in’ situation.

EMMA SHOCKLEY

ent URL to post—and the promo codes can offer up to 40% off the sticker price of some events. That’s before you bribe the bouncer, of course. Promoters are paid on commission: The more people they attract to an event, the more they get paid.

Though promoters like Emma work hard to get people out to their parties, sometimes competing events prove to be a letdown for everyone involved. After weeks of sprinkling mentions into conversation and mixing her regularly scheduled Story posts with brightly colored advertisements promising a fun night, the calendar finally flips and the promised date arrives. Emma gets ready, calls her Uber, and arrives at the party, gaggle of friends in tow, only to be met with a booming bass and a pitiful crowd.

When multiple parties are scheduled for the same night, overlapping invite lists compete for the “Oh, you should have been there!” crown bestowed upon the most (or least, depending on your tolerance) memorable night.

Already breeding grounds for morally ambiguous decisions, nightclubs don’t seem to care that many of the micro–influencers promoting their events are below the drinking age. Instagram pages meant to connect incoming class members with each other before school starts are populated with almost daily Story posts advertising “the party of the year.” Given the stereotypical eagerness of Penn’s first years, it’s no wonder the Class of 2026 seems ready to celebrate at this year’s New Student Orientation. And if they’re savvy enough, a few of them might even get in good with Emma herself. ❋

EVENT CALENDAR

Take It to the Streets

What to Do in Philly This Month This month: Top–billing music festivals. Flea markets. Dance parties for Beyoncé, abortion rights, and processing your childhood trauma.

G

oing to college in Philly, we’re so often bombarded—on social media and IRL—with seemingly endless options for how to spend our free time. So I’m delighted to announce that Street has done the hard part for you: We’ve rounded up what we think are the can’t–miss events for the month (and you can expect more of these in the months to come) in one convenient place. If I’ve done my job right, there’ll be something in here for every one of our readers, no matter what you like to do with your weekends.

Walden Green

Saturdays in September: Big Wig Brunch @ Punch Line Philly Big Wig Brunch has the perfect theme for every friend you could possibly drag along with you: Beyoncé for your hottest, Golden Girls for your oldest, Britney for the one who’s fully embraced the Y2K revival (or her hoe phase), and Broadway for the one who just won’t shut up about her improv troupe. Remember, always tip your local queens!

21+, $40, 10:30 a.m., Punch Line Philly, 33 E. Laurel St. —————————————————————————————

Sept. 2 + 16: Emo Night @ Kung Fu Necktie

Has it all been downhill since Warped Tour?

Was dyeing your hair back to its natural color a personal low? Then get ready to regress to your peak–Tumblr self at Kung Fu Necktie’s Emo Night. Expect lots of bands that aren’t as good as Paramore (looking at you, Panic! at the Disco), and also lots of Paramore.

21+, $6, 10 p.m., Kung Fu Necktie — KFN, 1250 N. Front St. —————————————————————————————

Sept. 3 + 4: Made in America

Y’all know this one—break out those cute tops in red, white, and blue, and get ready to brave

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the elements and guys with crypto wallets just like we do every year. The difference this time is the kickass lineup. Obviously, there’s no going wrong with Tyler, the Creator and Bad Bunny, but the choices don’t miss all the way down to the bottom of the billing.

Tickets from $99, Benjamin Franklin Parkway.

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Sept. 4: “Bday” A Beyoncé Experience @ W.O.W. Philly

If you’re anything like me, literally the only thing you’ve wanted to do since RENAISSANCE dropped is go out and get absolutely turnt to that record. Like, just that album. In order. No skips. And this is kind of like that. Leave Taylor Swift night to the sad girls; this is for the bad girls. $20, 8 p.m., Warehouse on Watts, 923 N. Watts St. —————————————————————————————

Sept. 10 + 11: Punk Rock Flea Market @ 23rd Street Armory

The Punk Rock Flea Market is hosted by The Captain’s Vintage, which is a very un–punk rock store because they sell T–shirts for hundreds of dollars. But you can make the flea market punk again—just make sure you find the coolest cheap stuff in the worst condition possible. Bring your dog! Apparently they’re

allowed, which is wild. $10 (or $5 starting Sunday at 1 p.m.), 10 a.m.–5 p.m., 23rd Street Armory, 22 S. 23rd St. —————————————————————————————

Sept. 11: Honey Festival @ Bartram’s Garden I have a confession to make: Of all my expensive food vices, there’s nothing more likely to get me breaking out upwards of $20 than a jar of fancy local honey. For the sake of my wallet, I might have to pass on a trip to the Philly Honey Festival, but you can still go and hang out with some adorable Apoidea.

