Hyperkult

Dawn breaking over Bon Iver

Last weekend went by in a dreamlike blur. Somehow, a friend and I managed to stumble from Disneyland on Friday to a birthday party at The London West Hollywood on Saturday night to Bon Iver’s once-in-a-lifetime sunrise show at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, emerging with mildly scathed circadian rhythms and ravenous appetites. Luckily Joan’s on Third covered us on the hunger front, along with a couple other Bon Iver concertgoers with yellow wristbands matching ours. I vaguely remember an exchange with a fellow Hollywood Forever survivor while waiting for my food (Her: “Wasn’t that amazing?” Me: “It was amazzzzzing.”), but anything that happened after 9:00 AM was pretty much stricken from my sleep-deprived mind.

I’ve still got a small case of what I’m calling “graveyard cough,” but my scratchy throat is a small price to pay for a concert experience that I’ll never forget. Though the gates of Hollywood Forever—the “resting ground of Hollywood’s immortals”—opened at midnight, my friend Frances and I opted to take a disco nap at my apartment and show up around 4:00 AM. Fighting our way through Hollywood’s foggy streets and dodging a neon-clad male hustler yelling “You know you can afford me!” to passing cars, we finally crossed into a land of phantoms, headstones, and hoodie-wearing Silverlake hipsters.

We missed a screening of Bottle Rocket earlier that morning, a movie chosen specially for the occasion by Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon. But no matter, because there was a projection of Planet Earth on the mausoleum wall and hypnotic mood music to lull us into a half-meditative, half-delirious state. The band must’ve sensed how out of sorts we would all be, so they called on Buddhist monks—yes, actual Buddhist monks—to be our alarm clock at 5:30 AM with a blessing and chanting ceremony.

As if that wasn’t enough to settle us into a state of pure zen, the band then took the stage, launching into their work from For Emma, Forever Ago and the Blood Bank EP. I’ve always filed For Emma under “writing music,” or “hole me up in a cabin for the winter” music, which, actually, is just what Vernon did when he was recording the album. But live I wasn’t moodily swaying my head back and forth like I’m wont to do when Emma wafts through my headphones. Oh, no. There was a bit of strange seated dancing going on, some tapping of feet, and tempo-synched neck bobbing that I normally reserve for whatever mega-awesome remix I’m obsessed with at the moment.

Yet Bon Iver, all heart on stage, gave us the kind of magical melancholy that we all sleepily trekked there for. After a finale of “The Wolves (Act I and II),” the mostly ass-parked audience gave a standing ovation and Vernon left us with this cryptic note of thanks: “Thank you guys so much for making this so wonderful. You guys are so kind, for real. Let’s do it again, maybe—or maybe never again. I love that.”

I love that, too.

Stumbling through cemetery fog at 4:00 AM

Sleepy Bon Iver fans

Rodarte S/S 2010, Photo credit: Style.com

New York’s Spring/Summer 2010 Fashion Week was a let down. I can’t say that I was enthusiastic about many of the collections, save for the four that I’m highlighting here. What was most disappointing about the New York shows was that many designers paraded out barely tweaked iterations of what they’re known for. Sure, there is something to be said for having a “signature,” for satisfying a loyal client base, but when that signature turns routine, it’s at best predictable and at worse a sign of laziness.

But onto the good: Rodarte (above) in particular was look after look of breathtaking, tough, gothic ballerina wear unlike anything else shown this past week—the kind of half-mad, but ultimately wearable and beautiful imaginings of the Mulleavy sisters, Kate and Laura. Next up for the two is Rodarte for Target, the chain’s next Go! International collaboration. I’m not sure how Rodarte’s $1,000+ shredded sweaters and elaborately draped dresses will translate to a $20-100 price range, but I’m trusting the Berkeley badasses to do what they do best, with discounted panache.

Proenza Schouler S/S 2010, Photo credit: Style.com

Diane von Furstenberg S/S 2010, Photo credit: Style.com

Marc Jacobs S/S 2010, Photo credit: Style.com

My designer documentary kick of a couple months ago was preparation for The September Issue’s recent release. The chance to look behind the darkened lenses of “Nuclear Wintour,” as Vogue editrix Anna Wintour is known by some, and what continues to be the only fashion magazine I read religiously, was a voyeuristic (Vogue-ristic?) dream come true. While the movie is not earth-shatteringly revealing, it is transportive, even for audience members who don’t know Thakoon from Chris Benz.

I had the chance to prescreen the film and interview director R.J. Cutler, who previously produced the Bill Clinton campaign documentary The War Room. The politically-minded (and sartorially-challenged) filmmaker was enchanted by Wintour and her Condé Nast family, even if getting Vogue Creative Director Grace Coddington to smile for the camera was a trying task. I’ve posted my article below, which appears in the, ahem, September issue of SOMA. Click on the article for legible text.

Spago's Almond Upside-Down Cake

From a 1994 episode of Saturday Night Live, featuring the Baldwin family, Kim Basinger then included, as contestants on Family Feud:

Ray Combs: Kim! Join me over here, you have fifteen seconds! [Kim follows Ray to the center of the set.] One hundred people surveyed—Go! [Clock begins ticking.] A place you might go for a birthday.

Kim Basinger: Spago.

Ray Combs: Something you do before leaving work.

Kim Basinger: Call Spago!

Ray Combs: Something you might read on a bus.

Kim Basinger: Spago’s menu!

Ray Combs: A place where you might look for a lost sock.

