Silver Medallion - Hey Cinderella
The summer is close to ending and soon all the midwestern girls who came to NYC for their PR internships will either leave with their dream of hooking up with a DJ fulfilled, or be back next summer to continue chasing. Simultaneously college bedroom disc jockeys across the globe are telling their friends they’ve started spinning “trap” and making out with their high school girlfriends to Flosstradamus mixtapes. Meanwhile, in our Manhattan recording studio, DJ Fresh Direct and I have been locked in scotch fueled recording sessions listening to the Dipset Trance series, and come up with our musical answer to the times, and we call it Xanaxland.
Free Download Link: Silver Medallion - Hey Cinderella

Silver Medallion - Hey Cinderella

The summer is close to ending and soon all the midwestern girls who came to NYC for their PR internships will either leave with their dream of hooking up with a DJ fulfilled, or be back next summer to continue chasing. Simultaneously college bedroom disc jockeys across the globe are telling their friends they’ve started spinning “trap” and making out with their high school girlfriends to Flosstradamus mixtapes. Meanwhile, in our Manhattan recording studio, DJ Fresh Direct and I have been locked in scotch fueled recording sessions listening to the Dipset Trance series, and come up with our musical answer to the times, and we call it Xanaxland.

Free Download Link: Silver Medallion - Hey Cinderella

Are You Strong Enough To Pull The Plug

The girls at the studio said they only like trap music, and they don’t care if its 2 Chainz or Bauauer but if the club won’t play it, they won’t go.  Its 3:30 am and the studio is making us leave because Drake has to drop in, and the whiskeys gone and the engineers are out of Adderal so it’s probably the time to make the hour peregrination back to Brooklyn anyway.  Unless there’s a club on this Wednesday night that’s gonna play enough trap to keep the girls happy.  And since we’re in NYC their most certainly is, so they all pop a Xanax and call a car service since Jennifer has her dad’s Amex, while we finish exporting records and sending them to dropbox. 

In the car I watch us drive by the bridges on our way downtown and I picture them each falling one by one, my face glued to the windows, my hands shaking from lack of sleep and the natural anticipation of total world collapse.  What if it happens tonight?  What if while we walk in and order four Jameson’s neat and the DJ changes the record when the girls step onto the floor the whole of New York City begins to crash down and we don’t even know it until its too late, and their we are in the rubble, our last night a desperate attempt to find not the party of our dreams, but just a party that’s decent…

Gwen slaps me on the cheek and tells me to get out of the car before I even realize we’ve stopped.  They’ve got boys meeting us, two guys from Sweden, I just call them Hans and Sven, even though those aren’t their real names, but they’re nice enough, besides being painfully chic, and one of them, I think Hans, works at Daieago so he gets to charge drinks on his company card, which combined with our inability to communicate beyond the language barrier makes him more qualified to be a good friend than most of the people I meet out.

Two drinks and hundreds of kick drum beats later I’ve come to the conclusion the city isn’t gonna fall down tonight, although I personally might. Everyone’s got the spins but no one wants to brave the staircase and about two dozen more people stumbled in the club at 4am so to the untrained eye it almost resembles the start of the night.  Someone got a text about a loft party but all I want is two egg whites with mozzarella and spinach on wheat but god knows where there’s a deli, and who even knows where we are, I think the Village but i couldn’t tell yah which side and my phone died somewhere on the car ride.

We’re at the loft when the sun comes up, which is one of those moments when someone plays the right music on the ipod dock (Gold Panda) and everyone looks around and someone makes a comment about how alive we feel and I’m inclined to agree.  When I get to the subway the train pulls up exactly on time and all seems right with the world.

Just Those Kids With The Broken Hearts, Who Never Knew Quite Where to Start

It’s 10:30pm and I’m in Scottsdale and I need sleep or I may go past the point of no return.  There’s a cover band in the W lobby playing Gotye’s “Somebody That I Used to Know” and the female lead singer gave me that look that says “I hate you for leaving this place”.  DJ Slippe is on at Radius but I’ve lost most motor function capabilities so all I can do is sit sunken in this seat and say yes to the cocktail waitress when she asks if I want another.  My tour manager is having sex upstairs in the hotel room, when I left he had just put on Fatboy Slim’s “Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars” and popped a Cialis with this horrible grin on his face. I grabbed my ipad and what was left of the absinthe and headed for the lobby.  The lobby is a prozac fueled grindfest of small talk and high class hooker atm withdrawals, but by New York standards a $14 cocktail is nothing so I’ve kept the mint juleps coming.

I used to live in Arizona. I used to play in a cover band but we were never classy enough for the Xanax filled upper class lobbies of $350 a night hotels.  Our main premise was that we would sing over the instrumentals of various pop songs and then provide comedic interludes while the bartenders sent us the strangest concoctions they could think of.  We got fired our fourth week because my ex (also a cover band singer, in a twist of fate), brought her new beau to show off and in between “Champagne Supernova” and “Get In the Groove” I threatened to cut his heart out with a spoon while dinner patron’s were engulfing their linguine. 

The singer looks me dead in the eye while she sings “Rolling In The Deep” and I start to wonder if one of those black nights of my life history between the ages of 21 and 23 she and I met in the empty disparate jungle of these bars and their patrons and I whispered the beginnings of sweet nothings at her amidst the onslaught of Don Julio shots that marked that time in my life.  Or maybe she just hates me for what I am, not what I was, nothing personal, rather something greater.  I almost hope she hates me personally.  Their set ends and a light house remix of a John Denver song comes over the stereo and I go out to the limo and tell the driver take me to wherever they’re gonna play Billy Ocean tonight, take me where the dreamers go to die in this town.