Carl LawrenceBallas on a Boat
– Ballas on a Boat event confirmation email from the Insane Clown Posse, 2023.
I arrived at Pier 36 in Manhattan on December 13, 2023, at around 7pm. The air was damp, hovering around a crisp 40℉, but the proximity to the water made it feel much colder. I had never ventured to this part of the city before and found myself shifting my weight from one leg to the other in a discreet attempt to both stay warm and ease my anxiety. By the time I had arrived, a long line had already formed with people eagerly waiting to have their tickets checked and escape into the warmth of the boat’s cabin.
This would be my first cruise on the Hudson River. I had lived in NYC for a couple of years at this point and felt fairly acquainted with the city, but shuffling into a boat cramped with tourists aching to see the Statue of Liberty never ranked high on my list. As fate would have it, I found myself doing something close to that, except the attraction would not be Lady Liberty.
The line inched forward. In the distance, I could see people beginning to board, stepping cautiously across a tremulous bridge that stretched between the dock and the boat. Around me, laughter mingled with billowing clouds of cigarette and marijuana smoke, while the damp air echoed with jubilant shouts of “whoop whoop.”
I’ll admit, I felt a bit out of place—overwhelmed, even. I had been unsuccessful in my attempt to convince any friends to tag along, which was a consequence of my rash decision to buy tickets after stumbling across an Instagram post by Detroit-based group Insane Clown Posse (ICP) promoting their Christmas-themed Ballas on a Boat show. I had never seen them perform live before and was tempted by the alluring promise of a “wild, face-paint wearin’, Faygo-chuggin’ Juggalo takeover on the water” after a near 20-year break from their music.
I was around 11- or 12-years-old when I first heard ICP, which I credit as a—if not, the—defining cultural moment in my life. At the time, it was the weirdest music I had ever encountered. Full stop. Nothing else sounded like it. Experiencing their music sparked an openness and curiosity for the bizarre and experimental that has stayed with me ever since. For a few years, I was completely obsessed. I was a full-blown Juggalo.
Eventually, I lost interest in the band, largely due to a devastating falling out with the friend who had first introduced me to their music.1 Still, no matter how much my taste evolved, I always retained a deep respect for ICP.
My impetuous decision to buy a ticket can be summed up in one word: nostalgia. Like visiting an old friend—or even an ex—I wanted to catch up and see what they’d been up to. More importantly, I wanted to see how they would feel after all these years. Would the respect I had retained for them be validated? Or, would I find it cringe-worthy?
I had about five weeks to prepare for the show, which I spent revisiting their discography. I half-expected to be mercilessly embarrassed by my juvenile obsession. But, to my surprise, I still found it compelling. At age 11, I was charmed by the sheer strangeness of it; now, I was struck by the originality of the production, especially the work of long-time producer Mike E. Clark, and by ICP’s ability to blend silliness and humor with themes like racial inequality and class struggle.
As I dug deeper into their activities, I found that their musical output had been consistent for over 30 years at that point. They weren’t touring as heavily anymore, but they were still making records and performing. Their fanbase had also grown. There was a whole new generation of fans discovering their music through social media—and even a new generation of musical acts influenced by ICP, which included the likes of Darby O’Trill, Ouija Macc, and DJ Chunk.
The duo are no strangers to scrutiny. But as their fan base has grown, so have their critics. Aside from a brief period during their blow-up in the late 1990s, Insane Clown Posse has always remained an underground act. Their eclectic, leftfield style meant they never achieved mainstream acceptance. For much of their career, they have been consistently dismissed or treated with hostility by many prominent cultural platforms. But in 2011, they had earned the ire of the state.
The FBI released a National Gang Threat Assessment report that identified ICP and their fanbase, known as “Juggalos,” as a “loosely-organized hybrid gang.” Citing “gang-like behavior” among some fans, the assessment listed Juggalos alongside organizations such as MS-13, the Latin Kings, and the Aryan Brotherhood. This designation subjected fans to a wide range of discriminatory treatment by law enforcement simply for displaying visible ties to ICP, including tattoos and wearing merch. Juggalos were effectively criminalized for their support of the group.
To document these incidents, ICP launched the now-defunct Juggalos Fight Back website, which collected more than a thousand reports of harassment and unfair treatment, including job loss, exclusion from the U.S. military, police harassment, and harsher criminal sentencing. With support from the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), ICP filed a civil lawsuit against the FBI and the Department of Justice for wrongful designation. The case began in 2014 in Michigan’s Eastern District Court and escalated to the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals in 2017. That same year, ICP organized the “Juggalo March on Washington” to protest the designation, but their effort to overturn it yielded mixed results. The FBI has never officially stated that Juggalos are no longer considered a gang, but the group hasn’t appeared in subsequent gang assessments. Nonetheless, the 2011 report is still cited by some authorities.
