Below are stills from the film to give you a glance into the world of the women fed by an office bag purchase.
Friday, 6am: At the airport I get some looks. Maybe it’s because I have the baggiest jeans in Ohio. Maybe it’s because my new GOLF le FLEUR x Converse Darryl Chuck 70s make me the coolest chick in the Midwest. The shoes remind me of the first pair of Converse I ever owned (also a pair of red Chucks). I remember wearing those and dreaming of getting out of Ohio to be with kindred spirits (other tumblr users). I watch Challengers on the flight to LA. That scene comes on while I’m served breakfast and all I can do is shoot an apologetic look at the flight attendant.
10am. I’ve touched down in LA. It's baggy jeans central. I ask my driver how he’s doing. “Not in jail, not in war. You tell me how I’m doing.” Touché. It’s a sweet full-circle moment that Converse takes me to LA for the first time. I think my middle school self would be proud of me. I also think she’d want me to take a picture of my Chucks with the Rio De Janero Instagram filter. She’d be happy to know we’re still listening to Blood Orange and The Marías.
6pm. Reunited with the Converse team, we reminisce about our Chuck Taylor memories — Warped Tour (or not being allowed to go to Warped Tour). Wanting the knee high Converse in 2014 (and wanting them again when they were re-released this summer).
Saturday, 3pm. On the way to Dodger Stadium, we drive past the Chromakopia billboards. It’s been a big year for the color green. I’m seeing a lot of fun takes on Tyler’s Chromakopia suit / mask getup. Flog is as much fashion show as it is music festival and block party. "Flog is just a big fit off." It's Chuck-chella. Every fur hat on the West Coast is here. I can joke about the Flog uniform, but there was also an unspoken understanding — pay homage, but don't be a copy. We speculate potential secret performances. “Imagine SZA comes out,” I joke.
4pm. Doechii brings out SZA. I’m too excited to feel smug. She’s so chic in her Miu Miu booty shorts. Her heel breaks but she has DJ Miss Milan fix them while she sings. “Flog Gnaw, y’all kinda freaky.” she tells us. “Put a finger down if you’ve been in love,” she starts. Fingers down all throughout the crowd. “Now put a finger down if you fell in love with a guy who turned out to be DL and then he broke into your house.” Damn. She won that one.
5pm. Omar Apollo talks to the crowd: “I know there’s hella Mexicans out here.” Cheers all around. “Hold on, where my gay people at?” Earth-shattering screams. I strike up a conversation with a girl next to me in full GOLF flame print (with matching Converse). We share memories of our first pair of Converse signaling our entry into true middle school emo. I ask her the craziest thing she’s seen at Flog. “The Teletubbies,” she tells me before running off. I won’t know what she’s talking about until later.
6pm. The moon is low and the ferris wheel is green. In between beat drops, Kaytranada adlibs, rapidly calling for medics. Someone I used to watch on TV asks me about the bathroom line.
8pm. These boys behind me talk about Daniel Caesar, saying, “He’s rizzing.” They speak too earnestly for me to think they're being ironic. Daniel continues to signal for medics, gently chastising the crowd. “Y’all are dropping like flies,” he teases. “That was hella nonchalant,” says one of the boys. I notice their Chucks. We have something in common, even if I can’t understand a word they’re saying.
A plane flies overhead carrying a banner that reads "The world is small. Los Angeles is smaller." Later, I find out that someone got engaged on the ferris wheel. Flog Gnaw is for lovers.
10pm. Fans are walking around with Tyler dolls (dressed in their own mini Converse), despite the 2015 interview where he rebuked any possibilities of a doll in his likeness. Whatever. It's Tyler time. He conducts us as the entire stadium sings to St. Chroma. After his dramatic opening, he goes into his usual riffs. “Hi mom!” he says. This is his victory lap. And well-deserved. Chromakopia has been at #1 for three weeks now. “To do that and my tenth carnival in my fuckin city, that’s what I’m talking about. I don’t even have a heartfelt message…All this shit really be straight from my notebook, man. It’s fucking crazy.”
I accidentally hit a woman with my camera. I apologize profusely but she’s unfazed. “My head is like a helmet!” she says. She introduces me to her 12-year-old son — it’s his first concert. She’s not missing a beat on any of T’s songs. The kid seems excited to see his mom curse.
Tyler takes a puff from his inhaler. He brings out Daniel Caesar for a song. “I love you,” he says. “Lick my neck.” He twerks with Sexxy Red. Someone behind me speculates that he was practicing in the mirror. Sexxy jokes that Tyler wrote Sticky about her. T gives a look to the audience — half shocked, and then giggles and shrugs in concession. The stadium shakes when he plays Tamale. Doechii comes onstage for Balloon. I will not apologize for the person I become during her verse. Tyler leaves us with one request. “Get home safe and keep dreaming.”
