Gone are the glory days of grit, grime and guts. Gotham is consumed by glitz and glamour, the glutton of ghouls. Natives no longer rule the land or run the numbers. The streets of the city have been sold, and the og's have retreated; the Golden Age is just a memory. The legion of true original artists have all but scattered.
But we keep on, maintaining, forever searching for the real. We were nurtured and inspired by NYC sights and sounds against a concrete backdrop, informing our aesthetic, that unique boro flavor and attitude now all but lost among the clones as a metropolis in flux. We pay homage herein to the iconoclastic characters that made New York City that unforgettable, unmistakable mecca for the hungry and hopeful, shiesty and shady to dwell together in perfect disharmony.
So we do this for the Purists – the leaders of the true school. The real heads...Sons and daughters of pioneers and hustlers who built these streets and structures...For the True York City slickers with cans and stickers, the sharpened-shank think-tanks...For the leaders with heaters, tastemakers and rule-breakers...The rap nerds, backpackers, computer hackers and broke actors...The smartest starving artists bombing hardest in the darkness...The blue collar babies and five boro thorobreds...From the crazy kings and warriors to skaters, creators and innovators...The punks and pimps with their rags or riches, for the linoleum physicists doin that b-boy business...The black and white, red and yellow and in between...casing dreams and chasing green...catching wreck locally or globally, spitting sounds of science vocally, never sleeping and never slept on.
EightArms & BlackMist's mission is simple – to bring tastes back to clean and tight, a dose of that origin-ill flavor. Love or hate, support or dissent, the choice is yours. Either way, we hope the hard working block lurking natives will manifest the era of next shit. So stay hungry, stay critical. Stay card pulling and fact checking. Stay writing, painting, rapping and cutting. Stay getting up and getting over...for the return of the renaissance soon this way comes. Be a part of it.
We care not for the contemporary tides or trends of fashion. We eschew labels like 'streetwear' – streets were made for running, not wearing. Patiently awaiting the rebirth of the "True York City" we know and love, we call to task diluted cornball posturing of funk faker neophytes and do our best to bring you the homegrown fly shit we try to capture in our products. We dwell in the belly of a waking beast: his steps lumber, his voice thunders.
It's up to you...New York, NEW YORK.