Going to a TransAtlantic party is bit of a self-double dare; the way Corey — (DJ) People’s Champion — plays everything just a little bit louder, and everyone gets just a little too drunk, making the floor space just a little too packed and unstable. Sort of like being inside a hydrogen atom. Or like that scene near the end of World’s Fastest Indian (nothing wrong with Springsteen… usually…) where Sir Anthony Hokpins keeps going faster and faster and you can just feel the machine slowly pulling itself apart and bursting into a million fucked up bloody pieces.

And that’s before the live set. No sense is recaptured when guests Culture Prophet kick off. All of us on stage manage to squeeze both singer and knob twiddler into a smidgen of a corner for their whole show. Like they cared though. Nearly as absurd — or maybe just surprising — was the singer’s drawly chit chat between songs. They’re actually from North Carolina, hopefully troubling Jesse Helms’ dead ol’ heart. After their show, Culture Prophet got into a pornographically LOUD dj set. More acts of crazy. More sweat fog formations just below the stage lights. Me, I spent as much time at the bar as I could before taking a deep breath and heading back into whatever that scary shit.

We’re close to the end and people from Chris and Ed’s This Ain’t No Disco party at the Black Cat are trickling in. Slowly, slowly things start to seckle til the plug gets pulled at 2:30 or something. Bartender Evan yells, pleads, over and over for people to please settle their tabs and leave the bar. Outside, everyone’s standing around looking all post-two-hour-fuck, wiping off sweat and smoking, whether they normally smoked or not. I didn’t even want to hear about an afterparty.

» More photos from Sexy Fitsum

and then some more misty, water colored Saturday memories courtesy of Dakota Fine

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