Edited by Saynt
I’m not one to normally hit up Chelsea when I’m looking for a spot to dance my ass off on a Saturday night, usually opting for spaces less known for their “Jersey” appeal/more known for their underground cred, but when Becks received an invite to check out Mansion this past weekend I jumped at the chance to see what had become of the space that was once fondly referred to by NYer’s as Hoebar (Crobar’s old spot).
Situated on 28th Street between 10th and 11th, Mansion is in the “heart” of New York’s nightclub scene (even though the area seems more like it’s “asshole” when you drive by the area anytime after midnight on the weekends). A plethora of drunk bridge and tunnelers crowd the streets that make up this clusterfuck of “hip, downtown” clubs. Spots better known for their police presence than for their scene such as Home, Guesthouse, and Marquee have made this area a no-fly zone for any indies looking to dance when the 80s/90s mindmeld of Luke & Leroy’s finally gets to them. Mansion is changing that idea.
As we walked up to the door, the standing scene was a mix of over-dressed Wall Street types, under-dressed Hoboken notties, and rightly-roided bouncers, who made me fear for the worse; a party scene filled with undesirables. While on line, we spotted Matt Oliver, a door guy notoriously known for denying New York’s most rejectable dwellers from some of the “hottest” (I use the term loosely) clubs in the city. Door people in NY are known for being assholes, douchebags, and/or bitches and usually maintain an attitude between “slightly amusing” to “dear lordy I wish I carried a firearm”. Matt Oliver was … pretty cool. He maintained a professional door and was actually pretty fashionable, though recent sources suggest his looks are more calculated than most (check out his blog, BadLoveSongs.com for an inside peak at his new look “wedding reception”. It’s actually worthy of imitation.).
(image NYMag)
Once inside I was amazed at how much the space had changed. Heroine chic art lined the walls of the coat check, flames shot up from glassed cases making certain areas perfect for some passionate tongue action, and giant crystal orbs reflected thousands of shimmering light gems across a canvas of moving bodies mesmerized by resident DJ’s who laid danceable tracks quicker than any Misshape. The new owners had transformed the herpes sore of the Chelsea nightlife scene into a glistening dance scene which successfully transports humdrum New Yorkers into an uncharted Miami Sound System. And while the club did have it’s fair share of fashion fuck-ups who paraded around in official douchebag attire (oversized sportscoats on top of striped GAP shirts were the main offense for men) overall the massive space exuded a sense of exclusivity, a feat which isn’t easy considering the clubs ability to house thousands of the city’s trendiest.
At the end of the night, while most clubs will treat you to at least one or two passed out patrons lining the city streets in puddles of vomit worth $200 in consumed liquor, Mansion offered only a slight rumble as hundreds of boys and girls paraded off the dancefloor to enjoy more horizontal adventures at home. It’s definitely not a spot for the most narrow-minded, holier-than-thou of the indie set, but I would definitely recommend this spot for anyone looking for a break from the Billyburg spots where everybody knows your name.
Inside Tip: Fridays are for Fashion at Mansion. Young designers take the scene and showcase collections in a pompously chic setting.