In the wake of the FBI’s 2011 assessment, media coverage of ICP and their fanbase surged, bringing a level of attention they probably hadn’t experienced since the 1990s. What was more surprising, however, was the outpouring of sympathy that came with the attention. Even if ICP’s music failed to resonate with the casual listener, most agreed the FBI designation was unjust. What followed was a steady stream of documentaries, podcasts, and think-pieces aimed at demystifying Juggalo subculture. This media attention doubled as a retrospective.
Fast forward to 2026, ICP now boasts an estimated net worth of $26 million, four certified platinum releases, five certified gold releases, and a uniquely devoted fanbase that has given rise to a vibrant subculture. In fact, contrary to the hopes of their most damning critics, ICP had reached a level of success most independent bands only ever dream of attaining.2 After snubbing them for the better part of two decades, the music industry was now being forced to recognize ICP’s self-made success. This resulted in a gradual but undeniable shift in the cultural zeitgeist. They now appear on many respected musical platforms and draw accolades from industry heavyweights. Mainstream artists like Drake, Post Malone, and Fat Joe have openly cited ICP as influences and trailblazers. After years of blacklisting them, MTV invited them to the 2024 Video Music Awards. As someone who remembers the “before times,” when they were regarded as pariahs, I was flabbergasted by this turn of events.
The reappraisal of their cultural cachet owes a great deal to nostalgia. It’s the reason why aging fans like myself and Post Malone find ourselves revisiting their music.3 This phenomenon, known as the “reminiscence bump,” explains why we romanticize the formative songs that soundtracked our teenage and early adult years. With a career spanning more than 30 years, ICP appears keenly aware that nostalgia is a formidable marketing strategy. They regularly claim in interviews that nostalgia has made this the most profitable period in the band’s history. It’s hard not to feel that, in some way, I’m living proof—that I’m just a hapless mark who, 17 years and $95.00 later, had been seduced by nostalgia.4
As I was freezing my ass off in line to board the boat, all I could ask myself was, “What did I get myself into?” After so many years away from their music, what did it mean to me now? I still had doubts about my connection to it, and I was terribly afraid of standing out as a phony—of not being seen as a real fan. Worse was the possibility of being perceived as just another culture vulture. Still, I made a concerted effort to blend in. Underneath all my layers, I wore my favorite ICP shirt, featuring a Carnival of Carnage-era photo of the group in rare form as a three-piece: Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, the group’s core members, flanked by Greez-E (real name: Erik Olson), who briefly replaced Shaggy’s brother, John Kickjazz, before Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope made the decision to continue as a duo. The shirt was an homage to a niche piece of band history. While some might consider wearing a band’s t-shirt to its own concert a faux pas, Juggalos would strongly disagree. Much like wearing a team jersey to a sporting event is a way of expressing pride and allegiance, the same holds true for Juggalos. Donning head-to-toe Psychopathic merch to an ICP concert and leaving with more in tow is par for the course.
Despite my nerves, I had a great conversation with two people in line. They had driven from the Midwest just for the show and planned to drive back the following day to make it in time for their next shift at work. When I told them it was my first ICP show, their faces lit up. They assured me I was in for a special experience. While passing a joint back and forth, they told me it was their fourth time seeing ICP that year. With a chuckle, they admitted they had lost count of the total number of times they’d seen them. Numbers simply couldn’t quantify their love. They regularly drove long distances to see them perform, even if it meant squeezing in an arduous road trip during a weekend off from work.
Once on the boat, I made a beeline for the coat check on the upper level, which was staffed by a motley crew adorned in clown and corpse paint. A buffet was stationed nearby. The event’s confirmation email advertised an impressive assortment of empanadas, stewed chicken, rice & beans, salad, pasta and mixed veggies. Instead, I saw a line of people waiting to be served hot dogs.
Across from the buffet was a massive merch table where I saw people buying hundreds, even thousands, of dollars worth of ICP gear. One person walked away with a box of hoodies, jerseys, shirts, and other memorabilia—so full it could have clothed a small family—and perhaps it did. The crowd in attendance was noticeably intergenerational.
