DJ Tara on NYC Nightlife, Playing the Oscars and the Urban Planning/Club Culture Overlap
Interview: Bklyn-born Tara Duvivier is a distinguished event promoter and adventurous dance-music DJ, who in her day-job fights for New York's community futures
DJ Tara’s story is a major factor in why I started writing about local New York culture again. Mostly because I was shocked that in 2021, no one in the city’s local media was covering a then-current episode in Tara’s story: The fact that she, an excellent but only moderately known Brooklyn DJ, was playing on — and garnering a ton of screen-time at — the red carpet of that year’s pandemic Oscars. To me, it was a story that screamed “local, general interest,” an incredible side-tale to the biggest media and entertainment event on the planet. How on Earth wasn’t she being plied with interview requests? Why wasn’t her face splashed all over local news?
Of course if you know more of Tara Duvivier’s musical story — heard her spin records in various New York clubs or on The Lot Radio, attended “Donuts are Forever” or “Makossa Cookout” or another of the many dance-parties she’s helped produce since the early ‘00s — or if you’re already familiar with her work as a nightlife activist or as an urban development planner, you’d recognize that the fancy Hollywood gig was only the hook. DJ Tara is one of the city’s most interesting and multifaceted community musickers, a born-Brooklynite who combines an insightful ear for records with a dedication to club dynamics, community ethics and equity. Then she puts her time and money where her beliefs systems are based.
That’s why she became a major inspiration for Dada Strain. If you read the full conversation below — which was held during the early part of Vaccine Summer of 2021, after those Oscars, just as Tara was getting ready to return to gigging — you can detect the seeds of this newsletter’s central purposes. It is a conversation that began with Tara’s growth as a music fan, DJ, and New Yorker, touched upon her love of the city’s dance scenes, how those experiences informed her work in city planning and zoning policy (for the office of the Manhattan borough president, and the Pratt Center for Community Development), and, of course, recounted her red carpet story.
Since that chat, Duvivier’s work has garnered more attention, even as she’s found new outlets for her music. The J Dilla tribute party Tara helped start in 2007 was featured prominently in Dilla Time, Dan Charnas’ award-winning biography of the Detroit hip-hop producer. She has been a major voice in New York’s Office of Night Life’s discussion about the evolution of the city’s club culture, and in international forums on global nightlife in the pandemecine. Her recent DJ gigs have included appearances at prominent European spots (she just returned from the Gilles Peterson-produced We Out Here festival) and a spot on DJ Spinna’s Journey Boat Ride. And in addition to her monthly spot on The Lot Radio, she has a regular show on New York-London’s Soho Radio, called “UpBeat.” So DJ Tara’s work in combing music and community only keeps expanding.
NOTE: Even though this interview has been edited for both length and clarity, it is still an absolute monster. (Over 11k words - full of great New York cultural, civic and historical knowledge.) That said, a reminder that the conversation took place in July of 2021, so a few of the political and social reference points date to that moment, even if they remain pertinent today.
First of all, tell me how long you've been deejaying, how you got into it? And maybe where your musical love for playing records came from?
My parents are from Haiti, so I grew up in an immigrant household. My parents played music, mostly my dad. It was just Haitian radio, and Haitian music. If I went over to a relative’s house, they would play Haitian music as well, maybe some classical music too. But I had older cousins [who listened to records], and we had Video Music Box. I remember listening to the radio a lot in the car, like [NYC Top 40 radio station] Z100 and whatever. I actually started paying attention to music around age five. Hip-hop was the primary thing my brother and my cousins were into. And then, I can't remember what year Video Music Box started, but that became part of our routine in terms of where we got our music from. If it wasn't the radio, listening to Z100, Kiss FM and WBLS, it was Video Music Box. I always loved music, that was my jam, my brother's jam, my cousins.. My brother would borrow their house music tapes. Cause they were big into house at the time.
We moved out to the suburbs, junior high-age, like 10 or 11, to Westbury, Long Island, so not too far. I still had family in Brooklyn, and my mom still worked in Brooklyn. And we could still get Video Music Box out on Long Island. My brother being three years older, he would stay up and record Stretch and Bobbito, and all these shows. And then I got old enough, and we would both stay up and listen. As soon as my brother and I were old enough, we were saving money to buy CDs and tapes.
We kind of ran with it, and my parents never questioned it. I have friends who were like, “Oh no, my parents would see the [parental guidance] sticker and would freak out, so I had to sneak it.” We didn't have to sneak shit. All my parents cared about was: go to school, read, and “No television.” We’d only watch TV on the weekends, and we used to sneak watching Video Music Box during the week. But they never questioned anything we read or anything we listened to. They let us be. I guess they figured, “How bad can a book be? How bad can a CD be? We can read all about these things but if we saw it on a screen, apparently it was like their worst nightmare.
I graduated high school and moved right back to New York City. Part of me wanted to leave because I wanted to be far away from my parents, who were strict. I’d gone to an all-girls Catholic school. I just wanted some freedom. Moving back to the city was the best. My parents felt comfortable because it was like, “Well, she's close enough that if she needs us, we can be there in an hour,” but it was free enough for me. And it's The City, I could do whatever. It's not like falling into a college campus experience where maybe I'd feel some isolation. I had some of that in my classes, because I went to a school that was predominantly white.
But I was still able to find activities and people to socialize with outside of school, which really kept me going out to parties. My friends and I were under age. I started dating a party promoter. I wasn't hitting the clubs crazy because I was in engineering school, I couldn’t fuck around because I didn’t wanna get kicked out. But I was trying to go out to parties or live music events as much as I could.
This is when?
The late ‘90s.
So where'd you go at the time? Give me a couple of spots?
