This is a dispatch from Trap Mansion, home of my friends, in the Coastal Empire also known as Savannah, Georgia. I—a New Yorker, a Yankee, a scrappy carpetbagger—came here to flee the creative desert that is millennial Brooklyn in an attempt to find a place where seeds could be planted. Fancying myself a 21st-century Tacitus, I document for you, reader, and for annals of history, my weekend in Fist City.
I heard word from fellow writers and recently renounced Brooklynite friends, that Savannah was "happenin." My buddies John Swisher and Mike Brown live, along with Olivia (Swisher’s older sister) in the Lucas Mansion, which they’ve deemed the Trap Mansion. The Trap Mansion is a five-bedroom, four-bathroom house that costs about the same amount as a small studio in downtown Manhattan. They have two electric organs, a backyard, two cats, and one blind dog.
I’ve never been a person that goes in for any kind of "scene." When I do go out to a gallery or a performance, I invariably end up on a mopey train ride home, thinking of the night better spent in bed or a movie theater. So why seek out a scene in Savannah, you jerk? you may be thinking. Disappointment and curiosity are my two driving forces. But, like a beat dog responding to an extended hand, I am wary—frightful, even. It is with this attitude that I entered the Hang Fire bar on a recent Friday night.
Logistically speaking: Cry Fest 2 is a joint project of Fist City art collective and Safe//Sound promotion. An all-night event, Cry Fest 2 was used to promote Fist City’s new minizine, while Safe//Sound took the opportunity to bring together an experimental music show. Jae Matthews, who runs Safe//Sound, mandated that each of the14 participating bands perform 15 minutes of new material apiece, continuing the five-year old mission of creating a space for new and experimental music in a place that was traditionally absent from the art scene.
Just about 100 people gathered for Cry Fest 2, drinking in front (as it is legal to drink on the street here) and at the bar. Inside, they danced to the alt-electric and alt- pop (think The Kills without the polished production). As we approached, John and Mike assure me that people here are not judgmental. I remained hesitant. Everyone I spoke to knew each other and were interested in each other’s creative endeavors. It was off-putting, baffling, even. I felt disarmed, like I was in a hipster Stepford. These people were writers, teachers, punk rockers, DJs, and performance artists. What's more, these people were all polite and (mostly) unaffected. Genuine. It was then that I spotted a homeless man hanging around a group leaning against the bar. I saw him stretch out his hand and casually pat Olivia on the head. Knowing Olivia, I expected loud cussing and an open-handed slap. She turns and says "Hola Pepe! Como estas?" Apparently, they were old friends.
Just then, I saw a guy, who was talking about Jared Leto and hot-tattis, kick a cup; Alicia, an Atlantan and a DJ, admonished him and he picked it up sheepishly. The considerate environment had me reeling. I hustled to the bar to settle myself, helped by J and M who knew what I was experiencing. We came across Jae, who asked me how I was enjoying myself. I shuffled by a one-man-crowd-surfer; his hat fell off and someone picked it up off the ground and put it on his head. Polite, even to the point of obnoxious. Got to the bar, ordered a whiskey, quick, we
I heard word from fellow writers and recently renounced Brooklynite friends, that Savannah was "happenin." My buddies John Swisher and Mike Brown live, along with Olivia (Swisher’s older sister) in the Lucas Mansion, which they’ve deemed the Trap Mansion. The Trap Mansion is a five-bedroom, four-bathroom house that costs about the same amount as a small studio in downtown Manhattan. They have two electric organs, a backyard, two cats, and one blind dog.
I’ve never been a person that goes in for any kind of "scene." When I do go out to a gallery or a performance, I invariably end up on a mopey train ride home, thinking of the night better spent in bed or a movie theater. So why seek out a scene in Savannah, you jerk? you may be thinking. Disappointment and curiosity are my two driving forces. But, like a beat dog responding to an extended hand, I am wary—frightful, even. It is with this attitude that I entered the Hang Fire bar on a recent Friday night.
Logistically speaking: Cry Fest 2 is a joint project of Fist City art collective and Safe//Sound promotion. An all-night event, Cry Fest 2 was used to promote Fist City’s new minizine, while Safe//Sound took the opportunity to bring together an experimental music show. Jae Matthews, who runs Safe//Sound, mandated that each of the14 participating bands perform 15 minutes of new material apiece, continuing the five-year old mission of creating a space for new and experimental music in a place that was traditionally absent from the art scene.
Just about 100 people gathered for Cry Fest 2, drinking in front (as it is legal to drink on the street here) and at the bar. Inside, they danced to the alt-electric and alt- pop (think The Kills without the polished production). As we approached, John and Mike assure me that people here are not judgmental. I remained hesitant. Everyone I spoke to knew each other and were interested in each other’s creative endeavors. It was off-putting, baffling, even. I felt disarmed, like I was in a hipster Stepford. These people were writers, teachers, punk rockers, DJs, and performance artists. What's more, these people were all polite and (mostly) unaffected. Genuine. It was then that I spotted a homeless man hanging around a group leaning against the bar. I saw him stretch out his hand and casually pat Olivia on the head. Knowing Olivia, I expected loud cussing and an open-handed slap. She turns and says "Hola Pepe! Como estas?" Apparently, they were old friends.
Just then, I saw a guy, who was talking about Jared Leto and hot-tattis, kick a cup; Alicia, an Atlantan and a DJ, admonished him and he picked it up sheepishly. The considerate environment had me reeling. I hustled to the bar to settle myself, helped by J and M who knew what I was experiencing. We came across Jae, who asked me how I was enjoying myself. I shuffled by a one-man-crowd-surfer; his hat fell off and someone picked it up off the ground and put it on his head. Polite, even to the point of obnoxious. Got to the bar, ordered a whiskey, quick, we