Surviving The First (and Possibly Last) Dirty Sprite Night
It was the greatest party of the year that ended in abrupt disappointment.
Photos By: @durtyharry
Thursday night was easily the greatest party of the year… that never reached its peak. “Dirty Sprite Night” is a monthly party series hosted by Santos Party House presented by the Black Out Boyz alongside A$AP Mob, which serves as an ode to Styrofoam cups filled with purple stuff. The first (and possibly last) shindig promised special guests aplenty, and many rare appearances did indeed occur. That is, until an electrified Party House suddenly lost its spark due to a fight that broke out on the Lafayette St. sidewalk. But more on that later.
The personal blunders that took place on this night threatened that I even be able to write this story. My photographer Durty Harry and I arrived early to Santos Thursday evening, doors opened at 11 but the flyer encouraged early arrival. We were let in by Queens rapper Despot, who also happens to part-own the joint. The man who wears many hats (rarely on his dome) led us into the club at crunch time just before doors opened, the house lights were lit, sound technicians were still working the auditory kinks out and cases of beer lined the floor awaiting to be stocked in the refrigerators.
Disgruntled and in need of a drink, Harry and I sought resolve in a local liquor spot to quench our thirst. Chinatown is filled with just about every type of business except liquor stores, so we settled upon a local 7-Eleven. After minutes of scanning the booze section, oddly we agreed on some Bud Light Lime-A-Ritas. Shortly after we were outside, shooting down our skittle-tasting libations in plain sight. I foolishly decided to ditch the brown paper bag the clerk served us our drinks in.
Suddenly whilst talking shit on a Chinatown sidewalk, a yellow cab suspiciously slowed down and eyed us. Harry said something along the lines of “5-0 creeping,” but I ignored the notion. Before we knew it, three men dressed in plain clothes jumped out of the yellow taxi cab. The short Asian driver approached us and displayed his badge; undercover cops. “You know drinking in the street is illegal right?” he barked. We responded with a smooth yes and placed our drinks on the ground. (Now, just a side note, I’m from New Jersey and have never been stopped for anything other than a busted tail light, let alone stopped in New York for drinking on the street. Unfamiliar with the possible outcomes, here I am slightly buzzed in Chinatown shitting bricks because my train of thought is leading me to believe that I will be arrested on this night.)
After forking over our IDs, the cop who was riding in the back seat proceeded to chat us up. Harry is there next to me conversing with this DT like he’s one of his long lost childhood friends, and in my mind I’m just awaiting arraignment. After running our IDs and realizing we had no warrants or arrests, they let us go. No tickets, no court dates, nothing. Simply a “Take your drinks down the street,” and “Have a good night.” Crisis averted, shout out to the boys in blue scheming in yellow cabs. (Never thought I’d say that.)
Our triumph over the NYPD called for celebration. Obviously we had to take ignorant photos displaying our cheap cans and flipping birds. “WE BEAT THE NYPD DOG!” Our night was about to be lit. It was time to head back into the party, and after what felt like hours of waiting in line to go through, airport level security, we were finally let in. The vibe hit us immediately, Santos was buzzing as A$AP J-Scott was midway through his set, touching on turn up club bangerz and mixing in hip hop classics between. Harry and I made our way backstage to begin what journalists call “coverage.” In reality we just kicked it with a bunch of rappers and other important people.
Behind the stage curtain, blunt smoke wafted and hit us like a crashing wave; the tightly packed room was filled with Styrofoam cups and cyphs galore. The attendees of “Dirty Sprite Night” did indeed have some “Very Special Guests” as advertised. The likes of Ab-Soul, Retchy P, and many others anchored themselves on the scarcely seen couches. A$AP Mob reps were in the building, but the big stars had yet to arrive.
What was remarkable about this party was not only that the big names in hip hop present, but the movers and shakers behind the melting pot that is New York City culture were there as well. These are people who are unknown to most, but they shape the cultures of fashion, graffiti, photography, film and event planning in the city. All these people here on the count of A$AP Mob and they still had yet to show face. A$AP J-Scott wrapped his set and Roofeo took over on the 1s and 2s. At this point the temperature had risen, there was the mutual feeling amongst the crowd that this party was about to become legendary. It was going to be one of those “I was there when…” moments for everyone who was getting intoxicated and sweaty.
I found myself backstage in a cyph when suddenly, the bubble had burst. A young dude rocking typical street swag in the form of a basketball jersey and a crisp snapback rushed through the backstage curtain and yelled, “Ayo A$AP we on lockdown get to the front immediately!” In an instant, those A$AP members transformed from turned up party goers having a good time into soldiers like Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, changing from civilians to costumed crime fighters.
Being the journalist that I am, I made my way to the front to see what was going on. But when I arrived, all that was left was an empty sidewalk and handful of cop cars. Now this is Mass Appeal and not Media Takeout, so speculation will be absent from this article. The only thing that I can say is, that a fight broke out just beyond the club doors and A$AP Mob was involved, nothing more and nothing less. This occurrence shaped the way that “Dirty Sprite Night” would end, abruptly and in disappointment. The honored guests backstage cleared out, and the quintessential members of A$AP never stepped foot inside the club.
Bad vibes spread like crazy and within moments, the entire club skittered down to about twenty heads. The night was to be filled with surprise performances and rare appearances but never reached its pinnacle, all over trivial drama. It’s like that girl who’s way out of your league finally accepting your invitation to dinner, but as you’re lacing up your shoes and heading out the door she cancels last minute. To put it short, the ultimate blue balls. “Dirty Sprite Night” united personalities from all walks of New York City culture, yet failed to make good on what should’ve been the dopest party series this year. Harry and I personally had a marvelous time, and these photos are testament.
Here’s to what could’ve been, the first (and most likely last) “Dirty Sprite Night.”
Yo! Adrian doesn’t normally drink Lime-A-Ritas, but when he does it’s with Durty Harry.