Free, 10 a.m.–3 p.m., Bartram’s Garden, 5400 Lindbergh Blvd.

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Sept. 12–24: Center City District Restaurant Week

‘Tis the season to schedule all of your club BYOs and work through the broke–with–expensive– taste urge to eat out six nights a week (you cook once to feel good about yourself). The whole list of participating restaurants is online, and it’s a lot to sort through, so make sure you plan which places you want to hit while they’re still in your budget … relatively speaking.

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Sept. 15: Baltimore Avenue Dollar Stroll

You thought Locust Walk was bad for your social anxiety? Try adding cars to the mix, plus intersections where there are upwards of six directions for the last person you wanted to see to sneak up on you. At least you’ll be fucked up enough on dollar green tea shots that you’ll have no problem confronting your enemies in public.

5:30 p.m., Baltimore Avenue between 42nd and 51st streets.

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Sept. 16–18: XPoNential Music @ Camden, N.J.

Full disclosure, I have no clue who Nathaniel Rateliff & The Night Sweats are, and I do not care to learn. But The War on Drugs, Bartees Strange, Jenny Lewis, Tamino, Valerie June— sign me all the way up. Also, it’s Camden, aka you can rest easy about running into other Penn kids.

One–day passes from $30, weekend passes from $220, Camden Waterfront.

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Sept. 19: First Eagles Home Game of the Season

So maybe a major sporting event isn’t the most

thrilling prospect for the majority of our readers, but hear me out: coordinated outfits, tailgating, taking photos that prove you’re actually from Philly, not to mention the plethora of eligible bachelors and butches alike. Who’s the opposing team? No clue. I’ll just be living out my Silver Linings Playbook fantasy.

8:30 p.m., Lincoln Financial Field.

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Sept. 24: Yola @ Brooklyn Bowl

All things in the universe must remain in balance, including The Black Keys. While drummer Patrick Carney was cheating on Michelle Branch, Dan Auerbach was producing one of last year’s best sleeper hit records. Now Yola is touring that album, Stand For Myself, which, I kid you not, just sounds like it would be really good to bowl to.

21+, $30, doors at 7 p.m., show at 8 p.m., Brooklyn Bowl, 1009 Canal St. —————————————————————————————

NOW LEASING

Sept. 24: Porridge Radio @ Johnny Brenda’s

Porridge Radio knows how to get totally feral onstage, and seeing them live is kind of like moshing, but with feelings. And also normal moshing. If you have mommy issues, make sure to learn all of Dana Margolin’s lyrics ahead of time so you can scream along and achieve a special kind of catharsis.

21+, $15, doors at 8 p.m., show at 9 p.m., Johnny Brenda’s, 1201 Frankford Ave. —————————————————————————————

Sept. 28: Beetlejuice @ Cira Green

Winona Ryder is so pretty. Geena Davis is so pretty. If you’re sapphic whatsoever and watched this movie some time between middle school and tenth grade, there’s a good chance those things are more than coincidental. For the rest of y’all … it’s never too late to leave behind the shackles of comphet once and for all.

Free, 6 p.m. (but get there a little early), Cira Green Sunset Social, 129 S. 30th St. —————————————————————————————

Sept. 29: Dance Party for National Network of Abortion Funds (NNAF) @ Underground Arts For everyone who changed one of their Hinge prompts and/or Tinder bio after the overturning of Roe v. Wade (read: you enjoy turning looks, stunting pretty, and supporting abortion rights)—this is the event of the season for y’all specifically. One hundred percent of ticket sales go directly to NNAF. 21+, $15, 9 p.m., Underground Arts, 1200 Callowhill St.

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MUSIC

E

lla Jane is your typical Taylor Swift– loving, city–dwelling, anxiety–ridden 20–year–old. She loves to write and sing, mindlessly scroll through her TikTok feed, and make Spotify playlists catering to her moods.

But, Ella has a unique second life; she’s a rising popstar, with one EP released, an album on the way, and a headlining tour starting next month.