Nell's was still popping. One time I remember I couldn't get into Nell's because of how I was dressed. I didn't look terrible, but it was before it was cool to wear jeans to the club. We [as a culture] weren't there yet. I was so mortified because a guy was taking me. I remember that night we also went to 2i’s because it was right next door to Nell's. Opaline I remember had a really fun party. I was just interested. I was super into music all through college too. It was very important for me to go out and listen to good music. Even though I didn't grow up listening to that in my household, I sought it out.
That party promoter guy and I dated very briefly, but he would always make sure that I would be able to go to parties. I was young and, yeah, I was cute, and had cute friends. Why wouldn't you make sure we were at these parties? They were very grown and sexy. I remember at one point I asked, “Why don't you do something a little different?” I remember he hit me up and told me, “Look, I'm doing this thing at Opaline with Rich Medina. I think you'll like it, bring your friends.” And I remember feeling like it was my influence.
I guess that was a hint of “Maybe I could do parties?” But I never did anything with that. By the time I graduated college, I had some really good friends through Okayplayer. We would hang out a lot, go to live shows together, go to clubs together. Not too long after graduating college and starting to work, we decided that we should try to do our own parties.
Had the party scene started moving to Brooklyn by that point?
Not really. It was further downtown, but it was still Manhattan. The Lower East Side a lot, kind of Tribeca-ish, Meatpacking [District] — obviously APT, other spots started to spring up.
We used to do weeklies too. The funny thing is all of us worked [day jobs]. We just wanted to do it for fun. “Let's just do this, and maybe if we end up being big-time promoters, we'll all quit our jobs.” So that's what it was. We can get free spaces. We could flex our skills. One of my friends, Derreck Johnson, is a graphic designer. He's basically designed everything ever for me — my logo, my flyers. We had another friend, Kristy Gomez, who is in marketing and PR, so she knew how to present us in a very polished way. Eric Raphael was good with internet and finding sites and other places to do promotion. We were a team and we worked well together. So we started doing parties and it was a good time. We weren't making gobs of money.
Then we hit a point where we did lose money quite a few times. We were getting older, maintaining a weekly is a lot, and it started to fizzle out. Some of us were starting to have serious relationships, thinking about marriage. We would still do things, but very sporadically. But we would sub-promote events. So like [The] Freedom [Party], we were a sub promoter and every week we would get like $50 or something like that. Being that we were not throwing our own parties, over time, that money adds up. So if we wanted to throw our own party, we had some money to do it.
Around 2004 I just hit a point where I was thinking about leaving New York because of a relationship. I had done all the preparation, buying a ticket, moving all my shit. I resigned from my job. But I realized that if I moved, it would be a mistake. So I asked for my job back. And I was like, “Here you go Tara. What do you want to do? You were going to make this big move you're not going to make. You've got some money saved. What do you want to do?” And I decided that I want to go back to school because I wanted to change careers. And I wanted to learn to DJ.
So I decided to take a year to figure out this school thing. I didn't know what I wanted to go back to school for. I just knew I wanted to do something else — and the DJ stuff. What do I need? Where am I going to go? I knew DJs, but I was in awe of DJs. I. Some of these people are, I guess, my peers now, but still… We'd worked with people like Rich Medina, Questlove, all these people, but I could never ask, “Can you show me how to DJ?” I had to figure this out myself. So I went to Scratch Academy. <laughs from both of us> No shame in that, the instructors were amazing. Jahi Sundance was my instructor. Grand Wizard Theodore was there the day I learned to scratch. I know people think it’s hokey to go to a DJ school, but I'm sorry, Scratch did its damn thing. I learned on vinyl, so I needed turntables. And that worked out. I hooked up some really cheap turntables and a mixer. It all came together. (I still have the same darn tables — the mixer’s gone.) So I started DJing with the hopes that eventually I would do it on the side. “Let's see if I can do this. Let's see if I like it. Worst case, I can just sell everything and be done with it.” But I really loved it.
So while doing that, I decided that I wanted to go to graduate school to do non-profit work. I didn't know what kind. I knew I wanted to do community development. I thought it was going to be work in Haiti. So I started to apply to different programs, took some classes just to see if I could even do it, because I realized I had to keep my job in order to pay for school. I have to do this part-time, so could I manage it?
And I'm learning to DJ at the same time. And it all managed to come together. In 2005, when I started school, I realized I couldn't do both. I did a few gigs but I wasn't hitting the scene. I had to put it aside because I needed to go to school. So I kinda hit pause on it for a little bit.
So you go to school, you've learned how to DJ. At which point do you start putting on parties? I first learned about you from the Dilla Donuts Are Forever party and from Makossa Cookout. Tell me a little bit more about some of the other parties you've done and how does something like Makossa Cookout begin? Like, how do you create a party that becomes almost a party brand?
I think it's a matter of finding your people. You need everyone to be on the same page as far as the mission of the event. My friends and I were partying together, so we knew the kind of party we wanted to see. We would always end up talking about what was dope and what wasn’t, or how we can try to do our own thing. Dress codes were really too much of a thing back then. So how do we get people to understand that it doesn't matter what you're wearing? Why are you restricting people for their clothing? It's freaking racist. It's bullshit to say that you have to be dressed a certain way in order to go out and have a party. This doesn't make sense, particularly when you're going to dance. I hated that it kind of came to that — and that it’s still like that, unfortunately in New York City where you almost have to show, “See? We’re not bad.”
That's also part of what was really frustrating about the process with us, because whether or not we made money, no one can say that there was any type of drama with our parties. Clubs never even give people a chance, they already have this idea that something bad's going to go down because of what type of music is being played, and who is listening to it. But if it's like a totally white crowd, it's okay to play hip-hop. It's this shit that to this day gets on my nerves.
