The Crowd at Isla Vista

Last weekend may have been one of the most intense house parties ever; reminiscent of the college town lifestyle that people write screenplays about. I hitched a ride along with Trey D, manager and DJ of So Sweet Records, to document this unlikely of parties in Isla Vista.

We arrive at our destination point around 1:00 p.m. where we met up with Julian, the son of two-time Oscar winner Pietro Scalia; he also happened to be the promoter of the event. It was a large frat house; an embodiment of the titular, Bolivian Boys. In the driveway was an array of expensive cars including an M3 BMW belying the squalor that laid ahead.

Inside the squat house, a blond girl wrapped herself in a sleeping bag and was sprawled out on the love seat. A kid flips through TV channels after taking a monster bong hit. The sunrays filtered through the blinds creating a succession of lines in the smoke-filled room. A hookah became an apt centerpiece on the coffee table.

Julian introduced us to everyone inside as he walked us through the rest of their hub. In a bedroom to the left, a group of youngsters listen to music and sluggishly passed around a bottle of Jack Daniels. The kitchen was overflowing with unwashed dishes; the carpet was stained. At one point, a dude brings out a wooden box, opens it up, and brags about the contents inside. It turns out to be his first crack pipe.

Trey and I are led through the back yard. On the way there, we step over poorly blown up air mattresses and a makeshift bed of Styrofoam and knotted up blankets. In the back, we are introduced to the guy who lives in the garage and the others crammed into the renovated shed. Maybe it’s the swig of Jack talking, but at this moment, I couldn’t help but fall in love with these silly bastards.

We somehow managed to prepare for the party, which finally began at 8:00, yet within about six minutes, the Foot Patrol showed up, shut down the party, and we are all forced to pack up and relocate within about half an hour. Yeah…no joke.

Walking up the graveled parking lot, the sounds of future party people echo in the streets blocks away. Imagine a dorm with a pitch black hallway longer than death row lit only by the rooms and bathrooms with doors off their hinges. At the front, there’s a living room packed with dancing, drunken, barely legals; high on weed, cocaine, ecstasy, and God knows what else.

It’s about 10:00 and Trey D has got the crowd going ape shit. Crookers vs. Salt-n-Pepa “Love to Push It” comes on. There were sombreros, panchos, Indian headdresses, war paint, girls with leotards, tu-tus, and glittered, star shaped glasses. So Sweet stickers were slapped across their cleavage and everyone unites to the transition into 2Pac’s “California Love.”

Some of the girls are half naked in the frigid weather, roaming around on auto pilot and holding hands with their friends. The dorm next door has been wired and set up so the music is blasting from it’s living room as well. My camera lens fogs up when I go back inside. It’s darker in here – less people, but more glow sticks.

An hour or so passes and Eli Smith is on the decks. By this point, there are so many people squeezed into this tiny living space, it’s nearly impossible to move around. The music has to stop at midnight and we’ve all been drinking since lunch time.

On the way to the car, people swarm the streets yelling out after party locations. We slowly pack our gear, sort out our party favors, and head back to L.A. Even though reliving this night through words has been a little exhausting, I think the truth of it was, I loved it. Don’t fuck with Isla Vista; chances are they’ll kick your ass.

via Kim Hellweg, 13 February 2009 4:00am | |