I’m a New York City girl and I’ve seen this play out more fucking times than I can remember. Friends, coworkers, all flocking here for their big break and working service jobs and side hustles while they wait. I have a friend who moved here at 23 with a fashion design degree and a portfolio, convinced she’d make it. Fast forward four years and she’s still slinging drinks at some bougie spot in Tribeca where finance bros call her “sweetheart” and think their American Express gives them access to more than just the wine list. Her portfolio gathers dust in a storage unit she can barely afford. The “temporary” job became her whole identity. That’s exactly what Catey Shaw captures on ‘Wall St. Waitress.’
This is an anti-capitalist, anti-patriarchy club anthem that says fuck the system while making you move. It’s written from the perspective of a waitress working at Dorsia, the fictional restaurant from American Psycho where all those Wall Street psychos in suits try to get reservations. The production is this 80s-inspired funk jam that sounds like if Prince wrote a protest song about wage gaps and sexual harassment. Here’s what makes it hit different: Catey doesn’t sing the lyrics she fucking chants them. It’s almost spoken word meets funk groove like she’s too exhausted and too angry to actually sing so she’s just spitting truth over a bassline that refuses to let you stand still. The whole vibe is “I’m fed up with this capitalist hellscape and I’m gonna dance about it because crying takes too much energy and I have a double shift tomorrow.” It’s rage meets rhythm, and somehow it works as both a political statement and an absolute banger.
The track opens with the most brutally honest count: “Dicks, dicks everywhere / I pretend that I don’t care.” When your entire shift is just dodging handsy finance bros who think a 20% tip buys them permission to be creepy. Then she hits us with the reality check: “When I get home, slam the door / Imbruglia: I’m on the floor.” That Natalie Imbruglia reference? Torn. She’s literally torn down by the end of her shift. The funk groove keeps pumping while Catey chants the question we’ve all asked: “Why are men so fucking rude? / All I do is bring them food.” You’re literally just doing your job and they act like you owe them a smile and a lap dance with their fucking steak.
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The entitled customer vernacular comes next. “Wall Street fuckers, all the same / ‘Sweetheart, sweetheart,’ / That’s my name.” They don’t even bother learning your actual name. You’re just “sweetheart” or “honey” or whatever condescending bullshit lets them feel superior while you’re bringing them their third martini. Then comes the line that makes me want to throw something: “‘You’d be pretty if you smiled.’ / Feet have walked 10,000 miles.” Oh I’m sorry, is my exhaustion from serving your entitled ass for eight hours straight not aesthetically pleasing enough for you? The physical toll of “slimy paws on lower backs” from “finance bros and startup hacks” is so viscerally accurate. Wall Street hands have a GPS that goes straight to your lower back. It’s like they’re programmed for harassment.
The chorus drops us into the Dorsia fantasy where everything’s pristine and professional on the surface. “At Dorsia / Address the table from left to right / Dress in black and white / This clientele / Expects nothing but the very best / There’s no bad request.” The customer is always right, even when they’re completely fucking wrong. Even when their “request” involves touching you or demanding you perform happiness while they treat you like furniture. That 80s funk bassline keeps pushing forward while Catey lays out the emotional cost: “Pull my hair back high and tight / One more wasted Friday night / So much for my dreams.”
The existential crisis hits in the bridge. “I thought I’d be further now, / But I’m still struggling / And the clock keeps ticking.” That shit hits when you realize the ‘temporary’ survival job has eaten three years of your life and your art degree is gathering dust. The background vocals ask the questions everyone’s too polite to say out loud. (How does it feel?) She answers: “I wanna get away.” (How do you keep on going?) “I take it day by day.” (How do you deal?) “I put my pride away / I just keep on waiting.” That admission about putting your pride away? That’s what survival looks like when capitalism has you by the throat.
Then Catey gives us the dream that died. “New York City lights, / My paintings hanging in galleries / I really thought it was meant to be.” You moved here with dreams and a whole damn portfolio. Now you’re just really good at memorizing wine pairings and faking orgasms when someone leaves a decent tip. The devastating truth lands in the next lines: “But what you do to survive / Slowly becomes your reality / And it’s drowning me.” The worst part isn’t that you’re serving tables. It’s that you can’t remember the last time you picked up a paintbrush. Your survival job swallows your actual ambitions whole.
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The final verse is where the performance of femininity becomes mechanical. “Flash that smile / Push up my bra / Think that I just sprained my jaw / Viva la misogyny.” When performing femininity for tips becomes so goddamn mechanical you’re basically a sexy robot with joint pain and existential dread. That “Viva la misogyny” is so bitterly perfect, celebrating the system that’s destroying you because what the hell else can you do? The repetition of “I thought I’d be further now, / But I’m still hustling / So they keep on tipping” drives home that you’re trapped. They tip just enough to keep you coming back. Never enough to actually escape.
Catey Shaw got her start busking in the New York City subways, playing a beat-up ukulele for spare change on the 23rd St. station’s southbound platform on the F/M line until producer Jay Levine discovered her. In 2014 she released The Brooklyn EP with viral single “Brooklyn Girls,” which got recognition from Huffington Post, TIME, and Vice. She has over 25 million plays on Spotify alone, 39 million plays total across all her music. This is someone who knows exactly what grinding in New York feels like. She lived it. The subway busking, the hustle, the constant performance for spare change or tips or any form of validation that you’re not wasting your fucking time in this city.
That friend with the fashion design degree? She’s been bartending in the East Village for five years now. Another friend came for theater, she’s been serving at a steakhouse in Midtown for three. My coworker from my first NYC job wanted to be a photographer. Last I heard she’s managing a cafe in Williamsburg. They’re all still here, still hustling, still telling themselves it’s temporary. Catey Shaw turned that slow death of ambition into a funk protest anthem you can actually dance to. The genius is making something so enraging sound so fucking good that you move your body while processing how capitalism and misogyny team up to drown your potential one groping finance bro at a time.