We definitely had a lot of people trying to look out for us. Derreck worked for ClubPlanet.com at the time. So he would always hear about new spots opening, and link us to people to whom we'd say, “Look, this is what we do, we have this type of music, this type of crowd.” We had a little marketing deck. We would meet other DJs we really liked, so we would try to do a party together. And we were doing that for a few years, regular parties, weekly things. We were still kind of doing things one-off, and sometimes people would ask to do an event with us.
When 2006 hit and Dilla passed away, we were all still living in New York. We went to some tribute events that were happening, and had the idea of trying to do our own annually. So we planned to do it for the following year. We had all this money from Freedom that we were keeping, so now we had a budget. One of the tributes that we went to was at Galapagos Art Space (which later became Public Assembly). But I think it was still Galapagos when we did the first “Donuts” in 2007.
At that point we were doing parties here and there. We could always rely on the DJs that we worked with, cause we would make sure that they got paid. I've DJ’d with promoters who, if they didn't make money, I didn't make money. It's like, “Nope! Get your ass to the ATM and take that shit out of your account.” That's what we had to do [as promoters]. So we managed to have good relationships, whether or not we probably paid them what they should have been paid. We didn’t have a whole lot of money. We just wanted to try to do something cool.
It's really just community-building, right? Especially when people say “I don't have a lot of money, but I respect what you do. And if we do end up making some money, a larger chunk of that is going to you.”
That was the approach. And we used to do ridiculous things. We had a party with a DJ Scribe where we served soup. We met Scribe at one of his parties, and were talking about how we wanted to work together. Like, what's the vibe? And then he mentioned the Stone Soup story — like, we don't have anything, we have these stones, we're going to make stone soup. And we were like, “We're going to call the party that.” And then it turned into, “What if we actually served soup?” And we did. That was a weekly party that did not last for too long, but you could come and listen to Scribe spin and have a cup of soup. I thought it was great fun. But at the time, people were like, “What are these people doing?”
Community builds you a network of people who are willing to go and stick their neck out for you, if they know that you're good peoples. I feel like we didn't know a whole lot of people, but the people we knew, always wanted to like put in a good word for us, try to connect us to different folks. So that's really how “Donuts” started — and continues to this day, to be honest. We still don't do this with a whole lot of money. It's a fundraiser. The proceeds go to Building Beats. So for the most part, it is trying to find things out of love.
Before the pandemic “Donuts” was at Brooklyn Bowl. And then we did it this year, virtually, online, which was great because we don't have money. So we would love to be able to fly people in and have certain people, and this time we were able to get people that we wouldn't normally get. We had a DJ out in Belgium do a virtual set, and some people in California to do a beat set. It's a community. People have heard of the event and they want to be down. And they wanted to link up even more during this pandemic.
With “Makossa,” it was a similar thing. Once I graduated in 2008, I started DJing again. We were doing events, these one-offs here and there. I would book myself on the bill and do the opening DJ set. Then when 2010 hit, [another] relationship was ending, and I was like, I have to figure out my next move. I needed to up the DJing because I needed the money. I remember that summer, Derreck had met some people and was like, “My homie has a store in Williamsburg and they do this backyard barbecue thing. You should come. I think you'll like it.” The place was called Fresthetic, on Grand in Williamsburg.
I had a really great time and I asked him, “Can I DJ at this party? Can you hook it up?” Which he did. He's like, “I'm asking if you can do it. I'm also going to ask if Eric can do it.” Eric, DJ Shinobi Shaw, also expressed an interest in DJing there. We did one of the last ones that summer, with Wonway, who came in from the Bay. I was super nervous. I was like, “I really wanna do well.” This is the kind of music that I like to hear. This is what I want to play. And Wonway was very impressed by us. We had some camaraderie, similar tastes, similar vibe, similar friends. We worked together really well. So we knew we're going to do it again. And we kind of got formalized into a lineup and started again the following summer, 2011, at Fresthetic.
We were hitting some snags because the area was changing. Grand is a major street in Williamsburg, but people also live above the stores. We didn’t have issues at first. I assume neighbors were like, “I live on a major street in a part of a neighborhood that is still largely Latino, where people play music out loud in the street. This is fine because that's just summer in New York.” We weren't doing a party until three in the morning. We weren't even doing it until midnight really. But we started to get complaints from the new neighbors.
We had one incident where a neighbor called the cops, and they went into her apartment, to get her perspective and were like, “We hear it, but it's really not loud. Also: it's daytime..” So she called again and said that somebody had a gun. Then the cops came into the party and were like, “Look, we know that there is no gun in here, but this woman is not going to stop. So we have to stop the party.” When they told us the reason, I lost my shit. She could have killed someone. God forbid somebody was outside with a cell phone or a can of beer or [something that looks suspicious]. “Put down the gun!!!!” “What? What?” That's all I could think about. I was livid. So at that point, the landlord was like, “Look, you guys can't do this here anymore.”
We were going to figure this out. We had a really good thing going. We had our friends, people were cooking food, people were making money. It was very much a cookout atmosphere in the backyard. We would be dancing in the rain, it was just amazing, such a good time. So we just had to find a legit space. And it just kind of moved from there. We hopped around trying to find a more permanent home. Up until the pandemic, we were at Our Wicked Lady, which we found through Brooklyn Bowl because the owners [of Our Wicked Lady] used to work at Brooklyn Bowl. And they knew of us through Donuts. Brooklyn Bowl is always super great, super accommodating. They actually told us numerous times, “[“Donuts”] is one of our favorite events. We love doing it.”
It has always been an issue that spaces that are playing music that was made famous and originated by Black and Brown people, were not actually booking those people or allowing them into those spaces. That was being called out quite a bit prior to the pandemic, and most people didn't listen. But we will always find our space, find our way, go where we’re appreciated and celebrated.
