A couple days ago, Instagram publisher @therichmondexperience posted an iconic image from the 2008 Carytown New Years’ Eve event you may or may not have been at, or even heard of. Judging from the 4000 plus “hearts” and over 140 comments ranging from “please don’t ever do this again” to “why can’t we have nice things?”, I’d say there’s at least historical interest in it.
Yesterday, Tony Harris and I had a talk in front of the RVA magazine offices at Lombardy and Main, reminiscing a bit but also planning a “20th Anniversary of RVA” book, a Gallery 5 exhibit, and other nonsense surrounding the festivities attached to that concept. I brought up the Instagram post and we fell into a memory lane about Carytown New Years. We were proud to have made something with such a long shadow. We have gotten many, many requests to reanimate this project over the years, but have responded with a nervous chuckle and a “maybe” in most cases. Most of the curiosity centers around “how did this event happen in the first place?” to “who ruined it?”
As it is New Years Eve morning 2024 today, and I’ve had my coffee, you all get a little storytime. A little history through rose colored glasses, a broken windshield of resentment, and a rainstorm of conflicting memories.
CHAPTER 1: A Long Time Ago in a Warehouse up the Street…
It was a pretty mild November morning – a little wet, foggy even – but maybe that was in my head. I was incredibly hungover. The year was 2006 and RVA magazine had just thrown the mother of all Halloween parties. Tony and I stumble-walked out of the DIY ‘venue’ around 9am, limply hi-fiving each other on the way to a proper pot of coffee at the New York Deli in Carytown. We were about four blocks away. The conversation was punctuated by reminiscences of the evening, mild exaggerations, and tons of “far too loud for the morning” laughter. As was our way.
About the time we were crossing Boulevard, I commented that RVA magazine, then a year-and-a-half old toddler of a media venture, should simply rule all holiday parties in the city. Easter, Labor Day, Arbor Day – you get the picture. Why cede all the awesome potential of a Memorial Day bash to Toyotathon? What clicked on like a bright, badly screwed-in light bulb was owning New Years Eve in Richmond. We didn’t know where we would do it, what the event would look like, who’d come, but we knew we were the right people to conjure this event. We had a very sustainable formula for throwing parties – and we used to throw a LOT of parties. We were fucking amazing at it.
We were stepping off the curb at Colonial Ave as Carytown lay before us like a lover opening her robe to the ecstacies boiling in our minds. This was it. Carytown. This was the venue. We were going to do a Times Square-style event on the street. Right here.
By the time we had taken seats about halfway down the bar at NY Deli, we were deep in discussion about what bands we wanted to play on the stage we decided would be in front of the Byrd Theatre facing west. We were taking our first sips of coffee when Demetrius Tsiptsis, owner of the bar, overheard our scheme and excitedly offered his help in seeing it through. Our duo, now a trio, embarked on a crusade to put this plan to action. Demetrius actually left the bar to corral the Carytown Merchants Association members needed to approve the thing. Tony and I abandoned our mugs and recruited Chris Bossola of the now-defunct Need Supply Co. clothing store and our MVP, Todd Schall-Vess, of the Byrd Theatre to our cause.
Little did we know that Todd was a pyrotechnics expert set builder with an engineering spark to his imagination. His sneaky smile turned into a grin at the thought of bringing some Midtown Manhattan to the RVA, and his gears were spinning hard. Within the hour, we had gotten all the support we needed from the local business owners with a stake in the event and a green light to develop further. In seven weeks from that date, we were going to bust out one of the biggest parties Richmond had ever seen.
And we did. I’m not really sure where we found the money to pull this off, but the city for once wasn’t standing in our way. We did have an ace up our sleeve. Lisa Sims, at Venture Richmond, had a soft spot for us, and held our hands through the process. On December 31st, we had our party. The stage was lit, Todd had built some metal monstrosity on top of the movie theatre (that we were not allowed to inspect), and some 4,700 plus locals were filing in through the entrances, past ID checks and drink ticket vendors.
This first year was an epiphany. We expected maybe 2,500 attendees. We got nearly double that. The ratio to fun and safety was pretty good. There was a drunken fight at some point, but nothing anyone couldn’t handle. The beer ran out early, which was a bummer, but we had no idea what to prepare for. Next year, more beer. In the end, it was a BLAST. Advertising money, sponsorship packages were modest and affordable, and we got a lot of support from the local businesses in the neighborhood. Tony and I were on cloud 9 with it all.
The “What are we going to do for next year?” conversation started about 12:15AM Jan 1st, 2007. This was the most instant tradition I’d ever witnessed.