Sunday, 2pm. I talk to someone in a decora get-up and ask her about her first Converse memory. “My mom got me my first pair,” she reminisces. “The OG black Chuck Taylors.” I ask her the craziest thing she’s seen at Flog — “The guy in the Sasquatch costume,” she says. Again, it’ll be a few hours until I know what she’s talking about.
Backstage I pass Hana Vu, who I’d seen in 2018 as an opener at my old haunt, a definitely-not-up-to-code venue in Cleveland. I later looked at the pictures I took from the show — I was wearing black Chucks. Some things never change.
3pm. I chat with some more people about their Converse. “I have a pair for partying and a pair for class,” they tell me. My shoes still look close to brand new, but Carti is tonight, so we’ll see how long that lasts. I see some people on a ride that would definitely make me lose my brunch. I can tell from the undersides of their dangling feet that they have Chucks on.
4pm. In line for a ride, we fawn over this girl's Converse — she has flowers on the rivets! She proudly announces she was one of the people who passed out during the Daniel Caesar set. Our faces must give away how concerned we are, but she assures us she's fine now. The experience ages me.
I find Sasquatch. I also find someone dressed as Tron Cat. The two will later duke it out in the pit.
5pm. I pass a shirt that says, “I miss when OF stood for Odd Future.” People are moshing to André 3000’s flute until they decide that it would be more fitting to sit on the ground and pretend to row. Numerous Chucks are spotted in this formation.
6pm. I come across a guy dressed up as MF DOOM. We both chat and bond over having gotten our first pair of Converse as 5th grade birthday presents. “I wore mine til they were cracking all up the side,” he tells me. I ask him the craziest thing he’s seen at Flog. “Probably Sexxy Red slapping Tyler’s ass.” I make it to Sexxy’s set in time to see her shaking ass on the big screen, as well as people on the ground shaking ass alongside her. The people’s princess.
7pm. Everyone is running to The Marías. “Sing with me if you want your ex back,” says María Zardoya. I don’t want my ex back, but I do love the band. She waltzes between the crowd until someone almost pulls her into the pit — security freaks out for a second but all is well. She gives the mic to the crowd for Cariño and an unseen man sings what could be a screamo version of the song. Rock on.
I chat it up with another furry, who remembers wearing their high top Converse to their first middle school softball game. I ask the craziest thing they’ve seen at Flog and get an answer I should’ve expected from a furry — “Everything here just kinda levels out. Everything is equally crazy.” I find the Teletubbies, who’ve since become festival celebrities.
8pm. We’re torn between going to Mustard or Blood Orange. Good problems. People are running to Blood Orange while singing along to Rack City. Mustard brings out Roddy Ricch, Shoreline Mafia, Tyga, Ty Dolla $ign, Big Sean, and YG. “This is so college.” He fakes out the crowd and skips Drake’s verse with a triumphant, “Sike!” Someone steals one of the giant wooden flames hanging from the carnival entry. Later, I see that someone else stole the giant bees off the GNAW sign. Respect.
9pm. We make it to Blood Orange. It’s been a big day for middle school me. I remember being 14 and sitting in my bedroom, reblogging pictures of palm trees silhouetted against a California sunset. There was a life I aspired to that I seem to be living now. Dev Hynes brings out Brendan Yates of Turnstile and they cover Love Will Tear Us Apart. They close with Champagne Coast. A few people are crying. A few people are holding each other. A shooting star appears over FM MOOD’s MF DOOM tribute set. Magic.
10pm. We're live from the Carti pit. The monitors read “Please take a few steps back.” I may be in danger. I can’t see a thing because I’m a whole head shorter than everyone here. Carti brings out The Weeknd but I can only hear him. I’m too busy trying not to get trampled by eighteen-year-old boys. I help someone dressed in full IGOR garb to their feet — his blonde bowlcut wig stays on the entire time. Someone rips their sweat-soaked shirt off and swings it around, baptizing everyone in a 10-foot radius. Carti doesn’t play FEIN. The shirtless dude scolds the crowd, yelling — “If you guys don’t open up this pit, you’re all losers!” The lights come on and he's (satisfyingly) embarrassed.
We make it back to the rest of the group who watched Carti safely from the back. “Izzy, no offense, but you look like you’ve been through war.” I may as well. A mosh pit is best judged by its aftermath. Loose batteries, a trampled keffiyeh, and socks (?) litter the ground. We found loose bra padding and I can only imagine what had to happen for those to be abandoned. A few spare shoes were found — none of them matching, and none of them Converse (10/10 for durability). All of our Chucks, now very broken in, stay attached to our feet. We kept it fun. We kept it freaky. We kept our shoes. What more could I ask for.
