Raving in North London
On poppers fashion and what I like about British style
Hi poppets, I’m sorry I didn’t write to you last week. I was living a life of club bus another club bus, that kind of started with a Nymphet Alumni party in New York and ended here, with me in bed the day after a big rave in North London.
I didn’t plan to rave. The night started with drinks at a pub, the Lady Mildmay, to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I heard whispers of a rave (ticketed! sold out!) the evening before in another friend's bedroom, but I was delirious from jet-lag and tears of laughter. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, I thought.
At the pub, everyone is in black. I’m wearing a hot pink windbreaker, a summer skirt, my favorite top from college and a pair of ballerinas. It’s a weird outfit — one I wouldn’t have put together if I’d had my way completely. I only remember the chill of British spring as I leave my flat, already late, and it was between the pink windbreaker and my Perfectly Imperfect star hoodie to stay warm (a hoodie that I love, unrelated to Charli XCX getting fake papped in PI merch on a recent promenade of Dimes Square, where I hear she just bought an apartment. I will not tell you where for safety reasons). As for shoes, I somehow left all my boots in America. I feel a bit like a flamingo, but life is about being yourself even if your vibe is off.
I am always comforted by the sight of British style. I try to explain why to a friend who’s just been in New York as we wait for our drinks. It feels more natural, less put upon. Of course, I have American eyes, so I mostly like foppish British traditions, I like evil little Eton boys and girls. But my friend, who works at a menswear brand with history in the luxury tobacco pipe market, knows what I mean.
An image of a girl I saw a month ago in Dimes Square flashes through my head, on one of the first sunny, not yet warm days of the year. She was wearing tinytiny shorts, black shark boots and windshield club sunglasses. She looked crazy and the best reason I can think of as to why is that what she was wearing didn’t work with the world around it, it was untethered from the environment — from the temperature of the air, from the time of day, from the restaurants on the block. From everything other than the fact that you might expect to see someone dressed asynchronously in this particular neighborhood. It was self-expression in a bubble.
British style tends to find dialogue with its surroundings a little easier. At the pub, everyone in black is also dressed well. I like Clarke’s parka and flannel (not black, but still compatible). Clarke grew up uptown in New York and has lived in London for years. I say he’s in American style, he says it’s British — Liam Gallagher’s parka and all. I guess it’s somewhere in between, like him.
At the bar, I run into Ana, an artist and the most European person I know. She’s in a pastel knit that reminds me a bit of a pair of baby booties, it was made by the girlfriend or boyfriend of a musician I can’t remember the name of. She shows me that she has a lace dress for later crumpled into her bag. I don’t have a ticket to the rave, but Ana gives me hers when she decides she’s not up for more. We all get in cars headed north.
The security at the big warehouse, which I’m told is a photo studio by day, is extremely thorough. They give the most comprehensive bag search I’ve ever experienced. My eyedrops are confiscated and thrown into a plastic bin, overflowing with things that I suppose could be drugs or alcohol. A bottle of soy sauce, Aesop hand sanitizer, packets of powder for preventing hangovers. “You can get these back later.”
Inside, I am immediately confused. My friends made fun of me for my J.Crew ballerina outfit, so I assumed it was going to get real tonight. I grew up on Skins. Instead, there’s a huge bar with menus on flashing rectangular screens. I am momentarily interested in something called a Tropical Rumbull before realizing that will probably make me sick.
The building is so big that even though there are a ton of people here you don’t really feel it. Later, when we go to smoke my friends make a joke that we’re in the “Twitch streaming space” because we have to walk through an enormous room with lounge chairs, mood lighting and what feels like a long stretch of open kitchen (in my mind they’re wood-firing pizzas, it’s possible they are).
The music doesn’t feel like much to me. But I haven’t been to something like this in a while, last thing I really remember throwing my hands in the air for was my friend Martyna’s set at Bossa Nova in Bushwick. She’s such a good DJ.
The larger group I’m with is mostly gay guys and the crowd is too. They say the style here is worse than usual. To me it looks pretty standard for clubby nights out — lots of black, sunglasses at night, long shorts, silver chains and stomping boots.
I hear the term “Dion Lee gay.” This means a look popularized by the Australian designer Dion Lee, who shuttered his brand last year due to financial issues. The look is strappy, minimalist and sexy. The main thing is a tank top with straps that cut in on the shoulders (I don’t know what this style is called) that shows off clavicles and built traps and biceps. This is most complete with a squared off mustache.
I see this outfit I love. Someone tall and willowy in a thin striped hoodie (hood up) that drags over the hips of a pair of padded silver trousers with a slight flare. Comes together a little medieval with a low white belt with round silver studs (maybe a cousin of the boho amnesia belt at Coachella).
I respect the people’s right to party tonight, so no pictures. Except of the jewelry of the bartender from whom I redacted my order of a Tropical Rumbull. So clicky-clanky. They tell me it’s from an artist in Seattle.
Overall, the look here still feels very brat. Poppers fashion, whatever you want to call it. Of course this is in the DNA of clubwear — Charli just took it on a world tour, made it a bit of a costume for those who haven’t been to a rave in North London.
After Addison came out during Arca’s Coachella set in see-through Chloé, I posted that last summer was a stomp, this summer is a waft. You probably know what I mean. Last summer felt somewhat explosive, but also like the source of energy was pent up for a long time. Charli has been around forever, that was kind of the point of her album. And its success. But now something older and newer is being invoked.
I can’t wait to see what the song of the summer is. I’ve been thinking about it for months. There will probably be two or three, even though I yearn for just one, like the summer “Bodak Yellow” came out.
This was the first of my diaries and field reports from London. More soon. Let me know if there’s anything particular you want me to cover. I like to hear about everything.
Actually, are you British? Do you want to write a diary about your life or something you’re up to (concert, shopping)? DM me…
Also — I’ll be in Italy at the end of May, then maybe some more time on the continent. I am also open to your whims on where I should be in Europe (country, city, neighborhood) and what I should look into (trend, vibe, place).
Come to Glasgow!
Speaking of Bodak Yellow summer, that was the summer everyone remembers as being perfect, wasn’t it, during the clown hysteria, and beautifully coincidentally enough in which I stayed in an Airbnb underneath the Lady Mildmay with a middle aged Swedish situationship (not that this word had entered any lexicon yet).