On Saturday, June 26, I went with a classy, party-boy Grayson Bagwell from Cliche Culture to the NYC launch party of The Creators Project. The inaugural event was held at Milk Studios which graciously hosted the three floors of live music and interactive art pieces. The image above is of me in Muti Randolph’s Deep Screen. It is a cube of 6,144 bulbs of light, set to go off in varying patterns and colors. It felt like being inside a computer circuit, with the lights bouncing on bulbs around me, but strangely magical and ethereal at the same time.

This is Bagwell in front of a glittery, haphazard-looking stack of silver painted boxes. There was a black box on the floor and when you picked it up and moved it around the giant stack, you controlled the direction of the rainbow florescent lights reflecting off the sculpture. There were a lot of amazing pieces. But the highlight for me, besides the free booze of course, was the music. I had to work at Cantor, so I arrived to the party at about 9:30pm which was, consequently, just in time to see Interpol, MIA, Neon Indian, Mark Ronson, and NASA.

The not-so-secret MIA show was fantastic. After bailing on Bagwell and Interpol in the loading dock because the mass of people and June humidity made me feel like I had jumped into a bucket of sweat, I walked to the bar and casually ordered two cranberry and vodkas to refresh myself (don’t judge, it’s a standard trick for long lines at open bars). I stood in the air-conditioning and watched Neon Indian perform, an electronica band I had just written about for VICE. After enjoying a few songs and one of my beverages, I checked my phone. 11:00 pm. MIA was due to start at 11:30, and I figured I’d head up early to make my way to the front.

Along with, oh, 150 other people? Yes, not-so-secret at all. I slowly siphoned my way through the crowd, waiting for air pockets to appear as some deserters grew uncomfortable in the thick throng. As I neared the stage, about four rows of bodies from the edge, I saw Bagwell and [NAME CENSORED], a [TITLE CENSORED] working for VICE’s Guide to Everything for MTV. We waited patiently, dancing to some of the tunes and pushing back on the crowd as more and more people tried to shove their way to the front.

When MIA jumped on the stage and the music from her latest single, Born Free, began to play with the video projected in the background, we were immediately shoved forward. We, the crowd, became one entity in that moment, clamoring to be closer to the one above us. It was like a religious ceremony. She sang to us and her sounds moved down our bodies, vibrating and pulsating as it churned in our heads and our toes. Her Apostles passed out plastic cups to the select few, and poured a clear liquid from a glass bottle into them. Lucky enough to get a taste, I discovered with much appreciation that it was Tequila. Later in the song she stood next to us, over us, holding her hand above the crowd as hundreds rushed forward to meet her. Hands everywhere sprung up, desperately trying to grasp just one finger, just one feel her skin. I clasped her hand and I tickled her stomach when she tried to crowd surf. When her apostle came around to do the same, I snatched his hat.

But soon the crowd became a little too excited and I was shoved to the right, with my feet still planted on the ground. There was a pole about six inches from the ground that stopped my left leg from leaving. I grabbed everyone near me, clawing at their shirts and shoulders, refusing to fall under the crowd. The few seconds that I was horizontal seemed like minutes and I knew my leg was going to snap. I think Bagwell managed to lift me up from behind, and after a few moments of struggles and cursing, I was able to save my shoe too. In a panic and hyperventilating, I gasped “YES” when Bagwell offered to take me outside, just as MIA started singing Galang.

We exited to the entrance of Milk Studios and I settled myself. Feeling ready to take on another crowd, we returned to Gallery 1 to find Mark Ronson on stage and the bar fresh out of liquor. We grabbed some the free mini-Fiji Water bottles headed to the dance floor. Another two hours of dancing passed, and a huge welt was growing darker and darker on my shin. We decided to take our leave.

On the way out we spotted an MIA tag done with stickers similar to the one on my stolen hat. We took advantage of the photo-op despite our exhausted and frail bodies threatening to crumble on the pavement.

All in all, great party VICE!