As Long as Hussle Club Lives the Lower East Side Will Never Die

Calling Prince Terrence, singer of Hussle Club, the last of a dying breed, would be silly. It would be grandiose. We don’t want that because if we exaggerate on the internet about music, Lester Bangs will spin in his grave with such velocity that it will create a black hole that will suck all of us music writers in never to be seen again. By some standards, that’s a bad thing. So let’s settle on “Prince Terrence is emblematic of…” a dying breed. Like Debbie Harry or Penny Arcade or, tedious Op-Ed pieces aside, even David Byrne, Terrence still believes in the Lower East Side. Which is entirely crazy. Atlantis didn’t sink; it just got taken over by North American scum on the weekend.

Prince Terrence, like a lot of people who carry a New York vibe so well, didn’t grow up here. If you must know, he grew up in Not New York, Not New York. It’s a small town near over there, that at least isn’t Los Angeles. And he doesn’t want to be called the last Manhattanite standing or anything like that. Even though he parties with Miss Guy like it never went out of style (it didn’t) when we first met up to talk, we were joined by Steve Lewis (and that was only because the dude from Liquid Liquid couldn’t make it), who told stories about visiting Michael Alig in prison. But despite his protestations and the fact that he’s neither young enough to be an “it” kid nor old enough to inhabit Taylor Mead levels of “respectability,” right now, Prince Terrence is probably the clearest representation of “downtown” under the age of 35 we have—with all due respect to Cat Marnell and that lady who dates Terry Richardson. But Terrence doesn’t want to have an Internet target painted on him or for every faded “RIP NYC”-er to run up and harangue him when he’s DJing (And he’s always DJing. Usually at some new, forgive me, hot spot. As every Manhattan club he works at, through pressures of community boards and a police heath department forced to use safety laws as an additional tax for the city, close domino style, Terrence is hired at the next place, the owners confident that he’ll bring the nighttime freaks who still can’t be fucked to cross the bridge to Brooklyn.) So, again, to be clear, Prince Terrence is NOT the poster child for all the remaining decadence of New York’s Bloomburg-iest borough. He’d really prefer to avoid the hassle.

Over the last few years his band, Hussle Club, has evolved from a two-piece goth band to a full, weirdly arena rock ready, goth ROCK band. While they probably wouldn’t take it as a compliment, there’s a vaguely Hot Topic vibe that I like about them: more NIN than Wierd Records. I need to make this abundantly clear: NOT A CRITICISM. Growing up in the country, it wasn’t like Xmal Deutschland came through town a lot; I bought my first Nick Cave tape at the Berkshire Mall off Route 7. I have zero problems with accessibility. There will be plenty of time later in life to be excluded from shit. Until that notion becomes attractive (i.e. Never), I fucking dig Hussle club.

Despite the incredible pop appeal of his music, Prince Terrence and his band are part of fine tradition late night weirdos, one that is dying in Manhattan. Not the grand tragedy that those who moved to NYC in the ‘80s would portray it as (if you still want to get shot in New York over heroin, I can tell you where to go, and if you need an afters, go ask someone in PPP) but a shame nonetheless. Few of us moved here to hang out in Brooklyn (usual caveats about Brooklyn being awesome and always having been so, long before gentrification and the New York Times Style section discovery of it-not the focus of this particular article, but, yes, true), and the cast of Girls is the clientele I walk to the other side of the bar to avoid serving. But we aren’t the 20 year olds anymore. We don’t get to decide what NYC is. It’s admirable of Terrence and his ilk to fight the good(ish) fight of keeping Manhattan genuinely debauched and strange.

Hussle Club have a new song; it's an all too-appropriate-for-the-lifestyle-that-they-have-embraced cover of Whodini’s “The Freaks Come Out At Night.” It’s obviously awesome. Play it at your next afterparty in a hair salon on Ludlow.

Zachary Lipez is a writer in Brooklyn. He's on Twitter — @ZacharyLipez