Kim Basinger: Spago!

Ray Combs: And, someone you might call while on vacation.

Kim Basinger: Mike Ovitz!

[The Baldwins cheer]

In the rapid world of restaurant turnaround, especially in a town as finnicky and trend-crazy as Los Angeles, Beverly Hills is where a small handful of local institutions will die when Neiman Marcus freezes over. Which, sure, is actually a distinct possibility in this economic climate. Nonetheless, still alive and kicking are restaurants whose glitter-and-glam reputation precedes their culinary one: The Ivy, Mr. Chow, Kate Mantilini, and so on.

And then there’s Spago, an anomaly that’s both so ’90s, but still so relevant. There are banquettes with dated geometric patterns, menus and wall art decorated with illustrations of a rotund grape-picker, and the weirdest motley crew of diners I’ve seen in a while—and this is Los Angeles, for chrissake. Last night, when I went out with a small group to celebrate my friend Frances’ birthday, I observed a diner in a Union Jack blazer cradling his tutu-outfitted daughter, an older, white-suited man chatting up his disaffected date (easily 20 years his junior), and a rakish Peter Facinelli lookalike doing the same with his blonde buddy, but with much more success.

At a lot of restaurants these days, it’s hard to tell whether the food, the chef, or the scene is the star. In Spago’s case, it’s all three: solid dishes, fearless leader Wolfgang Puck, and Beverly Hills’ best, worst, and strangest patrons. Our group sampled everything from miniature beet layer cakes to seared tuna with fennel and a tomato confit (my choice) to almond upside-down cake with raspberries, figs, and housemade gelato. Spago consistently earns a Michelin star-rating, and witnessing sous chefs bust ass through the exposed kitchen, it’s easy to see—but more importantly, taste—why.

Just before dessert arrived, Wolfgang emerged to individually introduce himself to the remaining diners, which is something I wish more chefs would do whether they’re of his celebrity stature or not. So there you have it; last night I got Puck-ed, and it was good for me.

Burberry A/W 2009 campaign, Photographed by Mario Testino

Those who know me best know that I live, breathe, and bleed The New Yorker and make my best attempt to read each issue from cover-to-cover. By week’s end, pages are dogeared, polysyllabic words I don’t know are underlined, and I—probably annoyingly so—often end up starting sentences with, “That reminds me of this article I saw in The New Yorker…” Plus there’s the fact that they’ve made the stylistic choice to use the diæresis diacritic mark, which makes consecutive vowels look badass.

This week’s New Yorker is one of what I believe are two yearly Style issues. That makes sense if their newsstand date coincides with New York’s Ready-to-Wear Fashion Week, which this latest issue does. The last Style installment featured Ariel Levy’s profile of Lanvin designer Alber Elbaz, an article which was so humanizing, so punch-you-in-the-stomach good that I teared up thinking about this sort of hapless, lovable man who’s insecure even in his brilliance.

Anyway, the point of all this verbal fawning is that if you love fashion, you should pick up this week’s issue. I’ve already raced through Dana Goodyear’s story on “The Wearst” (that’s fuschia, metallic, and animal print-happy interior designer Kelly Wearstler to you), a look inside the sunshine and rainbows Zappos.com headquarters, and a profile of Burberry creative director Christopher Bailey, a man who’s heaved the brand out of a ho-hum, deglamourized phase during his tenure there. It’s fascinating to have learned about Burberry’s inception and evolution over the years (literally in the trenches at one point, hence the eponymic coat name), and bear witness to the utilitarian high style it pushes today. To people who say fashion can’t be intelligent, thoughtful, or socially relevant I say “novacheck yourself” and point them toward the writing of Lauren Collins.

And now it’s Fashion Week, which I’ll be following from afar. I expect Alexander and Marc to bring it as usual, but I’m really hoping to see some new designers inject a little life onto the runways. I wouldn’t go so far as to say there’s been a “famine of beauty,” as André Leon Talley so succinctly put it, but some fresh inspiration wouldn’t hurt.

A pink wonderland in Barcelona

Why is it that, like crinkly-nosed puppies in need of love, so many blogs get abandoned? I am guilty of blog neglect, maybe because I honestly don’t know why I’m caring for this online writing space, or what it is I’m trying to communicate.

Over the past 48-hours, I’ve done a little Hyperkult maintenance: conveniently deleting entries that seemed way too embarrassing to keep up, downloading and installing a new WordPress theme, spending too much time staring at hexidecimal color charts and screwing around with the header image. (It’s a work in progress, as you can see if you’re logging on right now.)

In any case, I’m not abandoning this URL, because I paid for it, goddamn it, and also because I do like the idea of putting my energy into writing what I want, when I want, and attempting to embrace free-flowing, oftentimes nonsensical thoughts. Here’s to a fresh start and soon-to-be-filled blank spaces. If I feel like it.

P.S. My new header image is a cropped portion of the photo above this post, taken during the Festa Major de Gracia in Barcelona, an annual event where different streets in the Gràcia neighborhood compete to win the coveted title of “Best Decorated.” It’s very similar to a festival I attended in a Baclaran, a district of Parañaque City in the Philippines earlier that same year, 2007. But like every other festival in Barcelona, it’s really yet another excuse to enjoy loud live music into the early morning hours, lots of alcohol, and gawk at (or something more, if you’re lucky) Gràcia’s pierced, tattooed, and generally very attractive residents, who keep the after party going until their bodies physically give out.