Tribal Rites, Part I

Urbanites all belong to multiple tribes. We define ourselves by a variety of them, but perhaps the most interesting ones are professional and there is nothing more urban than the advertising business. It’s not quite like Mad Men anymore. We don’t generally keep bottles of booze and the matching stemware in our offices or desks, but we do party hearty. TV networks, radio stations, and magazines are usually the hosts and some of them do it big enough to justify the extra expense of doing it on Friday nights. Not only that, but with three venues.

The opening venue on this occasion might normally be used for very different tribal rites, although is mystifying sometimes, even to the Urban Anthropologist, how such things can proceed. In this location on the upper west side the small lower-level rooms had a cavernous feel to them with their exposed stone walls and low ceilings, and things eventually got claustrophobic. First word to the wise: Get there early unless you like Standing Room Only.

A DJ in dreadlocks played a custom mix ranging from Latin rock to world, particularly Middle Eastern alternating with Shakira. A petite belly dancer moved among the guests, collecting tips from the more sophisticated ones. Some of the mostly Mad Women were inspired to get up and shimmy along with her, under the influence or no. Female waitstaff in black moved among the guests with hors d’oeuvres, some of which were difficult to positively identify. The Urban Anthropologist, however, is a fan of Staples and by happenstance was equipped with a pen that lights up on the second click. Which made it much easier to identify the shrimp in the sushi and take notes in the dark. Trigorin would have appreciated it.

White cocktail napkins of the kind too small to record much more than a phone number on serve a useful purpose in such places: to mark the location of one’s drink, especially if it’s something like red wine or cognac. Initiates to the NY club scene might want to order something pale, like a piña colada or a frozen margarita, just to be able to see it in the dark. Not to mention learning how to use chopsticks when there is any risk of sushi being served. Failure to do so does make one appear gauche.

Not having been to this particular location before, it was difficult to determine whether it was a pickup or hideaway spot (its website provided no clue). If the latter, the atmosphere was understandable. If the former one wonders how the urban mating ritual plays out in a venue with minimal lighting and dark furniture where most of the patrons and even the staff are wearing black. This must be what keeps the fragrance industry in business.

Sexual shenanigans are not completely dead in the ad business, but this was more of an occasion to meet, greet, and converse – within the limits of the decibel level. Most of the attendees knew each other from having worked together before; some introduced their significant others. The host company’s attendees were in from their regional offices, and within an hour it was so crowded that I missed my favorite vendor from that company, a smart, young caballero handsome enough to star in one of his network’s programs, until we encountered each other outside to catch the bus to the concert.

In between cell phone conversations and greeting latecomer clients there was time for the Urban Anthropologist to observe the parade of prancing dogs walking north on Columbus. Even after the beautifully groomed Samoyed, the stars of that parade were a pug and an English bulldog, both of whom belonged to a woman whose face was curiously like theirs. Both dogs looked out at the humans as if from a stage. How Shakespeare would love the stage that is New York City!

Venue two was the theatre, merely blocks away. Music is basic to the human condition, so it would be impossible for the Urban Anthropologist to live anywhere that doesn’t have a lively and diverse concert scene. Religions that attempt to ban music are denying the ultimate humanity of their followers, but that’s another subject for another essay. When one attends a salsa concert, the connection is more obvious than ever. There was no one in the audience, regardless of ethnicity, who didn’t want to obey Gloria Estefan’s exhortation:

Come on, shake your body baby,
do the conga
I know you can't control yourself any longer
Feel the rhythm of the music getting stronger
Don't you fight it till you've tried it
Do the conga beat….

Had the concert been in Madison Square Garden’s main arena instead, people might have been doing just that. There couples dance on the promenades in front of the tiered seating to the live sounds of Oscar de Leon and Victor Manuelle. For the moment, though, the attendees merely got up on their feet to shake in place and wave the flashing lights provided by the sponsor. One of my clients, seated on my left, played imaginary conga drums on his lap. It is always marvelous to see that busy urbanites still have the energy to do these things at the end of a long workday. Some male fans approached the stage and kissed Gloria’s hand, answering a question that’s been in the Urban Anthropologist’s mind ever since the love of Latin music appeared some years ago (All previous experience involves male singers, this will be further referenced at another time).

The afterparty could hardly be called such, as it was too much like the subway at rush hour. A colleague needed 30 minutes to fight his way to the bar and back for a second drink. Our host company is notorious for choosing venues too small for the guest list, but due to the endless free drinks, will never face a protest boycott. It isn’t a place for the touchphobic or the conversation fan, especially when not conversing in one’s first language. There wasn’t even a dance floor but had there been, it would have been too full of people for movement to have been possible. Not an optimal setting for the tribal rites of Madison Avenue.

My colleague, his wife, and I departed at 1AM and were accosted just outside the venue by a young man who asked for our wristbands, which had been required for entrance. In an accent that sounded French to our weary ears he claimed to be in banking and told us that his girlfriend had lost her wristband at the theatre, so I slipped mine off neatly (when putting these on it is wise to not make them too tight) and gave it to him. However, when he asked for the others’, we didn’t buy it.

En route to the subway we speculated on the guy’s motive and concluded that he had been collecting them to sell at $10 or $20 apiece, as they each represented free drinks for the rest of the night. In New York that could amount to $50 or more per head. While that wasn’t particularly honest, it was a unique form of urban creativity, analgous to youths who purchase full day unlimited Metrocards and sell individual swipes on them all day long. The Urban Anthropologist wonders if this young “banker” will ever realize he is being compared to members of an urban underclass.