Ella’s sophomore album, Marginalia, will be released on Oct. 28. In her tour announcement, Ella describes the record as “9 songs [that] have become living, breathing parts of me over the past year–and–a–half writing them.” Ella has released two singles from the album, “Party Trick” and “How Do I Lose You.” Ella and I meet with a screen between us from each other’s childhood homes. She sits in her kitchen in Westchester, N.Y., sipping tea from a mug with an upside–down photo of her dog on it, a manufacturing mishap.

A New York native, Ella recently relocated to Los Angeles following a year of living in Brooklyn. After playing a quick game of Jewish geography, I learn about her brief experience as a college student, her evolution as a musician, and all the ways she fosters relationships through music—sharing the most intimate details through her songs.

Growing up in a family of musicians, Ella always loved to sing, play piano, and write.

In fact, becoming a writer was her first aspiration. In middle school, she realized songwriting was the perfect way to combine her interests. “When I was younger, I never thought about where music came from,” says Ella. “When I realized I could write and make music at the same time, I thought, ‘Oh my god, why is nobody else doing this?’”

Of the musicians that inspired Ella as a kid, a couple stand out. “Adele, Amy Winehouse, Ingrid Michaelson, and Regina Spektor were the first artists who helped me realize I could have a music taste of my own,” she says.

Ella soon came to understand that singer– songwriters were the ones making most of the music she loved. She carried her newfound passion into high school, continuing to write and produce music from the comfort of her bedroom.

Songwriting helped cure the claustrophobia of her small town and even smaller school.

When it was time to create her high school AP Lit final project, Ella chose to write a song based off of a line from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.

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Where Singer –Songwriter Meets Popstar: A Conversation with

Ella loves Lorde and Taylor Swift—just like most of her fans—but her songs can actually stand among the best her idols have written.

Jay Gatsby’s line “I’d wreck my house a hundred times just to see you walk into a room” resonated with Ella for its depiction of pining over a love interest. It builds the prechorus of “nothing else i could do,” the song that changed her life to the tune of over 20 million streams on Spotify.

When Ella began releasing singles, she turned to TikTok to promote her music.

“When I joined [TikTok], it had barely been around for a year, and at that point, it was still kind of connected to Musical.ly,” says Ella. “Everyone was rolling their eyes at it …

I was even rolling my eyes at it.”

Ella was a senior in high school when the world first went into lockdown, allowing her to focus more on producing and sharing her music. “Being out of school really allowed me to remove the element of embarrassment that I would have felt had I been posting [on TikTok] and going to school the next day.”

In a time of loneliness and uncertainty, Ella found solace in sharing her music and receiving feedback from her expanding fanbase and fellow artists. “I felt a really nice sense of community with other musicians who were close in age to me and in the same spot musically,” says Ella.

In the fall of 2020, Ella began attending college at Tufts University. During her brief time there, she was never able to grasp the college experience. “The closest we ever got

BY KATE RATNER

to a party was during the beginning of my first semester, everyone would congregate on the roof of the library,” Ella says. “Then, every 20 minutes or so, the campus police would come, and then everyone would scatter, and 20 minutes later, we’d come back.”

Ella was lonely in college. She spent much of her time in her single dorm room making music. “I was next door to the RA, and we technically weren’t allowed to sing,” she says. Luckily, her RA didn’t enforce this rule.

Ella wasn’t given any performance opportunities at Tufts, and the only time she shared her music was accidentally. She didn’t realize how thin the dorm walls were until her hallmates told her they could hear her singing at all hours of the day.

After leaving Tufts, she relocated to Brooklyn to pursue music full time, excited to live and work in a more exciting and diverse environment than Westchester. And as for college, “I think there was a level of comfort [at Tufts] that I’ve done good to be without.”

Living alone in Brooklyn hasn’t been a completely perfect experience. Ella struggled to adjust to an industry filled with people older than her. “It’s kind of forced me to be someone who’s super confident and has no problem sharing really intimate details of their life,” says Ella. “I go to songwriting sessions with 30–year–old men I’ve never met before.”

Ella’s lyrics are the most crucial and unique

C U LT U R E

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of Ella Jane S E P T EPhoto M B E R Courtesy 2022

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Photo Courtesy of Ella Jane

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aspect of her music. Her favorite lines she’s written are in “The City,” a song originally released as a single and later rereleased in her debut EP, THIS IS NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE! “I’m such a sucker for any song that revolves around one metaphor,” says Ella.