So finding community has been really the key. People like to go to the club, people like to listen to music, and people like variety. Not every party is for everyone. We just want to make a contribution based on what we know, and what we like. And we know that there are enough people for that party. It may not be 3000 people, it may not even be 300 people — it might be a 100, or it might be 30. And depending on the space, it could work. That's what we've grappled with a lot in the past, really trying to figure out how to scale.
Right now [Ed. in July 2021], I am yet to go to an event with more than a 100 people. And I find myself perfectly OK with that. So I'm wondering about this whole idea of, “Can you scale ‘community’ in a club space?” I have friends who are like, “There's no such thing as a good big club.” I'm not sure I agree with that, but I also fully fully understand where they're coming from, because the moment that you get into a 3000-person space, it's going to, by definition, be less communal, more about commercial interests and having to make money, or about largess and a particular kind of cool. What do you think about that?
It's something we have grappled with, and continue to grapple with. We know we have people that like our event. But when we think about putting events on, I feel like we have to be intentional, and feel like we are going to lose some things, if we change it. I would rather travel with it, and still keep the [smaller] scale. We had a period where we had a sponsor who wanted to do a series of events. They approached us in 2017 and that helped us do “Makossa” in other cities. But we did it exactly how we would do it in Brooklyn. There was a larger crowd, because now we had a budget, but we were not thinking of doing something where you would have 500-1000 people. We were like, “Let's be intentional with the type of space that we pick, so that we bring in people who’ve heard of the party.” We are hoping that more people will pull up because we're promoting it, but still trying to make sure that we keep the same elements.
For us, food is a big deal. So we needed to find a venue that was large enough to accommodate a kitchen, or a venue that does food, or would allow us to bring food in. That was a big challenge. At the same time, we don't live in these neighborhoods, in these cities. It's great to be able to bring people to certain cities, but at the same time, having local DJs hold it down. When we're in New York, we hold it down, but [when we go to other cities] making sure that we include local DJs on the bill and work alongside local promoters, that we get entry [into communities] that way, this was something really important to us. It's still community and it's hard to scale that up, but we don't want to sell it either. It just doesn't work for us. It doesn't make it fun. So we try to be mindful because we don't want to make it an unsafe space. If it's super small, people will be pissed at you as well.
Again, it goes back to having had our own experiences in the clubs. We know what it's like to be really hyped to try to get into a party. There was a period of time where going to The Do-Over was like a two-hour wait. And then what happens after that? You don't want to go anymore because of the hassle. That's not taking away from the party — I love that the party has grown to what it is — but people will fall out. I mean, we're never going to get it all right. Nothing's ever perfect. But that's just always been our thing. We don't want to go too big cause we're going to stray from what we know makes a good party for us.
While you were describing moving “Makossa” into other markets, you mentioned some things that I find to be an interesting parallel to urban planning. Of wanting to work with people inside different communities, of having that local input. Can you tell me if you see the parallels between community-building in club spaces, and working with communities for the betterment of local neighborhoods?
I do see the parallels. One of the things that I've been trying to impart on people — and I think it's easier now, due to the pandemic — is that some people find nightlife to be very frivolous and not actually culturally valuable. Which it is. Getting people to really understand that, for many groups, nightlife is their social lifeline. Again, it's been much easier to explain to people now because they get the [idea of] isolation. They don't realize that going to see their friends at brunch is the same for someone who prefers to go to the club and dance with friends, who meets up with their people there. Many people think clubbing is about drugs and drinking. Maybe that's involved, but that's not really the main focus. It's the music. Like understanding the importance of having social networks within the space you inhabit. For communities, that's how they work.
That's why people lament gentrification, because it's the unraveling of those networks that people know to have existed, and know to have worked, and can no longer work because people have been displaced. Your neighbor that you may have relied upon or talked to, is no longer here. You yourself have been displaced. Your new neighbor that moved in next door has an issue with something that you've been doing, or the neighborhood's been doing forever. All of a sudden, it is a nuisance. There's a lot of that happening.
When I worked for the city, I worked on zoning issues in lower Manhattan (below 14th street). This was 2018-2020. There was a lot of things happening down there. One of the things I heard often, especially in Soho, is, “We don't like restaurants because they stay open late. We don't want to give people liquor licenses. We don't like the clubs. We don't like the noise.” The nuisance. And it came from a lot of long standing residents who are older now but enjoyed those spots when they were younger.
Meanwhile, Soho was super poppin [when I was first clubbing]. There wasn't a huge amount of clubs when we were going out at that time, but we would do things in Soho, little popup events that were happening. Now we avoid it like the plague because it's too crowded with shoppers. On the weekends? Forget it. You might go there because you need to go pick something up at H&M or Uniqlo. We used to go for the little parties, there used to be little places to go. Meanwhile, now, they have literally nothing. Not only do they not really have restaurants and bars, they barely have mom-and-pop stores. It’s sad-as-shit to see Canal Street today - so many vacant storefronts!
Like what was the last spot on Canal Street? Bulgarian Bar? Canal Room?
We did J*Davey’s first NYC show at Canal Room. It hurts that all these spaces are gone or empty. Even in the Meatpacking District, as much as I hate it. Now, it's all hotels. There's no stand-alone clubs. At least you had Lotus, even if that wasn't your jam. Mark Ronson used to DJ there. It would be on a Wednesday night — or some ridiculous night of the week that you should not be in a club if you have a day job. But we were young, and we were going to do it. So we used to do it till 3a, and then wake up at 7 for work. “Oh, I'll just take a nap later.” (Oh God, to be young, just for the energy.)