CHAPTER 2: And Out Come the Wolves
Much of the early months of the next year saw Tony Harris (Publisher) and I (Brand Director/Fashion Editor) at RVA magazine, fielding inquiries from local conglomerates and national brands looking for a marketing angle – a foothold – onto our quickly-conceived and casually-executed party. Bigger, better, faster, stronger – the concept went to the proverbial gym to bulk up. The Sauer family were now hosting the VIP tent at Cary Court. AT&T was now sponsoring the “ball rise”, Todd Schall-Vess’ Frankenstein of a fire hazard on the roof of the Byrd Theatre. The original was about 30’ tall. This years’ would proudly reach 100’ into the sky. It would also explode into a gorgeous fireworks display, right before we all said “oops” to not getting the proper fire department authority to do so. “Our bad, teehee…”
We were still in the business of running a growing media company so much of this was an added distraction with very little financial benefit to us or anyone else involved. Sponsorship money was just starting to come in and our hopes were lifted at, for once, something we made would turn a profit.
I remember sitting stone-faced in a meeting at the long conference table in the Venture Richmond office one Summer afternoon. I stared at the faces of all the vultures that would pickpocket us for every dime we raised and wished them all harm – or mild discomfort at least. A bad burrito? A stubbed toe? Not trying to get put on a watch list here. Point is, in that moment, I realized why “cool shit” doesn’t happen on this scale in Richmond. After what was a pretty chill first event, the Richmond Police Department insisted that we hire 62 officers at double-overtime holiday pay to stand around in groups chatting with each other over donuts during the event. Of that useless group, several rookie cops would be on horseback, a nonsense roid-rage cavalry that would succeed in nothing but creating hostility and kicking over a baby carriage in the middle of a crowd that night. That group of leeches took every cent we raised and put it in the city’s pockets. In the end, Tony and I would pay ourselves $1100 each for a years’ worth of work and seethe.
CHAPTER 3: BUT THAT PARTY THO….
All massive events have their moment to moment crises that seem to challenge the very concept of gathering humans into groups, but I’m not going to get too deep in that rabbit hole. Tony already went there quite eloquently in his piece he wrote right after the event. Read that HERE. I’m gonna tell you why it was worth it.
I spent the day of running back and forth through the neighborhood doing live interview spots for local news, coordinating volunteers, welcoming vendors – being the media face of the company. I was to announce the countdown at midnight, and I was really looking forward to that. All my friends were duly impressed that this thing was happening. We had inflatable screens all up and down the closed-off street to project the entertainment from the stage to the latecomers standing too far back for direct eyelines. The whole thing looked amazing. The news had been covering the run-up to the party for days. I was now in the business of being witty on morning radio shows, telling the same stories over and over again.
The first crowds started rolling in and our eyes got wide. They just kept coming. More and more people. As far as we could see. As the Winter sun set late in the afternoon and the street lights came on, the bars were filling up. Many decided to close for the day, but the smart got the memo. This was going to be a banger.
Fast forward a few hours, around 10:30PM, and nearly everything that could go wrong already has. None of our sponsors were happy. The VIP tent was laughably underserved with food, the beer gardens were tiny and were about to be arbitrarily closed down by the RPD. Cops were cosplaying as themselves while earning more money in a day than I had made on this this project all year. And. I. Didn’t. Give. A. Fuck. More than 20,000 people were laughing, dancing, flashing boobs for beads (Why? Why not!), being alive and somewhat in awe that Richmond managed to pull off something so grand. There was a sense that this was a thing to brag about being at forever. Already. In that space, it felt like history was being made.
I was on top of the Byrd Theatre rooftop when the photo we all associate with the event was taken. Ian Graham, our dearly departed (motorcycle accident a few years later) homie snapped that image as we – Tony Harris, Parker, myself, Ken Howard, Todd Schall-Vess, Mary Heffley – looked down in awe at the sprawl. From up there, all looked all tits and gifts. On the ground, I’ve been told it was a bit less Christmastime than all that. Midnight came and Parker and I counted down the final 15 seconds – not until after Parker delivered a confusing, profanity-laden speech though. I wish I had video of it. He’s sober now, so do not pile on the guy. We all have our moments. My friend Jaci sang Auld Lang Syne beautifully.
People came to clean up. I went to bed.
2008 started with a spate of newspapers all over the state showing impossible crowds in Richmond for this “came-out-of-nowhere” event and Tony and I divvied up our meager earnings. Within a span of a month, the Carytown Merchants Association decided the next years’ event needed to be more kid-friendly and Demetrius was accepting awards from the VMFA for the event as if he did even 1/1000th of the work on it. I saw so much dishonesty and disregard for what made the event compelling in the first place, that I decided not to seek any part in in it going forward. Tony got edged out too. It was never the same. Todd kept the ball going (up) for a few years but that died too. There was a chance to do the thing on Browns Island, but I didn’t even live here anymore.
I left in the Summer of 2008 to work for VICE magazine in Brooklyn, disillusioned with much of Richmond, but I still tell this story like I’m describing my favorite kid. Happy New Years Richmond! Maybe we will rage again.
Photos by David Kenedy