“Obviously, I’m a huge Taylor Swift fan, and that was something I learned from her music.”

She points to this lyric from “The City” as an example: “Your shadow stained the carpet / So I got hardwood floors.”

“The truth is, when I come up with my best lyrics, I kind of black out,” says Ella. “I just zone out and start writing to it out of my system.”

At this moment, the doorbell rings, and we move into an even more personal part of Ella’s world: her childhood bedroom. It’s a time capsule of Ella’s younger years, lavender walls plastered with posters of her favorite artists.

When I compliment her Melodrama poster, Ella begins to rave about her “Holy Trinity” of musicians: Lorde, Phoebe Bridgers, and Taylor Swift. “Every time I write now, I subconsciously end up going back to the pillars of their songwriting that I’ve picked out for myself,” says Ella.

She admires these three artists—their artful lyricism and ability to tell stories through music. In her career, Ella hopes to do the same. “I’m a deeply insecure person,” says Ella, “so everything I write about has to do with that, but I’m embracing the insecurities a little bit more.”

In addition to her album release, Ella will begin her Marginalia tour in Boston on Oct. 24.

She’s only played a few shows as the headlining act. “The first I played was in New York at a small venue called Baby’s All Right and that was around my 20th birthday. And it was really, really heartwarming,” she says, “also overwhelming because I’d only ever played at cafes for people who didn’t give a fuck about me. It’s really a lucky and unique feeling to be able to be in a room full of people who understand why those songs are special to you.”

As Ella embarks on her tour, she’ll hold on to the words, feelings, and experiences that brought her to this point: her family’s piano in Westchester, the classic novel that sparked her creativity, and the artists old and new that have inspired her. And finally, Ella Jane is starting to learn how to be inspired by herself. ❋ Ella Jane is performing at The Foundry on Oct. 28, 2022, at 8 p.m. Doors open at 7 p.m.

C U LT U R E

‘A Queen in Bucks County’ Delivers Erotica via SEPTA The sexier the better in Kay Gabriel’s buzzy, boozy collection— and what’s sexier than economic revolution?

IRMA KIS S BAR ATH

Becky Lee

B

ucks County, Pa. sits squarely between Philly and Trenton, N.J. Google Images will tell you that it’s a wholesome land of pumpkin patches and cutesy clapboards. But Kay Gabriel’s freewheeling narrator, Turner, will tell you the truth.

Though Turner, “Epistoslut” extraordinaire, spends little time in Bucks County itself, his raunchy dispatches—some written from SEPTA—do away with the shiny veneer of the Northeast Corridor. A Queen in Bucks County follows his letters as he recounts his sexual escapades, job struggles, and growing political conscience.

Laced with familiar sights, Turner’s letters are written from the fringes of apple pie– suburbia. An early poem sees Turner observe his surroundings: “the shadow of a Wawa, a pair of withering cities, their gutted subur-

ban corridor.” But urban bleakness quickly gives way to a playful, erotic narrative.

Throughout, Gabriel experiments with eroticism, from making subtle puns like “doppelbanger” to using sexuality as a yardstick for Turner’s everyday hardships. “If it gets any colder,” remarks Turner, “my nipples’ll get hard enough to slash through the front of my shirt.” Gabriel’s use of sexuality transforms the image of a shivering young man into a flippant vignette.

Prior to a sexual encounter, Turner texts a friend: “When he leaves [...] I’d better be raw like health–hazard meat. I really wanted him to get the right idea. I’m neat like a rosewater cronut with sprinkles and a shave of ice.” Herein lies the work’s revolutionary heart, as Gabriel pivots from the pang of food insecurity to a glittering bougie confection. In Gabriel’s

narrative, sexual relations are not exempt from capitalism’s rulebook; instead, sex is a commodity exchange like any other.

On the same note, Turner’s disenchantment as he rubs shoulders with New York’s wealthy feels all too accurate. “I thought that living with the tech girls of Brooklyn would solve my cash problems, but actually it means colliding daily with their halo of money … ‘I just need something, I need a third credit card,’ my roommate says.” Sound familiar yet?