Too many people look at nightlife of any sort, even restaurants and bars, as a nuisance. And that kills me because that was my jam. We used to go to Mekka. It was a restaurant, but late at night, after they'd closed the kitchen, they'd have DJs. And I would go there cause I was not old enough to go to a club, and I didn't have a fake ID. So if it was a Friday night, and if I didn't know anyone who could get me into a club, I would go to Mekka and check out a DJ.
From an urban planning standpoint. There’s a long history of New York community musicking spaces — whether night-clubs or loft spaces — being closing down, or pushed out through waves of gentrification. So I ask you this while you’re wearing your urban planner hat. Did this wave start with Giuliani? I recognize that, as it’s continued, what you have now is parties in spaces and neighborhoods that are about to be over-run by developments — or at least that's what you have in Brooklyn. Independent promoters throw a party, and then get kicked out the moment real estate can capitalize on the space. This cycle of doing pop-up community, bringing primarily white clubbers into stable neighborhoods, did that start when spaces in traditional nightlife places (i.e. Manhattan) began to be cracked down on? Because the cycle of allowing clubs to open in neighborhoods occupied by primarily Black and Brown and immigrant communities, where clubbers and artists start the gentrification process, which I experienced very much first-hand with Williamsburg, is still happening.
Giuliani was big on nightlife enforcement. I remember going to places and being told that I can't dance and seeing “No Dancing” signs. I might've been able to dance there last week, but then I’d go back the next week and they're like, “No, we got shut down” or “we got fined.” As I said, there used to be a flexibility in spaces. So it might have been a bar or a pub or a cafe during the day, but at night there would be a DJ. I remember going to Pageant in the East Village and having a good-ass time, and then going a week later, and they're like, “No Dancing.” A lot of spaces were definitely impacted by that. And also being M.A.R.C.H.-ed on: that's the colloquial term for a “multi-agency response to community hotspots.” That's where all the agencies come and raid a place, check everything and write them up with a bunch of tickets, and depending on what the violations are and how much is owed, the place may never be able to open again. There was a lot of crack down on spaces that were allowing dancing because of that. I think that started because of the idea that clubs attract drugs and crime.
I think that it went hard with Giuliani, and continued with Bloomberg. I don't think Bloomberg was as draconian about it, cause I think to a degree, he knew people like clubs. (But of course, what kind of clubs?) What Bloomberg was doing was trying to attract more businesses and rezoning areas to make nicer neighborhoods, or [for neighborhoods] to remain nice by not allowing clubs, by limiting density, something that definitely contributed to loss of spaces in areas of New York City that we frequented. Like, people used to go to parties in Times Square. BB King's used to have live shows — we used to go to this party there called “Funky Buddha,” and wait on this long-ass line in our finest. Where would you go in Times Square today? You wouldn't be caught dead on 42nd street in any capacity. Same with Meatpacking District: of course you had APT, and other spots, like Cielo, you had Hogs And Heifers on the corner, then Bed at one point. There’s phases of gentrification. So things were starting to change and those spots don't exist anymore. To think, “Oh my God, there was a club of beds.” That's so far beyond what that neighborhood looks like now. We used to smell the run-off from the meat factories at night there, and now nobody would even think to see any kind of meat-related thing in that neighborhood.
I think a lot of that did start with Bloomberg, in terms of identifying areas of Manhattan that could be seen as hot, and if you've got developers willing to put in, and you've got people who are wealthy enough, who own, who can have a say in what comes there. That's great for them. I'm sure a lot of people who have lived in the Meatpacking for many years probably don't like it. But at the same time, their property values are probably super high — but their property taxes are probably also super high, which is the unfortunate [side-effect]. I think Giuliani did a really good job of criminalizing nightlife. And I think the gentrification that came in under Bloomberg was just another assault, an attack that created this condition, because of course clubs can't compete with a developer that's coming in.
If I read my tea leaves correctly, the developers are helping the clubs while also owning the space where the club is. So that they can then easily pull the plug on the club and build their glass towers.
Exactly. Or the artist studio space, which is what some developers do: give them space on the cheap until the area is hot and then give them the boot. That's their jam. It gets to a point where the area is seen as valuable real estate, people start going in for applications to change the use to build apartments, and then comes a point where, “We have so many applications, let's just rezone the whole neighborhood.” Or it's, “We know that we need affordable housing. These areas are already poor so let's incentivize developers to build here by letting them go big, but then also allow them to up the market rate. We'll get a small percentage of those apartments for affordable housing, and we'll give them a bunch of subsidies and a bunch of tax abatements.” The communities are not getting as much as they should out of that deal. And I do blame Bloomberg a lot for that, because once things started getting better, he should have flipped it and said, “Okay, now that we know this property has value, we want more to benefit these communities.” That never happens.
I also think that historically a lot of neighborhood spaces in Black and Brown communities, the nightlife spaces, were for the people that were there and once the areas changed, the spaces went away. Look at Frank’s Lounge in Fort Greene now. And the worst thing is, that space is still empty [2023 ed: it looks like an Italian Bakery is opening there]. There’s a “For Lease” sign. Maybe the rent is too high, maybe they’re particular about what occupies the space. I hope it's the latter. But at the same time, I think a lot about Black-owned spaces in New York and how we need more. They're packed to the gills. You go to Ode to Babel. It's like, “Oh my God, it’s wild over here.” Go to Cafe Erzullie, it's crowded over here. Or Bunton’s. People want that community and we don't have enough spaces. And I think that makes it really difficult for everyone.
This dovetails with my long-time concerns about writing on primarily Black spaces to what’s inevitably a majority-white audience. I’m self-conscious as hell about it. Because I love to tell stories that highlight the culture — and clubs, promoters and artists ask me to do so — but those stories inevitably promote the culture to new audiences who then change the social dynamic. I know none of this is new, it’s another “commerce versus culture” dilemma. But I do find myself asking folks, “Are you sure you want me to write about this?”
