Eamon Harkin and
Justin Carter are Mister Saturday Night. We know. It’s a funny thing, two guys being called one Mister, but think of it like the holy trinity. Or perhaps Voltron. That’s probably more accurate—certainly less offensive.
Each man, on his own, spent years kicking around New York, DJing as residents in venues long gone, collecting records of all kinds, throwing parties and honing social chemistry skills. And then one day, they combined all their knowledge and musical love to form one party, which also happens to be called Mister Saturday Night.
The party calls the lofts and back yards of Brooklyn its home, places where the normal rules and stigmas of that naughty word ‘club’ don’t apply. People feel comfortable, like they’re at someone’s house: they talk to their friends; they even talk to people they don’t know. And, of course, they dance—but not just a little bit. They dance like they haven’t before, or like they’ve forgotten they could, because the place is right, and the vibe is right, and because Eamon and Justin play from their hearts.
That energy is contagious. When Eamon and Justin have hosted guests to play with them, they've done things even they didn't think they'd do. After a rainstorm that fried nearly every piece of equipment in the booth, Chez Damier played for three hours on a busted CDJ, inviting everyone to introduce him or herself to a dancefloor neighbor in between tracks. DJ Harvey,
after flinging open the loft window overlooking the train tracks at Market Hotel, coaxed an MTA worker into dancing. Larry Heard even sang 'Can You Feel It', and we can assure you that that's not the norm for the
soft-spoken man.
But this is no ordinary party, and these are no ordinary guys. Mister Saturday Night is special.