But Gabriel’s breakdown of the moneyed, doe–eyed offspring of the rich and famous is more than snark. Brooklyn bobos are nothing new. What’s new is this collection’s suggestion of radical possibility. Besides pieces and purses, Turner dreams of labor reform: “It’s leisure and everyone should have it; when everybody does, it won’t be leisure anymore, but something else, like and also totally unlike a bed to sleep in.” The ultimate object of Turner’s imagination is that the conditions of utopia should be viewed as natural.

The cachet of Bucks County goes beyond booze and blues: The collection sparkles with revolutionary verve. Fifty odd years ago, student activists were dubbed the “children of Marx and Coca–Cola”; today’s kids were weaned on reality TV and revolutionary rose emojis. These poems ask whether revolution can culminate in camp, kinky fun. At the heart of the collection is Turner’s snappy, earnest credo for the future: “[W]e’ll shed our rent like onion skins. I want to blow the roof off the world as much as anybody, with half the spite. I also want to get fucked. What do these have to do with each other? This is my nasty, gentle gift.” ❋ SEPTEMBER 2022

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MUSIC

Stop Gatekeeping Your Favorite Artists from TikTok

We want to keep the music we love from social media circulation. Why?

I

BY SRUTHI SRINIVAS

n these times of turmoil, upheaval, and rights reversals, there are only a few things more horrifying than seeing your favorite indie artist blow up on TikTok. The

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songs you used to secretly bump in the car seem to have gained 200,000 more listens on Spotify overnight. Some part of your heart hurts every time you scroll through your

For You page and hear the remixed version of “Softcore” by The Neighbourhood. “I was here first,” you think, “this new generation can’t appreciate music like I can.”

C U LT U R E It’s a common sentiment that we’ve all felt at some point: discovering a song that others don’t know about or forming a con-

While music is fundamentally meant to be experienced by many, an emotional attachment to a particular song or an obscure music group seems to transcend any positive feelings associated with sharing. nection with an underground artist. While music is fundamentally meant to be experienced by many, an emotional attachment

Kilahra Lott

to a particular song or an obscure music group with a three–word name (looking at you, Neutral Milk Hotel) seems to transcend any positive feelings associated with sharing. Why is our attachment to music (that only we supposedly know about) so strong that its later popularity garners such a negative reaction?

Her Campus, an online magazine with a female college student demographic, was just as curious as I am. They asked college students across the country what they thought the purpose of gatekeeping was. According to a University of Kansas student, the concept is tied to the idea that an artist becoming super popular would mean they could become “uncool.” So, preventing others from finding the music means that people can keep the artist all to themselves.

The idea that increased exclusivity is inversely proportional to how cool it is to enjoy something is less individual and more societal. Yet, the notion of keeping music to oneself has interesting psychological implications. For example, finding out that your favorite artist gained popularity can be accompanied by parasocial jealousy—jealousy that that artist’s attention is now divided among a larger fanbase. Gatekeeping is a widespread social occurrence for a reason, and this has to do with TikTok being the premier social media platform for popularizing under–the–radar music.

When music we gatekeep is inserted into the soundtracks of popular movies or television shows, the response almost never includes lamenting that the music is becoming uncool. British singer Kate Bush’s 1985 single “Running Up That Hill” has enjoyed a resurgence in popularity since it was featured in Season 4 of Stranger Things—but the ‘80s music gatekeepers only came out of the woodwork when it blew up on TikTok. While the drill remix admittedly went a bit overboard, the negative reaction to the song’s TikTok popularity wouldn’t have been nearly as extreme if the resurgence of this song came from any other platform.

Maybe it’s TikTok’s association with the “uncool,” the vapid, and teenage girls that’s brought us to this point. If a song that you found first can be discovered by the same people that lose all composure when BTS comes into town, then that means your tastes overlap with a historically “tasteless”

demographic.

The collective vilification of something that teenage girls love or use regularly is nothing new; we’ve all lived through the Twilight and One Direction eras—the eras of embarrassment over reading young adult romance novels in public and hiding the Wattpad on your phone screen. Similarly, TikTok is seen as an app for young girls, and music targeted toward young girls has never been valued as “art” in the same way that rock or indie have been.

We’re conditioned to view the interests of teenage girls as the product of inexperience and immaturity. As girls who still haven’t reached the cusp of “maturity,” we’re slowly taught to grow up in shame and hide if we share some of those interests. We’re snivel-

If a song that you found first can be discovered by the same people that lose all composure when BTS comes into town, then that means your tastes overlap with a historically “tasteless” demographic.

ing. We’re emotional. We’re led to believe that teenage girls will bring the same level of incoherence and the same lack of understanding that’s been plaguing them for ages to music that deserves a “more refined” ear.