The margins are high and people have to make money. It's unfortunate. It sucks that it has to be like that and will result in more people coming. But that also helps solidify their ability to stay, unless the landlord decides to get really greedy. But that's kind of where we are, subject to the market. Residential rents went down for a hot minute, but they're not down anymore. And they only really benefited people who could already afford higher rents. So even if commercial rents are down, I've seen a lot of vacancies.
And it was like that before the pandemic too. I think some landlords, they're fine with holding out. Some have no choice but to hold out, especially with newer buildings, because the banks that they borrowed from want creditworthy tenants, and those tend to be chain stores. So the requirements for a small business to rent a new space in a new building are enormous. If I'm a small business and I find out there’s a brand new building opening up in my neighborhood with a great location, I may not even be creditworthy enough to lease it. I think about this all the time, every day. We need cultural spaces in our communities but the rent is too high.
People want the community. The more people that move away, and don't know each other because they're not neighbors, may not see each other, or didn't grow up together. These types of social social spaces in New York City are more important because that's where Black people meet. You're going to meet in the club. Cause you may not be meeting at the job.
So clearly we need the spaces to meet. And on the Internet. But there's never not going to be a need. Sometimes there is a situation where people start to frequent spaces not primarily set up for them and they start to make the spaces less safe for those who created the space. I feel like it happens more in queer Black and Brown spaces.
During the pandemic, there were a lot of rules of thumb that began to be downplayed. What I'm seeing going into clubs right now — Bossa Nova, Mood Ring, other places I think of as having mixed crowds — is that people are more likely to frequent the local rather than the big thing with the big ticket price. Whether or not that has been a little bit of a bellwether for things slightly changing or not, I’m not sure.
I get that sense for a few reasons. I think people don't necessarily have the money for all that. One of the things that we were lamenting before the pandemic was that going to clubs is so expensive. In my twenties, if I wasn't tired or hung over, I was going out every night because there was some kind of free party, or some sort of party where I could get in for free. Or the cover would be $5, and drinks were less than $10.
In the end, it wasn't going to cost me a whole lot of money to go out if I worked it right. I think that we've kind of lost that. There's always gonna be free parties, because people are always going to be promoting something, but I feel like it wasn't as frequent before the pandemic. Maybe because I'm old and I'm not cool. I just remember there always being an album release party, and who's doing that now? Video release parties, such-and-such new alcohol marketing parties.
I don’t see that happening as frequently today. When people go out, it's a big ticket thing and they want to do it for the ‘Gram. They want their pictures. That's why a lot of parties do well. Especially if you stylize it and present it in a way that this is where the beautiful people are. Even with “Makossa,” we did a very robust photo recap. So there's definitely this aesthetic of, “This is a place to be. We're showing you that this is an experience.” That club environment made it really hard, especially for local DJs and up-and-comers. Because rents are high and those clubs need to make money, they are going to book somebody they know will bring them money before they give a local person that night.
During the lockdown, we didn't have our daily lives to attend to. We were just stuck at home watching TV and being on the internet. I think that helped to change the minds of some people who started to see the impacts. Even on a venue level, where they realize like, “Ah shit, we're getting screwed out here too.” They are subject to a lot of things that local musicians and DJs are subject to. Ultimately, they're still in a better position because they own a business. That's why within a year of organizing, the National Independent Venue Association was able to get federal legislation passed, to bring in money to save those spaces. Local DJs and musicians and promoters don't have that same [political] impact. I'm hoping that that will change. Meanwhile, venues are seen as a business — and to some, maybe even as a cultural hub. Some people see past the economic benefit of a venue, to see the true value.
I think some venues realized they had no other choice [but to book local talent], because you can't fly anyone in as easily due to the pandemic, and if you need to make some money then, “Okay, well, who's popping here?” The audience is here clearly, somebody will come. I think some venues embraced it, and some were already embracing it prior to the pandemic and are just doing it more now. Like Bossa Nova, like Mood Ring, who were always in support of local talent. I think venues who were doing it before, are doing it more now out of necessity, but also out of understanding that there is [a lot of talent there].
The whole reason I started Bklyn Sounds was to promote local musicians, and get people to go and see those local musicians, and to keep those dollars in the community, making sure that the artists getting those dollars are people who live here. To some degree, that's become a mantra. But I feel another aspect of a local culture shift happening too. You start hearing reports from artists who’ve flown to gigs in other cities, and asking, “How full was it?” “No, not that full.” Meanwhile, local clubs are packed. We're not talking about 500-capacity venues. We're talking about 120-130, but it feels like the energy is in those spaces rather than directed at big out-of-town artists. I’m not the only one who’d rather support on a much more localized level.
Because your money is gonna go farther. Some big name DJ acts charge $80 or some ridiculousness. Before the pandemic, it might've been $50. And I can't justify [spending] that. I just can't. Maybe, especially since we've been so starved, it's like, “Ok, I could go to that one party with the big name DJ and be done for the month. Or I could go to a smaller spot four times.” Your money is stretching longer. And also, hell yeah, there's good people here.
It might also be a level of comfort that people don't have yet. Maybe I’m just speaking for me. I just went to see Kerri Chandler at Knockdown Center. It was supposed to be outside, but it rained earlier that day, so they put it inside. The space is huge and it wasn't super packed. The dance floor area was full, but there was plenty of space for people to be off to the side. I was a little uneasy. I was still like, “Oh my God, there's a lot of folks.” But also it was $20, that was great.
Okay. Last Tara story, but also my favorite recent DJ Tara story: In your own words, how did you wind up DJing on the red carpet of the Oscars this year?
