Today The New York Times sends us this mirror-imaged dispatch: Andrew and Andrew are a “DJ collective” known as Andrewandrew, and you’d be a fool not to mistake them for twins. Or, perhaps, clones.
Though they’re not related, the existence of both Andrews hinges on duality. Their hair partitions are synced up to the millimeter, the pocket squares creased in the same places, and if one spills red wine on a pant-leg the other follows suit. There’s more — for seven years the last-name-less Andrew and Andrew mimicked each others every meal (“because a biologist told us that every seven years every cell in your body rejuvenates”). They are communists who bowed to Great Leader in Pyongyang. They live together in a one-bedroom but stay coy about their sexuality. They met at Disney World’s Tomorrowland in 1999. And then they spent the next ten years as performance art Gemini twins hosting parties in New York City.
“It’s the American Dream,” Andrew told The Times. “You leave home and you start anew. It’s Gatsby.”
The article arrives in time for the AndrewAndrew party locale of the moment: at Riff Raff’s, a dank submerged cavern stuffed with tiki-themed paraphernalia. It’s under Hurricane Club, and it happens every Thursday.
Do your bar-hopping predilections lead you toward iPad-rocking beatmakers who wear their gimmick on their sleeves? If so, it’s a Thursday, and we just booked your late-night plans.
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