It's really unlikely that Sasha Frere-Jones meant to distress the large number of old people who found themselves, befuddlingly, at Hiro Ballroom on Friday night for his New Yorker Dance Party (part of the New Yorker Festival). Sadly, Frere-Jones's lack of malice is probably scarce consolation to retiree Richard from the Upper West Side, a loyal New Yorker reader. Richard, who admitted his unfamiliarity with the stylings of guest Hollertronix D.J. Diplo, bought tickets to the party because all the New Yorker Festival panel discussions were sold out. No, he wasn't having any fun. "And do you know how much they're charging for this?" He gestured with his Grey Goose Festini. "Ten dollars!"
Richard's discomfort aside, the target demographic certainly seemed to be enjoying itself; the pretty young things bucking on the dance floor didn't seem too bothered by the stream of oldsters surveying the carnage and fleeing. Besides, you could probably read the pieces Frere-Jones has written praising Diplo for the loud sexy noises he makes as fair warning. As in: "Hey, you, the guy who really likes Seymour Hersh — wait, no, all of you. All of you who read the New Yorker cover to cover and think that anything under its masthead will tickle your smarty-pants. Tonight we will enjoy booming hip-hop and techno, fashionable youths demonstrating their flexibility, curse words, and Britney's new single. You may want to reconsider your evening plans." —Dave Hughes