That was all Questlove. One of the first parties we did was with Questlove in 2002 or 2003. We always joke that it was the most money we ever made. We did it at what ended up being Greenhouse on Varick, but it was called something else then. We knew Questlove through Okayplayer. That was one of the great things about Okayplayer then, fans could interact with artists you really admire. So every once in a while we would book him.
I think I had asked Questlove once, just out of sheer ballsiness, “Hey, can I open for The Roots at this thing?” It didn't end up happening. But then he would hit me up to open for him if he was DJing somewhere. Every once in a while, I would warm-up the crowd, before he would come and obliterate it. One of the last gigs I had before the pandemic was an opening gig for him. During the pandemic, there was Stevie Wonder’s 75th birthday party. They were doing a big blow-out, 24-hour thing on Instagram, and Ahmir hit me up and asked me if I wanted to do it. “Can you spin like four hours of Stevie Wonder?” Hell yeah, I can do that, because I used to do Motown on Mondays. I was scared, because he told me the lineup was him, Gilles Peterson and Spinna, D-nice and Natasha Diggs. I was like, I gotta do this. There was a week's notice and I could get four hours together. That was an amazing experience that definitely helped up my profile quite a bit, and got way more people on social media paying attention.
Questlove liked my set. He understood that I am someone who really loves music, and I really just want to share good music. He would always put in a good word for me whenever he could. So he hit me up and asked “Are you available like X date? And would you be willing to fly out?” I told him “Yeah, I would fly.”
Did you know what he was talking about at that moment?
No, I didn't. Then I heard that he was announced as the Oscars musical director, so I did have a feeling. And then he came back like, “Yeah, I'm trying to get you to DJ the red carpet at the Oscars. I'll tell you by Wednesday.” Wednesday came and went. And I assumed it was a bust and just appreciated that he was speaking my name in a room somewhere. That’s a big challenge for me, people don't know me. It was on the Monday after, I think, when he was like, “Yeah, it's going to happen.” And even then I didn't quite believe it. I think they were definitely trying to get someone local because of all the logistics around COVID. Thankfully, it worked out
There were specific musical parameters for me to play. At first, they wanted me to play music that had been nominated for awards, which is boring. Then it was changed to movie soundtrack music which I could totally work with, but that’s what Questlove was doing during the ceremony itself. Then the producers were like, “Okay, she can just play whatever she wants”. Yes! Perfect! Because when I first heard about the gig I was like, “I’m going to play all my homies.” I have so many talented actual friends that I've met through music, whose music I play. People were not going to know what this music is, but they were going to love it. So that's what I did, just played wherever I wanted. It was amazing. Stars were dancing. I'm forever indebted to Questlove for that. He didn't have to at all, but I really appreciate that he tried to look out in this way.
I've been DJing consistently since 2008, and I can count on one hand the number of interviews that have featured me as a DJ. And it's a challenge. It's hard to go to somebody and say, “Hey, I'm a DJ. Can I spin at your space?” if they don't know who you are. I did come from a time where you would give you the venue a mixtape and say “Hey, check it out.” It kind of works, but it wasn't as effective because I didn't really have press. But I would see people in the press and they're getting the gigs, and I see how important the press is. So to have somebody trying to advocate for me in these spaces has been amazing. I'm not an ingénue, I'm going to keep DJing forever. For women there's the perceived expiration date on certain things. To have that support helps quite a bit. Even when I was younger, I wasn't popping like that. So to have that now is really important, and I'm really grateful.
Going [to play at the Oscars], I thought I was just going to be in the background, and maybe they'll cut to shots of me. And then when I got there, “No, we really want this to be something that people really feel like they're there. So we want you to say stuff, and we want you to do voice overs.” So they cut to me and I would read off the teleprompter, and that was just amazing. I have to say, the urban planning career stuff came into play there. In my job, I have to talk to people quite a bit. I'm talking to them about their neighborhoods, how they feel about certain things. I would have to do testimony on behalf of my old boss at hearings. I'd be nervous as shit. But all of that, and especially over the past year, talking about the importance of nightlife in New York, I've had to be more outspoken, do panel discussions. Two days before the Oscars, I was on a panel at a conference, talking about nightlife during the pandemic and its impacts. That was a good rehearsal. So at the Oscars, by some miracle, I was not nervous. I was like, “Just think of this as a Zoom, except you are in a gown and face full of makeup.” <laughs>
With every day that passes, DJing and urban planning comes together more and more. I always thought there was some connection here, and I'm seeing it more and more. I never thought being in nightlife was frivolous because it brought me so much in my life in terms of lifelong friendships, in terms of community, in terms of finding a space in this world. And seeing how built spaces impact the ability for that to happen to other people, and for other generations to exist, is something that really drives me. Because while it's never going to be the same for the next generation, it just can't be less. And I feel like what we're doing right now is getting less and giving less.
Unfortunately, it's because of the way things are set up now in New York, with things just being incredibly expensive, with people leaving and people coming in. Which is going to happen, but it's just not the same sense of community. So while people can say, “Well, the Lower East Side used to be predominantly Jewish and neighborhoods change,” the commonality was that there was a community of people that lived together because they all shared a similar experience of having immigrated here, and the proximity helped them thrive — or as many people as possible to thrive. That was the same experience my parents had moving from Haiti to Flatbush, which is Little Caribbean now. While there are gentrification pressures there now, I just think about how important Flatbush was for my parents to achieve their dreams — and we are losing that across this city.
I have this theory about community-building through rhythm. And I think it dovetails with your idea of discovering overlaps between urban planning and nightlife. For me, rhythm is a uniter, that when people are in a dance space, whether it's in a nightclub or in ceremony, and all listening to the same rhythm, they are all moving in co-ordination with one another. And I find that neighborhoods have inside of them an internal rhythm that makes sense to the people in that community, because everybody knows how the whole thing works.
