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New York is an indoor city. Its buildings lean close together, and its geography is a blinking beehive, a living wall of windows constellated like stars. In the depths of winter, a version of the city in which everything can be accessed via a network of underground tunnels seems just out of reach—I imagine the subways expanded right up to my door, so that I would never have to touch the surface. Manhattan and...
The first house party I remember throwing in New York was before I even had a proper apartment. Sometime circa 2006, in the Barnard College dorms on 116th street, my suite roommates and I banded together to throw a Halloween rager with the open-to-interpretation theme of “historical bitches.” Cleopatra, Eve, and Schrodinger’s Cat were all in attendance. A girl dressed in a facsimile of Bjork’s swan dress puked in the common room. I remember it...
There was a vibrating, menacing metal box on a concrete slab behind my parents’ house. It hummed all summer long, hiding an electric motor spinning giant metal blades. If I stepped too close, an uncomfortable heat found my face, kept me away. It doesn’t want company. The box was busy conditioning the air. It was late into the summer when I was eleven when our air conditioning failed, the one and only time it ever did....
“I’m 20, washed up already,” Greta Kline sings on a track midway through her band Frankie Cosmos’ second official studio album, Next Thing. It’s a short, tongue-in-cheek song simply titled “I’m 20,” one of the many barely-a-minute- long tracks on the record, but it neatly juxtaposes the enormity of Kline’s teenaged output with her more recent, streamlined studio records. Initially, she would upload fresh demos to Bandcamp without a second thought, reveling in the...