CORRECTION: Nicole Brydson wrote in an email that neither John Ford nor his brother Juan ever lived with her. Rather the Ford bros just slept on her floor. Fordsy!!! Also, I spelled Nicole’s name wrong and she’s from NYC not the Hamptons. Yes, I’m retarded.
Left, Paul Sevigny and Vegas being filmed by Inigo Gilmore on the front steps on The Chelsea Hotel, AC. Right, drink in hand…Pics by Lindsay Boisvert.
You’ve been invited to a “soft-opening” party by the owners of the Beatrice Inn for their new venture, The Chelsea Hotel in Atlantic City. A bus to AC is supposed to leave from the corner of Jane St and 8th Ave at 7pm. It’s a Friday, 25 July. You were told there were only 10 seats for your friends, but by 7:30pm you realize there are 60 seats on the (pink) bus, most empty. You call everyone you’ve ever met, ever. You get the bus driver high as he wheels around the city picking up everyone you ever met, ever.
8:30pm. The bus leaves with thirty or so people, including two middle-age Turkish guys, a half-dozen Euro females (a Slovene, an Austrian, two Italianos, two Brits), a black chick w/ fake tits and Ivy League degree, etc. A lot of laws are being violated (mostly by your lawyer). A makeshift bar, two seats covered in ice, is stocked with every kind of booze. There’s a British Elvis impersonator/television correspondent filming everything. You don’t care because you know you get to keep the tapes.
You realize by 9pm that this is the best bus you’ve ever been on, ever. That’s due to the whos and whats of the party. See, the Beatrice Inn is New York’s sole “dive-club.” In less than two years it has branded an unparalleled party ethos—one that combines everything downtown that’s not lame or too trashy with pure excess. It translates quite well to a bus party.
Loud indie and rap music via iPod doc spark a dance party. People yell, hug, scream, sing songs, make-out, do drugs, smoke hash and weed, all the good stuff—and you’re still on the bus. You love that the Beatrice party ethic isn’t irony based like the BK/LES scenes, nor is it status based like the Meatpacking or Chelsea (how else do you explain your loser-ass riding on this bus).
Upon arrival you’re greeted by Paul Sevigny, the DJ, ex-promoter, Beatrice Inn owner, A.R.E. Weapons band member, and former Club Anthrax-goer who is originally from Darien, CT. He wears an old, ripped navy blue sweater with light tan pants. He walks your whole party into the lobby. The all white modernist space is furnsihed with purple couches and phallic lamps and jammed with a weird mix of Philly-area middle age tourists and downtown New Yorkers sipping stiff drinks from red plastic cups.
“The party is in the penthouse,” Sevigny says. “Sign up for rooms here. And thanks for coming.”
Sevigny’s sister is Chloe, the actress, and that surely helped his rise. But you can’t deny the brilliant Britpop/punk/post-punk/downtown-style Paul perfected in the late 90s and early 2000s. The Sevigny style wasn’t wigger-y and druggy like Supreme/Vice, the era’s other dominant downtown vibe. It was just cool and fun. But like Supreme and Vice, Sevigny has proven one of NYC’s most durable brands. Take when you recently interviewed at a national gossip magazine, and the first question they asked you was if you had access to Beatrice. “That’s the only club we really care about,” the weekly’s news editor said. “Nowhere else gets the celebs acting as wasted and slutty.” Not wanting to sell people out for money, you never took the gig, but Beatrice certainly is unique in the celebs-gone-wild respect. For example, Heath Ledger’s last stop on Earth was Beatrice.
You remember going to Spa Wednesdays, an early 2000s party Sevingy hosted on 13th St in Union Sq. (Spa’s the club Vince Vaugh and Jon Faverau went to with Diddy in the movie Made.) You remember the all-white side-room, where Razzle the dreaded HC kid did the Afro-beat party. And the time Smelly Tom bought Veuve bottles for the now-bargain price of, like, $100 per bottle. All the Brazilian girls. “Michael James” as the door name. Stone Roses into James into Sex Pistols…
Penthouse beer filled tub. On the bus.
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