Today’s Pop is David, who pays his respects to Dash Snow.
Photo: Steven Meisel
Dash Snow – artist, photographer, graffiti writer, and embodiment of the contemporary downtown NYC scene-has died of an apparent drug overdose. While others at Pop undoubtedly know Dash better, I have been nominated at this time to pay tribute by sharing my small but personal Dash anecdote.
More than five years ago, I was part of starting a new fashion newspaper publication called Rodeo. To celebrate something which I’ve since forgotten, we came up with the brilliant idea to throw a Rodeo party in Stockholm, inviting Ryan Mcginley, Dash Snow et al, to host it. Now, you have to remember back then, the true nature of the beast that was the ‘Irak Crew’ (Dash’s graffitti posse he had founded, and who came along for the trip) wasn’t really known. Neither was Dash’s work as an artist yet. He really shot to fame a couple of years later.
The party was a mess from start to finish. Ryan never showed at all. Dash did, but at the night of the party no-one was able to find him. When he finally turned up (high as a kite), he waltzed in with his arm in a cast: he had already broken his arm in Stockholm. Apparently he had thought it a good idea to climb a lamppost, only to find out that they can actually be quite slippery. But he was chuffed! “The doctor gave me a good injection of morphine for the pain. I feel great, man”.
Then he did what it seemed like only he could do. I don’t think Dash was that accomplished behind the decks, but he actually managed to spellbind the audience for the short period he was on. Don’t have a clue how he did it. It might have been the eclectic mix – a total mush pit of early 70s rock, Chicago house and British 80s indie faves - or it might have been just the sheer presence of this heavy tattooed, long haired, bearded guy with an arm in a fresh cast. But it was a glimpse of strange New York magic. Dash introduced me to ‘Shooting Star’ by the Mama’s & Papa’s that night. Gonna play it now in his honour.
Of course he missed his flight back to NYC and ended up sleeping on some poor unassuming Swedish girls couch. For a week…
You were a shooting star, weren’t you, ’Til moon dust came along and burned you…
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