And so when songs blow up on TikTok, the gatekeeping brigade stands at the ready, in their battle stances, desperately trying to keep the music they love away from the teenage girls they love to villainize even more.

Music brings people together; emphasis on individual taste can make us forget that. Enjoying music with friends and family creates unforgettable memories, and there are few better feelings in a lifetime.

There’s no valid reason to bar TikTok users—and to bar young women—from feeling the same way. ❋ SEPTEMBER 2022

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Becky Lee

Maggie Rogers’ ‘Surrender’ Burns Bright in Its Emotional Catharsis

A

fter rendering Pharrell Williams speechless in a New York University masterclass with the lilting folktronica song “Alaska,” Maggie Rogers became famous in the way that singer–songwriters only dream of—overnight and all at once.

But instead of capitalizing on her newfound fame, she disappeared after her 2019 tour, retreating to coastal Maine to cope with burnout. Rogers enrolled in Harvard

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After a nearly three–year–long hiatus, Rogers’ sophomore album swallows you whole in the best way possible.

BY KIRA WANG

Divinity School and began creating music once again, culminating in her second album, Surrender, which is aptly titled after her master’s thesis—an examination of the almost spiritual relationship among artist, audience, and performance.

Surrender explores what it means to lose yourself in pure emotion. It feels like walking out a movie theater after watching a particularly resonant rom–com, the kind that

makes your heart beat fast as you bask in its afterglow and orient yourself to a rosier version of reality. From the unabashed joy of “Anywhere With You” to the primal desire of “Want Want,” Rogers shamelessly and deeply feels everything good in life.

In line with her master’s degree, Surrender traverses its highs and lows in a way that mimics the emotional fervor of religious faith. On the album’s third single, “Horses,” Rogers seamlessly interweaves the lower energy of the verses with the soaring chorus, building up and releasing tension deftly and explosively.

Written in one day and recorded in one take, the production of “Horses” parallels the album’s rawness and intensity.

But among songs like the sunshine–y “Be Cool,” which dreams of “a summer just to be a teenager / Drunk on the month of June,” the generally warm and golden Surrender also has moments of cold angewr. “Shatter,” complete with shreddy, metallic synths and album co–producer Florence Welch’s haunting cries, encapsulates Rogers’ frustration with the world’s dark, complex present. She ragefully yearns for simpler times (2016, to be exact), singing, “And I’ve got all this anger trapped so deep inside / That started burning the summer my heroes died / And I just wish that I could hear a new Bowie again.”

“Symphony” is arguably one of the strongest songs of the album, with Rogers’ agile voice singing of being with loved ones as the world falls apart. Her voice floats on top of whirling instrumentals and gasping drums that gradually build as the song progresses.

With Rogers’ masterful artistry, you begin to breathe with the song, holding your breath in moments of intensity and exhaling in moments of sparsity. As “Symphony” controls your breath, it evokes that moment when you’re so close to someone that you begin to breathe at the same pace—it brings to life the feeling of being at total peace in someone else’s presence, collapsing the universe down to just you two. But among the twisting inhales and exhales of “Symphony” plainly lies Surrender’s greatest truth: “Life’s a promise that never ends / But you can handle it / Take a breath.” ❋ LIYL: Arcade Fire, Florence Welch, “Sex on Fire” by Kings of Leon, rooftop sitting, cutting your hair short, Robert Pattinson in every form, getting day drunk in the summertime, the afterglow of rom–com credits.

C U LT U R E

Florist’s Self–Titled Album Is a Portrait of a Band in Full Bloom Emily Sprague and her friends’ intuitive musicianship merges with the natural world on their most immersive project to date.

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ransportive. That’s the best way to describe the experience of listening to the new self–titled album by Florist—less a band than an entity of folk music, conjured by songwriter Emily Sprague in solitude and in communion with a trio of friends. To make this record, the group lived and improvised together in a Hudson River Valley house as an exercise in resynthesis.

That sense of place is summoned instantly by the wistful opening instrumental “June 9th Nighttime,” which creaks and sways like a rusty porch swing, bathed in chirping crickets and rustling pine needles. Right before the song cuts off, it speeds up and slows down like a record player during a power outage.

