LETTER FROM ONE INDUSTRY
INSIDER TO ANOTHER
Hullo Mick.
Lady Antoinette here. Boy, I gotta thank you for inviting me to Jordon Waters and Stephanie Marrow‘s label influencer/release party the other night. I got your text that you weren’t feeling well (read: too much coke and booze) and couldn’t show up. Normally, I detest these outings where you mingle with the crowd forcing a smile. Turns out I had a blast. The drinks were swell, the diverse guests were gregarious and friendly, the label peeps well-dressed and very talented, and Marie Lester‘s interior design of Hardigan Manor in East Williamsburg (which I believe you call “Bushwick-adjacent”) was amazing. And, oh, did I mention someone was murdered? You’ll read about it in the trades tomorrow no doubt, but here’s my account.
I was a VIP, naturally, so after a delicious cocktail and chatting it up with other guests, a blonde chick — who went by Da Body — escorted me alone back to a lovely bedroom with a changing rack of clothes. She mentioned that the BIPOC group of her attendants, associates, and high-ranking label folks in the entryway were here to watch her perform from her new rap album. She was certainly ditsy and fun, but being in the industry myself, I thought of warning her against such a stupid project (and her name!), but who am I besides always right?!
Back to the soiree I go, and soon I will discover drama in the air, as it turns out this gal is taking advantage of her cohorts and even stealing dance moves (well, Donny Osmond stole from Michael Jackson). She got up on the stage in the anteroom, and just when I thought, Oh no, she ain’t killin’ it, the lights go dark. When they came up, guess who is lying there dead on the stage? Truthfully, I was more horrified by her album concept than her death, but early deaths in the music biz are more common than “One-hit wonders.” Naturally, I dashed for the door, but I was blocked by security. It seemed we were all suspects.
But before I could say, “Another cocktail…NOW,” up popped a detective named Cheryl, who needed our help to figure out wassup. We were given little red books and pencils, and for the next two hours the guests worked with the uproariously well-talented and tongue-in-cheek staff and label folk to discover clues in all four rooms: the bedroom, a gorgeous atrium garden, the anteroom, and the office of Rabbits Foot Records’ Willie B. Hardigan. The only food we were offered were red herrings, if you know what I mean, innutritious but tasty. The entire evening was immersive, silly, filled with surprises, and flew by, even though I wasn’t sure how to help Cheryl. But I found the best way to have a blast was to participate (I shouted out some un-PC jokes), even though the clues all seem muddled to me (I may have been on my tenth cocktail).
Now to get the morning Variety — with this hair-splitting hangover, I forgot who the murderer was. And did someone else drop? What a party!
Love and daggers,
Lady A.
The Art of Killin’ It
They Got Time Productions
32 Meadow St in Brooklyn
Thurs and Fri at 7:30; Sat at 3 and 7:30; Sun at 3 (doors open 7:15)
opening night June 24th, 2022 | open run
for cast updates & tickets ($50 general; $80 VIP),
call 212.335.1612 or visit Killin’ It
