Guess what’s inside 65 Roebling Street, Brooklyn. A working class family who lived there for generations? Never! Try an art studio. Or a creative’s blackhole? Hipster hellscape? I can’t give you a straight answer.
It’s the band Ren haas’ listening party. I had never heard of them; I’m only supporting a friend who’s opening.
I pass through the hallway’s blinding fluorescent lighting and enter a kaleidoscope of purple, pink, and blue beams. To my right, mismatched curtains poorly conceal a pitch-black cavity large enough to be another room. Movie posters of films unknown to me crowd the space above the brown cabinets, white stove, and stainless steel fridge.
I walk towards a folding table littered with Pabst Blue Ribbon cans that people are calling, “the bar.” It reeks of IPA in here…at least I think it does. I don't linger around Bushwick or East Williamsburg enough to know. Or drink enough beer.
I push past an old man clutching onto the whispers of his gray hairs, slide around a goth couple decorated in facial piercings, tip-toe around a bald barefoot man, and weave through dudes who surely just left their open concept offices.
I’m the only Black person.
A techno remix of Bob Marley’s classic “Could You Be Loved” blares over speakers.
I escape to a corner with stacks of books. Heavenly Bodies, The Art World of Disney, Playboy Magazine October 1974. My friend finds me and yells over the bass to introduce me to DJ, a guitarist of Ren haas.
Three minutes pass and I learn that DJ met the owner of the loft, an old guy named Avi, through Facebook Marketplace. Avi owns a bunch of turtles, frogs, and fish--all named Frank. The movie posters are all films he started but never finished, and there are rifles stowed away in that cavity towards the front of the room.
I stand between a Grim Reaper-esque easel (a skull tops it with a black cloth draped over it) and a painting of Virgin Mary hovering over the Twin Towers when Ren haas’ set starts.
The guitars sound out of tune and DJ’s mic stops working. Notifications ding on the Mac connected to the sound system.The lead singer furrows her eyebrows and glares at DJ. I don’t think she’s enjoying their performance.
I’m not having that much fun either. The Malboro-filled air gives me a headache. I almost trip on a mess of mangled amp wires as I make my way to the door.
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