Suddenly, the listener’s only illumination is the moon, the stars, and the intermittent glow of lightning bugs. You’re there with the band on their screened–in porch as they draw and redraw the borders of their music.

At first, Florist’s 19 tracks may seem daunting, but a journey through the album reveals that more than half aren’t full songs at all.

They’re atmospheric interludes that capture the band’s lovingly crafted interplay, which sound spontaneous at first but become more meticulous the closer you look. Some of the shorter pieces mimic wilderness phenomena caught on tape, and some of them actually are. The guitar solo on “43” lands like a flash of lightning, and even the twinkles of microelectronica that appear on “Bells Pt. 1,”

BY WALDEN GREEN

“Bells Pt. 2,” Bells Pt. 3,” and “Sci–fi Silence” sound bioluminescent.

Sprague has elevated her songwriting to new heights and lifted some of the album’s full songs to transcendent peaks alongside it. “Red Bird Pt. 2 (Morning)” envisions her mother’s death through the eyes of her father in one of the most crystal–clear yarns she’s spun. “I can hear you singing still / Wake up in the morning, let the morning come / She’s in the bird song, she won’t be gone” she sings.

The personal and natural press up against each other on Florist songs, like “Spring in Hours” with the lyric “The way we speak our names / It’s the same as the blowing breezes across.” On “Feathers,” Sprague intones, “One day to come, it will never feel real to miss you,” and like all of her disclosures, it’s so specific and yet so universal that the “you” can be any you, the “I” any I. As she puts it, twirling her voice like a ribbon: “Come now, I’m ready to be infinitely open.”

Of course Emily Sprague was born in the Catskills; she made an album that sounds exactly like growing up in its woods and mountains. Give Florist an hour with your ears open and eyes closed, and they’ll take you there, too. ❋ LIYL: Big Thief / Adrienne Lenker, Sufjan Stevens, Moon Pix by Cat Power, Mono no aware, nature journaling, group hugs, the smell of wood smoke, falling asleep to the sound of rain.

FILM & TV

Comedy Television’s Narrowing Scope: Disease or Symptom?

The genres of comedy television being produced and recognized are diminishing as we enter the multifaceted digital age.

BY JULIA POLSTER

O

n Feb. 9, 1958, Steve Allen and the guests of his Sunday night variety series marched through the NBC studios with Dinah Shore over to the set of her own show, singing and dancing all the way. The group followed cameras around hallway corners while performing Allen’s “This Could Be The Start of Something Big.” The final product survives in video form, a wildly impressive technological feat for its decade.

What’s most stunning about this short clip, however, is the intensity with which the blurry kinescope and staticky lyrics captured the optimism, excitement, and pioneering spirit of television in these early days. This artifact captures the sense that the only direction to go was up.

The hold that comedy television would have on 20th century American culture was reflected in its trailblazers. Allen, Ernie Kovacs, Sid Caesar, Lucille Ball, and many others shaped variety, sketch, talk, and situational comedy, the formulas of which have been perfected and subverted ever since.

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The competition among networks and later explosion of cable meant that different comedic styles ebbed and flowed, yielding a diverse lineup of entertainment.

One would expect that today, when there are endless possibilities and platforms for content, competition would once again breed comedic variety. Yet, when observing the critically successful series of our current decade, the opposite seems true: Stylistically, television comedy has become limited.

It’s easy to look at the current comedy offerings solely through the lens of what’s absent. When examining this year’s nominees for the “Outstanding Comedy Series” Emmy, it’s impossible to ignore the lack of multicamera sitcoms, a genre that swept the category during the heyday of NBC’s “must–see TV” in 1987. Today’s shows are all single–camera and fit fairly neatly into the categories of comedy–drama, mockumentary, and satire. There isn’t anything on television even close to the diversity of CBS’s Saturday nights circa 1973–74—forget a night with four wildly unique sitcoms and a top variety show.

The forces shaping today’s popular television aren’t random, but new networks of shared culture, social spheres, and technology. Even comedies like Hacks, Ted Lasso, and The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel are subject to the same pressure as dramas like Stranger Things and Squid Game to provide concise and thrilling seasons with clearly recognizable viral moments. While this means less content overall, it also means that the best shows out there are pushing harder to avoid a weak episode.

Regardless of the specific reasons behind the change, a shift toward realism and surrealism is a constant in today’s programming.