We enter and make our way to what is approximately front left of the DJ booth, where we’re accustomed to dancing at clubs in New York. “So is this a techno club or a dance performance?” yells an uncertain participant in my boyfriend’s ear. He laughs, bouncing along to Ben UFO, and yells back, “It’s both!” The club has long been a hot topic in European contemporary dance but it is only now making its way into New York performance venues, largely through transatlantic tours. R.O.S.E. follows recent examples like Michele Rizzo’s HIGHER xtn. at MoMA PS1 (May 2024), (LA)HORDE’s Room with a View at NYU Skirball (October 2023), and Gisèle Vienne’s Crowd at BAM (October 2022).
Do these performances compromise the club’s spirit — a space idealized for its anonymity, dark lighting, and thundering music? The notion of the club as a utopian escape is admittedly just that — an ideal — because of how its intense conditions can create barriers to entry. Still, the club remains sacred for many, a place to forge connections and embrace an alternative state of being. Looking at how performances transfer this spirit to new settings reveals what aspects of the club are essential and those that aren’t.
Eyal’s dancers make their entrance. The lighting shifts from roving blue to yellow spotlights as Ben UFO’s tracks transition to more melodic beats. Clad in deconstructed lace Dior lingerie with dark red tears painted on their faces, the dancers move cautiously in a tightly maintained pack, slicing paths through the horde with hoof-like steps and jerky leg extensions. After around ten minutes of this controlled choreography, the dancers vanish as the lighting shifts back to blue and Ben UFO picks up his dubby beats. The club, as we knew it, resumes. This cycle of tightly executed movements and free-flowing club-goers repeats several times, each time emboldening the dancers to plunge further into the crowd.
Clubbing in a building once built for the U.S. Army National Guard on Manhattan’s Upper East Side turns out to be surprisingly successful — at least for the audience. What starts as an awkward, scattered group searching for their non existent seats gradually gels into an engaged, bouncing crowd that erupts in cheers each time the dancers enter and exit. Performance patrons who might never step foot in a club find themselves swept up in its potential for communion, moving in unison with fellow ticket holders. But it isn’t until the very end of R.O.S.E. that the dancers finally break free from Eyal’s choreography and join the fired-up audience in a brief moment of improvisatory movement with the music. By keeping her dancers at arm’s length, Eyal seems more interested in the club as a backdrop for her signature movement style than wholly as a space with meaningful stories to be told.
Michele Rizzo, HIGHER xtn. 2024. Photography by Cameron Kelly courtesy of MoMA PS1.
Back in May, I attended Wire Festival, a multiday electronic music event at Knockdown Center that had no shortage of organically united dancefloors. It attracted a crowd of seasoned ravers who were eager to celebrate the start of spring as they danced alongside DJs who played well into the daylight. I left Wire in an afternoon daze to see Michele Rizzo’s HIGHER xtn. at MoMA PS1. My sleepless euphoria only deepened as the performance unfolded, starting with a lone dancer who looked plucked out of the festival.
The dancer, dressed in sneakers, baggy jeans, and a tight tank top, shuffled slowly into the gallery, perfectly in sync with the looping bars of an understated electronic melody. Soon, other dancers, clad in the same staple rave uniform, joined him — each having traveled from Europe for the U.S. museum debut of HIGHER xtn., which premiered at the Stedelijk in Amsterdam in 2018 and quickly became a fixture at kunsthalles and festivals across the continent. As the score’s tempo climbed, the choreography locked into a 16-count sequence, which the dancers executed with precise synchrony. They remained intensely focused, never making eye contact with each other, as they sought release in the endless repetition of synthesized beats. Once the dancers reached their limit, they stopped the sequence and exited the gallery, one by one.
HIGHER xtn. used the focused daylight of the gallery to highlight the meditative release found in the repetitive movements that dominate dark dancefloors. The performance’s restraint brought more consistency and intentionality than Eyal’s all-encompassing club construction in R.O.S.E. Yet both performances offer enticing entry points into club culture for those who may not frequent raves. Rizzo’s ecstatic, hypnotic repetitions reveal how the club can mirror other meditative practices, while Eyal’s interpolation of performance and clubbing helped hesitant audience members blossom by the end. Still, both works overlook one of the most underappreciated aspects of clubbing — its potential for individual expression. HIGHER xtn.’s pristine uniformity especially risks promoting the outdated techno trope that there’s a “right” way to dance to electronic music.
Maybe this shortcoming is, in fact, a benefit. For habitual ravers jaded by one too many sunrise sets, it’s a reminder to return to the club with more intention. If you pause and peer through the darkness, you’ll see hundreds of people moving to the same beat, each with their own subtle variations. This collective choreography is a ready-made spectacle that doesn’t need validation in a theater or museum. And when the music shifts slightly, you can watch the ripple effect sweep through the crowd while feeling the new beat in your body. Maybe this small bit of magic is best left on the dance floor.
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