misery, madness, method
A pedigreed club, a new location, diverse clientele, the same old tricks — apply the electric blue eye-shadow and lift some weights, because First Stars, gunning against would-be elitny giant Dyagilev, also wants to pleasure you in the bathroom.
TEXT FRANICH ST. FRANICH feedback
SCENE: March is the month of melancholy in these Northern lands. Tempted by early but false signs of spring, weary of the interminable darkness, beset by visions of torso-less bodies and charred corpses, nursing the pain in your loins, now is the time to stay in bed all day, order more Chinese food, and ignore your friends. You read books; you dream up new art projects; you begin to bedazzle old T-shirts; you cannibalize on your mate, your dog, your neighbors, your memories. You lose perspective; you are depressed and it’s a shame; and it’s time for you to take some responsibility. Fortunately, Russia is the land of shock therapy, and the newest of Moscow’s high-end clubs, First Stars, is the electric chair for you. As with any club anywhere in the world worthwhile visiting, the door at First Stars is artificially difficult. Unless you have a connection, you are unlikely to be admitted immediately. Bribes and chicanery and especially tears are pointless; you need to ride it out. Denial should not be feared; a vodka and a beer at Vodka Bar is five minutes away in the event of catastrophe. Live a courageous life. However, in the case of First Stars, a civilian with style and a little grace should have no problem. While Osen and Leto always seem like Hermann Goering’s vision of the future (albeit with blazing mojitos), the First Stars promoters appear to have taken a laudable step in the direction of creating a textured crowd, replete with beauty and oddity alike. Yes, the model factor was divine; yes, I saw a Dior Gaucho bag; yes, wear your diamond-studded Rolex. That said, more than two bald Irishmen were in attendance; there was a five foot tall dude in an Adidas T-shirt and sneaks; two chicks in bondage gear — including a leather turtleneck! — drank water with gas in the foyer. An unassuming dude sporting a blue cotton sweatshirt, Alf jeans, and well-cut Prada sneaks laid his mack down with a vengeance, demonstrating the ancient truth that the 2:1 blah-blah-hot ratio works. Most astounding was the apparent absence of any height requirements for ladies — while other Moscow clubs blast anyone below 5’8’’, there were lovely women of short stature in abundance. And this, my friends, is progress in 2006; I’m preparing to hang myself in my closet as I write this. Two more positive strides forward should be noted. One: I spied a babe in a white wife-beater – certainly one of the most underutilized weapons in a youthful female’s wardrobe, and a welcome sight in the Sea of D&G. Two: the First Stars door policy appears to support the newly emergent “athletic chic,” admitting whole troupes of Russian sirens with long sun-bleached hair and wide smiles that said “I was just kicking around a football three hours ago and now I want to party, who wants to fucking touch me?” Have we ascended into another transition phase, more Sportclub L.A. than Sloane Square? Am I actually happy about this? As Dr. Hannibal Lecter says, “You have to try something new every day.” LAYOUT: The venue itself is a positive meld of Osen, the previous First, with a brief whiff of Penthouse at Sad Hermitage. Set in an old auditorium at some place called “Art Center” that strangely resembles the L.A. Observatory of “Rebel Without a Cause,” First Stars is far from large but provides just enough room to prevent Osen-grade traffic jams. The island bars are back, manned by courteous and efficient bartenders; glitter bombs explode overhead; and the epileptic laser-lighting may be the best in Moscow. A stage with Russian dancers with moves fresh from Darrin’s Dance Grooves provides non-stop amusement. Two enormous disco balls that look like they were designed by Rene Magritte flank the stage, ruling imperiously over the immaterial human events transpiring below. Most importantly, First Stars smells great, filled with that secret aroma that inhabits all of its high-end brethren as well. This haunting smell — absent of body odor, supplemented by cigars and perfume — is a mystery worth further investigation. GROOVE: The music — well, the DJ failed to play any Front 242, Nine Inch Nails, or Depeche Mode remixes per my requests. He also refrained from revisiting old club favorites like “I Have Sex With Myself.” Instead, he played loud, driving, unremarkable but imminently danceable house music, beloved by models and black-clad bald gentlemen in their forties everywhere. After rounds of Russian Standard and Corona Light — 1 shot plus 1 beer, 460 rubles — I loved it too. Sometimes you just have to accept that most people who like the music you love are total tools, and moreover that you will never hear Tool at First Stars. Dance, loser. In the end, what can you say? If you believe in the idea of glamour or you are an impressionable young lady who believes in spirits, First Stars is worth a night of amusement. If you don’t, then may God bless you; you may not inherit Moscow nightlife, but you are an honest person that probably has better things to do anyway. COSTS: Not bad. Maybe 500 rubles for a Mojito. BATHROOMS: Traffic-free, as nobody seemed to be going to the bathroom. What that means, I have no clue. Men’s and women’s were separate, thank God, unlike previous First, where men encountered the total lack of courtesy that apparently prevails in women’s toilets. HOURS: Midnight to 6:30 a.m. on weekend nights. |
