Gawker operative Stephen Kosloff braved the natural habitat of the Grizzly Bear (concert) yesterday to bring you these images and accounts of hipsters in the wild. Don't feed the animals, unless it's Bomb Pops.

More of Mr. Kosloff's photographic sociological experiments can be found here.

These two women were out fliering for their Monday cabaret show at Public Assembly. We took about two hours to discuss the lighting, tonality and composition of this shot, as well as how to place all of the mannequins in the background, and I think I can speak for the three of us when I say we were quite pleased with the results. Our collaboration was marred only by a friendly conversation I had ex post facto with their legal and management teams which came to blows. Sad.


The line to get through the gates snaked along the East River like a seething yet smartly dressed millipede. It spilled off of Kent Avenue onto side streets and then spilled back. On a brighter note, the vibe was relaxed, it moved fairly quickly, and people were eager to share their ginger ale.

Just when you thought it was safe to feel comfortable and be yourself again, Grizzly Bear goes ahead and performs for free at the East River State Park, right over there in Williamsburg, with openers Vega and Beach House. I realize we are in the snark zone, but I just want to say (wistfully) that it may have been the highlight of my summer (sniffs, then bursts into tears).


We all have pet peeves. I have 11 of them. Number six is concert photography, which frequently affords me the opportunity to try to get good pictures of people who are standing eight feet above me and are surrounded by microphones, amps, and many other forms of clutter.

Oh well, this shot of Grizzly Bear bassist Chris Taylor came out OK. I think if this picture were an imaginary creature it would be an enchanted wombat, soaring gracefully over Tokyo, but periodically diving into gun-runs and strafing the fashionable Ginza district.

Who has seen the wind? Hello? Testing, testing?

On a more topical note, what do they call these things? Wind demons? Breeze buddies? Gale fellows? They're like smurfs, but much elongated and mute.

There were two of them. I named this one Milton, after my grandfather, whose proud, unbending parents may or may not have emigrated to the Bronx from an area that is today a suburb of Vladivostock.

If you've recently been laid off or are just looking for a new direction in life, Jelly NYC, the entity that synthesized the concert is hiring Breeze Buddies.

Applicants should have a positive attitude, enjoy the outdoors. Additionally, while not required, your resume will be given special attention if you are detail oriented, about 30 feet tall, and blue.

These two charming and able bi-peds caught the show from across Kent Avenue. I did not fall in love with either of these people in the 30 seconds that fate threw us so suddenly (and so violently) together, nor did I fall in love with them as a couple. But I did briefly fall in love with the idea of falling in love with them.

Shortly after this photograph was taken they were both accosted by a rogue wind demon.

I wonder what this woman was thinking as she basked in the afternoon sun out there on Kent Avenue. I wonder what was in her plastic cup. I have a fairly pronounced juvenile streak, so I also wonder, looking back now, how much time had passed since the last dog urinated on the pole she was leaning against. I hope it had been many, many hours and that the pole thing had been sanitized in the mean while.

These are the days of our lives.

This man had a similarly dressed colleague, but the back of the colleague's shirt read "Event Insecurity," and he was tasked with providing talk therapy to people in need. Ha ha—just kidding. Hey do you have any gum?

You know the economy is really hurting when your VIP pass entitles you to sleep in a ditch.

I think if this photograph were a dastardly villain it would be Lex Luthor, as played by Gene Hackman, of course.

Do you ever think about, like, human faces? One of the things that interests me is how some faces are sort of decade-specific, but other people look like they'd fit in quite well in, oh, say, a photograph from the 1920's, for example. Like this dude. Like he just escaped from the Dust Bowl and now just has a few text messages he needs to send. I appreciated him for not punching me in the face after I took this photo of him without asking his permission.

Some people make money the old-fashioned way: selling bomb pops.