I stepped out of the cabin and onto the deck. The boat had pushed off by this point and was headed south along the Hudson River. People were scattered about, taking in a starry night view of the skyline to the east while Lady Liberty herself loomed tall in the distance to the south. The deck was freckled in a colorful array of outerwear emblazoned with phrases like “Wicked Clowns,” “Psychopathic Records,” and “Chapter 17.” These words functioned almost like word bubbles, encapsulating the chatter of idiomatic language that swirled around the deck. My shirt earned a few curious looks but still found harmony amongst the visual polyphony teeming about.
Ballas on a Boat was a one-night event with an early show and a late show, each featuring different guests. I attended the early show, which included performances by Darby O’Trill and DJ Chunk—both associates of the record label Chapter 13, which is itself a subsidiary of ICP’s own Psychopathic Records.
Throughout the evening, DJ Chunk soundtracked transitions between performances. He also provided musical accompaniment during the trivia game. After an anti-climactic end in which there was no clear winner, Darby O’Trill took the stage, signaling the official start of the evening’s program and bringing us closer to the main attraction. People poured in from all sides, and the audience grew quickly in numbers.
Darby O’Trill is an artist from Key Largo, Florida, whose sound fuses horrorcore rap, trap, and nu-metal. O’Trill performed tracks from his Chapter 17 debut album, Creek. Memorable was his performance of a song called “Put A Bullet In The Head Of Every Bigot On The Planet.” In between verses, he proclaimed, “If you’re on this boat right now, you’re a Juggalo. And as Juggalos, we accept everyone in our family—except a fucking a bigot.” The crowd cheered in agreement.
O’Trill’s set was followed by a leftfield cameo by members of the NYC-based beatbox crew Beatbox House, who delivered the most impressive beatbox performance I’d ever seen. They crafted realistic renditions of trap and bass-heavy EDM, each layered with drops that went deeper than the last.
With great anticipation, Rob Bruce, Violent J’s brother and head of Psychopathic Records, finally announced ICP to the stage. Chants of “I-C-P, I-C-P” echoed throughout the room—and in nearly biblical fashion, the crowd slowly parted down the middle. ICP then appeared seemingly out of nowhere from within the crowd, each cloaked in their own version of extravagant drip. Shaggy 2 Dope donned an epic fur coat, WWE-branded basketball shorts, and a Santa hat, while Violent J sported washed jeans, a blazer, and a bucket hat.
Once they made it to the stage, they immediately broke into one of their iconic Christmas songs, “Santa’s a Fat Bitch.” We all sang along:
Yeah I got somethin’ to say about St. Nick
Fuck that hoe he never brought jack shit
No toys, candy canes, just a lump of coal,
So I eat it, ’cause there ain’t nothin’ in the cupboards
This song debuted at #67 on the Billboard Hot 100 upon its release in 1998. It’s a certified banger. ICP and the crowd were dripping in sweat by the end of it.
Their set went on to include a survey of various classics from their discography, including hallmark tracks like “Tilt-A-Whirl,” “Hokus Pokus,” “My Axe,” “In My Room,” and “Fuck The World.” To my surprise, I still remembered most of the lyrics to these songs.
Conspicuously absent, however, was the presence of Faygo. The Detroit-based soft drink company and ICP are practically synonymous, with the group famously drenching their audiences in its sticky spray during shows.5 But after the first song ended, it became clear that this would not be happening. There were no two-liters in sight. The boat clearly presented several limitations that would make their trademark onstage antics difficult to accomplish—the low ceilings being chief among them.
Still, I was a little disappointed. ICP doesn’t exactly have the best track record for following the rules. They have a long history of being banned from venues. They also have a reputation for refusing to perform when venues have prohibited Faygo. I kept waiting for an unexpected reveal—but it never came. On the one hand, I felt relieved. The idea of getting home on a cold winter night in sticky, wet clothes seemed like a nightmare. On the other hand, I felt cheated out of a quintessential experience at my first ICP show.
They found a way to keep the spirit alive, though. A small group of performers donning rubber clown masks appeared from behind the stage and unloaded a heap of wrapped Christmas presents into the audience, and I managed to catch one. Inside was an ICP t-shirt featuring artwork from their album The Amazing Jeckel Brothers (1999). Meanwhile, Shaggy’s and J’s voices reverberated throughout the boat…
O shit it’s your birthday
(Oh no it isn’t)
It’s your birthday
It ain’t mine mutha facko!6
Vee Hua 華婷婷
Thuc Doan Nguyen
Saelyx Finna