It could be out of a desire for television characters to more accurately reflect lived experiences as opposed to serving as broader archetypes. The perk of this is that deeper, more true–to–life stories are being told, which beyond providing fascinating material, builds a pathway toward empathy.

We can appreciate these interesting ways television has adapted to our time while acknowledging something is lost. But it’s

Catering 0 Delivery 0 Takeout 4040 Locust St. pattayarestaurant.com Sarah Tretler incorrect to think of television as having moved behind comedy—rather, comedy has moved beyond television.

When Conan went off the air in June of 2021, it felt like the end of another branch of television comedy. Conan O’Brien’s willingness to feature a guest just for laughs, or to create a happy, meaningless bit, was in many ways the last shred of a more comedy–centered talk style. But O’Brien is also only going forward. He’s got an enormously popular podcast, which follows the trend of stripping back to realism and genuineness while still dipping into his broad tendencies.

We’ll always find ways to laugh. Sketch comedy thrives on YouTube and TikTok, even as it fails to maintain a presence on television. I’m excited for a new generation of pioneers to conquer the rugged frontier of entertaining the internet. Between podcasting, short–form videos, livestreaming, and new competition among streaming services, there’s so much to explore.

It could be the start of something big. ❋

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FILM & TV

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ope, Jordan Peele’s third directorial project, is part of a dying breed of theatrical films: originals. As much as Top Gun: Maverick is a jet–setting thrill ride or Minions: The Rise of Gru is meaningless fun, both films (and countless others) are franchises led by already–established characters.

With Nope, Get Out, and Us, the lure of Peele’s films is his original, mind–blowing storytelling. Peele, as the director, is the brand.

In simple terms, Nope is Peele’s take on the UFO story, a sci–fi Western–thriller that strongly takes inspiration from Jaws. Nope uses the sky as its “ocean” as the UFO hides in the clouds; however, unlike a shark that’s limited to water, the sky is boundless, leaving the alien free to terrorize anyone, anywhere.

Nope also differentiates itself from previous sci–fi films with its fresh interpretation of how extraterrestrial life appears and is judged. Much of Nope isn’t about the threat of the unknown, but the spectacle and fascination with it. The movie’s focus on spectacle goes beyond the flying saucer up in the clouds. The film shines light on the business

lurking behind the facade of entertainment: Hollywood.

The idea of spectacle—being captivated by something—is what connects the film’s extraterrestrial and human lives. The movie takes place at the fictional Haywood Ranch, which trains horses for film and television.

The ranch is operated by the quiet–yet–commanding OJ Haywood (Daniel Kaluuya) and his charismatic sister, Emerald Haywood (Keke Palmer), whose great–great–great– grandfather is the unnamed jockey in the first motion picture ever: Eadweard Muybridge’s 1878 The Horse in Motion.

Nope’s storyline resembles that of Muybridge’s, as the Haywood siblings along with tech employee Angel (Brandon Perea) and cinematographer Antlers (Michael Wincott) join forces to record the UFO which, like Muybridge’s horse, is difficult to pin down. The team is trying to get the impossible shot—“the Oprah shot”—and puts their lives in danger for their five seconds of fame.

The darkness behind entertainment is also shown at Jupiter’s Claim, an amusement park

created by Ricky “Jupe” Park (Steven Yeun), who starred in a popular sitcom until a chimpanzee actor viciously attacked his co–stars.

While slightly detached from the events at Haywood Ranch, Jupe’s backstory and theatrics in the present day expose the cycle of animal exploitation in Hollywood, all for a few fleeting moments of spectacle.

Even with Nope’s subversive themes, it’s Peele’s easiest film to follow plot–wise. The tone is dramatic but is also extremely funny, beginning with its genius, meta title that’s spoken throughout the film and is equally as hilarious every time. Nope is Peele’s first true blockbuster, and his ability to combine both high–concept and cinematic storytelling proves he’s one of Hollywood’s last standing mainstream auteur directors.

Too many films today rely on superhero cameos or post–credit scenes vital to another generic film to entice audiences. But audiences don’t need to be wooed that way for a Peele film—they can come in confident that they’ll witness a brilliant story from a singular creative talent. ❋

Jordan Peele’s ‘Nope’ Is a Resounding Yes After watching Peele’s newest thriller, you’ll never look at clouds the same way again.

BY JACOB A .

POLLACK

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