And the other thing that I find healthy communities can do is figure out how to improvise and be allowed to improvise their circumstances. That when something happens, even (or, especially) in crisis, if a body or a group of people needs to change course, they're capable of doing that. They improvise through that moment. I find that people playing music together, people playing music to an audience, are doing a similar kind of thing. So I am constantly trying to kick the tires on this metaphor, I've just gotten stuck on it for the last few years. That healthy musical environments and healthy communities kind of mirror each other. What do you think about that?
They do, but a lot of it is flexibility and stability. I think most communities in New York, in the nightlife space, in the general living space, are constrained. You have rising rents — and people do adapt. But I think with the flow, with flexibility comes stability. Like, knowing that if this apartment is bad you can move to another one, is something that doesn’t exist today. Before, even though you might have had to tough it out a few months and save the money, you had that option. People don't have that option today. I've been in my apartment for 10 years. I'm not going to find something of similar rent. And my income has not increased to match rents today.
We have to deal with the same things in a dance space. Venues are now less likely to hire locals, or have certain types of music, or have drinks at a certain price, to do these things that would have allowed them to be more flexible, because everyone's got a bottom line, everyone's got to pay the rent, everyone's in this survival mode. There's no flexibility. Everyone's very afraid, everyone's unstable. And the root causes of a lot of our neighborhood instability is poverty due to structural racism.
It's gotten more prevalent over the pandemic, more apparent. That's why people believe it is less safe here. All of these things existed before the pandemic, but at least then, people still had jobs and homes. What you're seeing now is a response to things that have happened to people during the pandemic - people became unhoused, people lost most or all of their income. We left millions of people assed-out, and I'm not even talking about bullshit stimulus. Some people didn't even get that if they were undocumented. We left people ass-out. People came and helped one another. People took their $20 and lent it to somebody else who lent it to somebody else. Mutual aid. Everyone's helping one another. It's a good thing, ultimately people had to come together and do for themselves in order to keep themselves and their communities alive and as stable as possible.
Do you not recognize that as a kind of improvisation at work?
I do, it's not sustainable though. And it shouldn't be done on the backs of the people. For all we have to do to survive and to maintain ourselves in our immediate communities, to have to go through that with no resources is ridiculous. And then [for the government to] not to expect there to be some sort of angry response — or, honestly, a violent response, because we've seen it with all of these protests against injustice that have been happening. And then adding insult to injury, for the city's response to that being even more brutality, is crazy.
There's still enough people out there who don't acknowledge the conditions, the structural racism or the history of our country. And because we don't, this is going to continue to perpetuate, because they continue to think the playing ground is even when there is overwhelming evidence that it is not and never was.
We all have our own levels of privilege. My mom had a good job to put me through a good school, which resulted in me going to a good college and then I got a good job. But it was a challenge throughout. When I was accepted into grad school, I didn’t know what urban planning was. I went to my school’s accepted student’s day and saw what the urban planning students were doing, and it seemed along the lines of what I wanted to do — addressing how the built environment impacts people. And I had to re-apply to get into that program. That's one of the things I want to tackle eventually, getting more people of color, more women into planning.
The party promoting is community building, You're building a network of people. Off the parties we did, people got married, people had kids, people did collaborations musically, and put them out into the world based on connections that we cultivated. I'm not even trying to brag about it. It's just how culture works in a big city.
You meet these amazing people who come to cities to create and contribute. (Some people.) And look at how we treat them? They don't have adequate housing. They're paying incredible amounts of money to live where they live. They cannot find affordable spaces to do their work, or they don't have the time because they're constantly working just to maintain. I've lost friends to cities outside of New York that way. And thankfully they've met success outside of New York. I think that’s great because I don't think everyone should have to come here to do that. But dang, to come here and put in all those years, and it wears you down and you have to leave?
I used to get upset that my friends were leaving. At the time, I was working on affordable housing like, “I'm doing this so somebody else's friends don't leave.” That's part of the problem, but it's not the whole problem. For 10 years, I worked in different nonprofits, developing affordable housing. I loved it. I think it's important. But I started looking around, because it's not just that. Look at the type of jobs that people are getting, look at what type of affordable housing is being put out there. Is this truly affordable? Affordable to whom? If somebody could afford it, can they still come here and live their dream? I read “Just Kids” and Patti Smith was living here, waitressing part-time, and creating. She lived by where I live now, paying $80 a month. I don't pay $80 a month. New York isn't that place anymore where you can live somewhere affordably and make your way, and be able to create and contribute. And to say “Oh that was 30 years ago.” isn’t fair. We are not paying people the wages that match rents today. I'm not expecting to pay $80 a month right now…
But if it could be a thousand dollars a month, life would be a lot more realistic.
Exactly. And I don't see it. I'm on listservs still from grad school, and there’s a lot of apartments for rent or apartment shares. It's more than what I pay in rent, and I live in a one-bedroom apartment, and I have a good job that pays decently. I can't imagine being someone coming to New York at that age now, just starting out. How great is it to know you can afford to live, you can meet your rent? This sense of “I can create, I am physically well and my mental health is good, because I don't have that stress..”?
All right. Last question. When people come to Jupiter Disco next week, what are they, what are they going to hear?
Um, I mean, there's always good music. I don't even know. I just know that I've been sitting on quite a bit of it, and I feel like every time, even when I do my show on The Lot Radio, I'm always like, “Dang, I didn't play that, I didn't play that.” So I'm going to try to play all my favorite songs to get people dancing. I just want to continue sharing. So come with an open mind, and it won't disappoint. I just want people to come with an open mind.