Lol Lol Opening Performance, October 15th, 2026, NYC, USA

Gabelife100 brings his light from Chicago to New York, turning the internal structure of Night Club 101 into a howl of lols. Art is made new as Gabe breaks through perceptions of the hidden, ignored, banal, and untouchable structures of daily life while he physically scales internal columns and seats, activating them as mounts of play and inspection. 

A plastic folding table, two wooden dolls, and tension sit at the stage, while huddled masses speak and drink amongst each other. The night rings with deep calls from the throat into the house mic; he asks for ideal volume and for our full attention, with a mindful politeness. Crowd work opens with arm circles, turning a half-drunk crowd alert with group exercise: huddles of cliques dissolve as we become one another’s space invaders. Here we are taken back to the start; we are here in gym class about to receive our participation points as this three-stage rocket is about to get lit and fucking blast off. 

His

   body 

begins     

              to        shimmer

with     

percolations   

                                of

      sweat

shattering technical darkness in the corner, like the disco ball overhead. Now, the central pillar, notched with a shelf, painted yellow and mirrored, becomes the nexus of our performance’s next phase. Our booster pack ignites.

The oddity of play in “adult” space erupts when Gabelife100 leaps across this LES club’s basement, climbing up ox blood-red booth seating towards the low black ceiling. Presiding upon this structure perched, he is snagged by the exit sign, which he quickly releases himself from. He asks us to skip around and recite his poem “Skip Leg Day; Skip Taxes”. Our apprehensive groups begin to warm up as body humor ripples through this circling mosh pit of SpongeBob nematodes; coaxing the shy or awkward to join the fun, the artist notes his off-kilter skip, promising that all are welcome to share regardless of self-belief. Truly, offering a kindness that a young self would have loved to hear from a gym teacher. The crowd becomes a school of fish flickering in and out of warm bulbs and darkness around this central column. Spectators look in while a slight breeze fills with the audience’s laughter. 

Struggle and strife

are released. 

Our dinner table, boxing bag, or target is unfolded and prepped as volunteers are asked to help reset the plastic folding table after each successful flip. Gabe sits on the floor ready to straddle the column looking for a good foothold, and begins to scale the invisible. Simultaneously, we are encouraged to have our way and get out of our asses and go for it (with the kindness of a good substitute teacher). Again we are asked to chant, as Gabe is in the rafters atop the column, “This is how shit feels up my ass,” an excerpt from his poem, all while a line of respectful patrons forms, flipping this foldable plastic table. 

The table could be anyone or anything: Girl Scout cookies, Herbalife packages, Trackphones, Office Furniture, rent payments, or unsaid feelings with no address to receive, yet Gabe offers us a chance to release the pent up rage that lives within many of us. We laugh with confusion, excitement, or amusement while the other part of the group watches the destruction of the table come as its final flip breaks it into pieces of shrapnel. Halves of the table are strung about, its grey metal legs clang, partially carried in the arms of our humble volunteers, who may not have known what they were getting themselves into. Now, his operations sheet of poems is withered at the edges and crumpled in all the right places as we are about 12 mins into his 25 minute segment. I’m lucky to get a few licks in while I can, beating this withered thing, adding a few dings as I slam the halves into each other like a WWE wrestler about to go for the championship belt. Its drama, loud, and hilarious. The absurd comes to life and truly makes me feel alive. 

Chicago’s Metra Loop becomes

our final stage 

as bodies were pulled gently on makeshift scooters

made from the remains of the broken flipped table. 

This transition, completely unexpected, ricocheted in the room with amazement and fear as we were asked to jump on and take a ride on Chicago’s Main Loop, transported to this New York basement. The Artist recites his poem while new volunteers pull and push strangers around the column on floor scooters made of the broken table and set of dollys. Gabe is on the other section of stadium seating instructing the temp train conductors to guide the people around the pole. I offer to conduct and gently pull various people around the room’s central pillar many are scared but once they start they keep going on. Trust is offered and solidified as no one falls to their death. After several rounds of this the poem that I’m now forgetting ends, and the performance is concluded. The shrapnel is swept up and discarded. 

It was an incredible show. I felt alive being watched, joining others, and being a participant. Gabe flipped my expectations, transgressing against the forbidden banality of daily life, the turning that everyday into something special. The room was filled with apprehension which dissolved with intention and care. I haven’t had fun like this in a very long time. It was magical and transcended the materiality of the common and exalted its torn battered pieces into tools of trust and community through destruction. If that’s not Art!!! 

Lol Lol Opening Performance welcomed in the new, and I’m glad I could be here for it. Gabelife100 shines brilliantly with his unique performance  against the dim background of white mediocrity in the bands that followed.