It doesn’t chase headlines. It chases hunger.
It only has one purpose: turn sinners into stars, and stars into ghosts.
If you play at Vice and we don’t remember you? You’ll still wake up with music in your veins, hickeys wrapped around yourneck, and someone else’s number etched across your arm. But if wedo remember you? You’re gonna make it.
But most nights, Vice isn’t about remembering. It’s about forgetting.
It lives forus—lonely girls, late-night fucks, and losing control.
You can’t walk through Vice without stepping intoourstories.
And most of our stories start or end with Andrew Harding.
Not just the man on stage. But the man behind it, against the wall, by the soundboard, in the hall, in the fucking bathroom, behind the girl who swore she’d never hook up with a musician. His fingerprints scatter across Vice like confessions.
We whisper it?—
“Harding? They say he can get a girl off in under sixty seconds.”
“They say he never undresses.
“They say he only fucks you from behind—Swear to God.”
“They say he ate her out for six hours straight.
“Came so many times, she smiled for a month.”
“They say he went down on a whole bridal party.
“Including the bride. Seven girls. One night. One room.”
“They say not one girl’s seen his dick. Not one.”
But no one believes it.
Because Harding’s always alone.
You never catch him with a girl sitting on his lap or holding his hand.
He doesn’t flirt or chase or ask for numbers, let alone names.
We’ve never seen him walking into a room with someone.
Never seen him leaving with someone either.
Every woman we know who’s had him barely talks about it. They keep it quiet, keep it theirs, as if a part of them still belongsto him. This is how we know it’s true. The ones he touched hardly talk. The ones who do? He never touched.
The myth of Andrew Harding doesn’t become real until it happens to you. And nights at Vice always ends the same: thighs shaking, breath’s missing, the namesweetheartrolling off his tongue.
Nights at Vice always start the same, too. A brick building that doesn’t stand so much as broods. Piss-wet alley stinking of cheap weed and perfume, rain hammering against the dumpster, someone’s Newport burnin’.
Then there’s the bouncer, Kenny, gruff as ever, flashlight in one hand, the other out for cover. He calls AndrewSinatra ‘cause the guy doesn’t beg.
All Andrew Harding has to do is walk into a room, and we melt.
And he always comes alone, descending the twelve concrete steps straight into the gut of the night, stairs wet with beer or blood. Under his boots, the bass rattles, finding his ankles first, then his ribcage, then throat. It doesn’t come from the speakers. It comes from the fuckin’ floor, House of Vice breathing under him, the place alive, starving, and waiting.
His hair’s always perfectly unbrushed—just-woke-up, just-fucked waves we’d kill to tangle our hands in. And those heavy eyes, always half-lidded, already gone by the time he walks in, gold chain tucked under a black shirt, dark jeans hanging low on his hips.
