Once again, it’s hard not to consider the sheer power of B-related power players and scenarios who play cool but lack any smarts….errrrr talent.  It’s all about dopey street scenes and living out of an Escalade.  You know, just sheer cool-ness in the form of a purple velvet jacket.

Boys and girls of downtown New York: that is *(note: was) Paul Sevs.  Shrouded in his bleach job and shades (see photo above) sits a man behind a keyboard who presses buttons while his cohorts, the A.R.E Weapons, walk around Spring Street like zombies, hating on everyone and ripping on the “Yeah Yeah Who’s?” and singing such songs as Bumps (Oh wait, that’s the Secret Weapons) and I’m Not Scared. Bostonites.  Red Sox Fans.  Player HATERS. Listen peeps, be scared.  Your image is your everything and it ain’t that anymore.

Props to Paul Sevs to set himself free (A.R.E members claimed they canned him)…hum-bug. He simply got sick of “kicking around” all those years and set himself free.  Free to the world of “speakeasy” lounge life and better DJ music (courtesy of upgraded buttons).  Free to drink his own beer and not worry if his rock star cohort was dating his sister. Repeat, he doesn’t have to share his sister.

Bottom line: Sev’s doesn’t need some old strung down rock STARS turned yuppie Lacoste (wait A.R.E. man; was that a Polo shirt I saw behind the bar?) coupled with short crew cuts. You boys look so clean now; maybe your trusti parents finally take ownership (or you just need their money because the dream is dying).  No, Sev’s no longer needs his tilted KC hat, bike messenger gloves and track suit.  This brother has style now. He’s a bone fide hustler in his fitted suits.  Free to his bumps and free not to Wear Lacoste (and Pitchfork’s amazingly insane review of the A.R.E. album with perhaps the best few sentences ever to be strung together: “Kicking around New York for fucking ever, Paul’s finally put together a scam that’s paying off: holding down three keys on an old Casio.”) He’s free of those Casio shackles. The girls are better and so is the equipment.  He can light a cig in his own new trendy spot.

Damn; that is living.

(image 1: V Magazine)

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Kitty Bawler is back…finally. After a five-year stint of silence, the hip have once again spoken. Having been around the block, she’s studied the trends and inner-workings of all the uber-pretentious, black labeled culture of the downtown New York crowd.  She’s cynical and a bit jaded. She detests aviators. She’s patient and doesn’t mind writing about, you know, cool people.

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