Cheryl parties are for the kids that have done a little maturing, have finished school, got a job, and got past hipster drudgery of being über-cool. It’s a party for seasoned urbanites whose sensibilities leap from a global perspective and whose liberal sophistication has settled into a dignified understatement. This party ignores cut-and-dry identity politics of boy or girl, white or not, hetero or homo. It’s not a crusty grunge fest of unbathed, dreadlocked and bearded artist-hippy-tripster types, but it’s absolutely defined by artistic expression. As their website states, the group behind the party is “known for its video art, museum installations, performances and dance parties. CHERYL explores the themes of mortality, mania, the feline-human connection, the limits of shoulders, the flammability of dollar-store hair extensions, and the staining power of fake blood.”
While I am curious to know how exactly they explore themes of the feline-human connection and the limits of shoulders on a conceptual level, I can tell you that their dance parties deftly walk the narrow space between pits of spastic aesthetics and churning mayhem, which means you’re going to have all kinds of crazy unexpected fun. Think funhouse bizzarity on a LSD and MDMA cocktail. The music is wound tight for quick moves, and the dance performance interludes inspire an always-refreshing WTF?? There is no judgment, and no one is demanding common glamour. Just whack it all together in a laugh (essential costume elements are hair, glitter, fake blood, kitty-cat masks and shoulder pads, and yes, people really do dress up) and get on with your night.
Me and Sugarland get on amazingly well. I don’t think I’ve ever had a bad time there. My two most memorable NY sex scenes had their beginnings in the Land-o-Sugar (a very, very naughty 3some that began with bjs in the taxi, and a very, very young supermodel with a donkey dick, if you must know). Sugarland is probably the most unpretentious venue in Williamsburg. Bigger than a bar but not quite a club, it’s spacious yet divey with a smoking terrace out back. The building is a tattered redbrick cube that sits enveloped by a new development of condos as the owners refused to sell. The juxtaposition is grand and hints at a Kafkaesque trip into delirium.