“I DON’T drink, I don’t do drugs, I don’t smoke and I don’t drink after someone drinks my drink.” These are just some of the commandments prescribed and followed by Santi White, better known as the genre-hopping singer Santogold.
…The other night, Ms. White, 32, was sitting on the patio of Castro’s, a Mexican restaurant on Myrtle Avenue near her home in Fort Greene, Brooklyn… Drinking papaya-mango juice out of a bucket-size cup, Ms. White leaned against an orange wall beneath a cobalt sky dotted with cotton-ball clouds.
…Ms. White’s ensemble was an ’80s salute: tight white pants, an oversize yellow shirt and black Reebok high-tops with rainbow stripes and a gold slash.
She poked at her fish with beans and rice without offering a bite to her companions. The two women reminisced about an impromptu lecture given by a drunken art teacher about how to push in your intestines, should they happen to fall out of your navel. They also recalled a harrowing escape: While working as a waitress, Ms. Roomet noticed a man entering the restaurant with a sawed-off shotgun; she summoned Ms. White, who was dining, and they escaped through the kitchen, taking the bewildered staff to safety.
Around 11 p.m. the gang headed across Brooklyn to the club Studio B in Ms. White’s black Escalade. (“I didn’t know what an S.U.V. was when I bought it,” she said.)
Ms. White had been put on the guest list by some D.J.’s who were performing, so they skipped to the front of a blocklong line. Once inside, Ms. White couldn’t find the guy with the wristbands that would get them into the V.I.P. room.
“I don’t go out much,” Ms. White said with a shrug, and wished she were home. The band playing showed no signs of ending (or improving). By 1 a.m., Ms. White could take no more; she would see the D.J.’s spin some other day.
In a few hours, Ms. White would begin a medically imposed vocal rest for at least a week. She had plans to carry a pad and pen to communicate, and possibly to scribble down a few more of her commandments.