Hyperkult

Photo credit: Nick Night; Yohji Yamamoto A/W 1988-89 Campaign

How did I miss the news that Yohji Yamamoto recently filed for bankruptcy protection? Too much of ‘tha Book, not enough of The Cut these days, I guess. The silver lining to this sad, if not surprising, news is that Yamamoto will continue to design virtually uninterrupted while an investment firm pumps cash into his struggling business.

What an unfortunate segue into Wim Wenders’ Notebooks on Cities and Clothes, a really great movie about Yamamoto, identity, place, and other esoteric micellenany that somehow relate back to fashion. I discovered the film Designer Imposter-style, thanks to Netflix. As in, the red envelope gods spied on my rental queue and pulled a “If you liked Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, you’ll love…” Only this movie is no shabby second-best a la Primo!; it came out in 1989, long before that digital purple fairy I mentioned was flitting its way around Jacobs’ Parisian workroom. What Notebooks achieves that MJ & LV doesn’t is a deeper level of creative brain-picking, one image maker framing another. Oh, yes, Wenders will go Spinoza on your ass…or something like that. Expect a side of philosophy with footage of Yamamoto’s runway shows, and an equal amount of visual fodder for ogling.

While watching, I was struck by how prescient Yamamoto’s designs were, especially since they were born during a decade of of sometimes-fabulous, sometimes-wretched excess. The man knows women, knows bodies, and sure as hell knows beauty—the lasting, relevant sort that even finnicky fashion types can’t dismiss years later. The only thing really dated about the film is its soundtrack, which is actually quite fabulous: think Terminator score meets that of an ’80s-era porn film.

Watch the trailer for a taste of what to expect. It ranks up there with Unzipped as one of my favorite fashion documentaries ever made.

I forgot my camera, so my friend's iPhone had to suffice.

It was some combination of dumb luck and benign universal energy that allowed me to score tickets to Thom Yorke’s secret show at The Echoplex on Friday night. Well, secret insomuch as L.A. Weekly tipped readers off to rumors of the show last Wednesday, and on Friday morning it was officially announced that tickets—all things considered, reasonable at $20—would go on sale at noon. Cut to: frantic text messages between my friend Luisa and myself, multiple browsers open to TicketWeb.com, and serendipity intervening to finalize the sale. A verbal stream of “Holy shit!” was all I could muster afterward.

By 7:30 PM, the line snaking around The Echoplex had reached critical proportions—long and filled with antsy fans muttering “Fuck, can we get in already?” My guess is that the unusual holdup had to do with crowd control and the CAA and VIP lists up front. Because, make no mistake, this was one of “those shows”: suited industry stiffs with ear plugs were peppered throughout the crowd, awkwardly shuffling their legs alongside the likes of Kim Gordon, Daft Punk, and the moody girl behind us who yelled something about needing a milk crate to stand on because we were too tall. The hype machine (figuratively speaking, not the website) was working overtime. I was more preoccupied, though, with the fact that we were actually there and about to see Thom perform for a crowd of a few hundred. “This will never happen to us again,” I kept uttering incredulously to Luisa. Granted, I can be hyperbolic at times, but when you’ve grown up listening to Radiohead and are about to see its lead singer preview new songs with his freshly-formed supergroup (including producer Nigel Godrich, Joey Waronker, Mauro Refosco, and Flea), “excited” doesn’t cut it as an adjective.

His set consisted mainly of tracks from The Eraser, which he went through in order. Live, the band went light on the album’s pervasive blips and bleeps and overally sleepiness, and made them much more danceable. I’ve seen Thom play Eraser songs prior, at least in fan-captured YouTube videos or the odd TV appearance, but I’ve never seen him so effervescent as a performer than Friday night, not even with Radiohead. We’ve all witnessed his frantic “Idioteque” moves, but imagine that flailing, crazed energy consistent over the course of an evening, punctuated by a schoolboy’s grin. What happened to our sulky Radiohead frontman?

I had heard none of the new songs before that night, and the immediate standouts were “Skirting on the Surface” and “Judge, Jury, and Executioner.” Post-show I’ve settled on “Feeling Pulled Apart By Horses” as my favorite. I blame the sexy, ominous bass line.

Driving back down Sunset after the show, Luisa and I could only describe the experience, the songs, and his palpable exuberance as so “Thom York-ie.” I count myself lucky to have beaten the odds, the wily scalper/hackers, and a catastrophic TicketWeb crash to have witnessed it.

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

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.

Photo credit: Kitsune Noir

I recently resurrected my long-dormant Netflix account, only to be greeted by a queue that stretches 78 films long—88 if you count the 10 titles languishing in the purgatory otherwise known as “Saved DVDs.” The unruly list starts with Jean-Luc Godard’s A Woman is a Woman and ends with Louis Malle’s Au Revoir Les Enfants, but honestly, what I really want to (re-)rent next is The Pelican Brief.

While I contemplate inviting Julia Roberts’ timorous Darby Shaw into my living room, in the interim I’ve been occupying myself with a series of designer documentaries—a mailbox march of red enveloped arrivals inspired by the impending release of The September Issue. (From what a trusted film journalist friend tells me, it lives up to even steely-eyed Anna Wintour’s measure of excellence.)

My first excursion into the world of couture on screen was Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, director Loïc Prigent’s 2007 film about, arguably, fashion’s most influential designer. Once rebuked—and fired—for his notorious “grunge” collection for Perry Ellis, Jacobs is now an industry darling, evidenced by his elite editorial and celebrity following. The sartorial vanguard’s often unconventional vision has filtered into the wardrobes of mainstream America, with suburbanites waiting with bated breath for the H&M collaboration that may never come. Look to your local designer knockoff kiosk to find rainbow-colored, Eye Love-inspired PVC handbags still selling strong, years after Jessica Simpson paraded her pet “Louis” around on Newlyweds—much to the horror of genuine Murakami aficionados.

Visually striking, but devoid of true depth, I found myself making the most tangential—and maybe inappropriate—of associations while watching the movie. Paul Thomas Anderson, speaking about a 70s porn documentary about John Holmes that informed Boogie Nights, described the Julia St. Vincent-helmed picture as more “love letter” than objective slice of life filmmaking. Then again, I’m not sure how precisely cinematic a documentary about an adult star is meant to be. Nevertheless, the same might be said of Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton, which engages insomuch as it invites viewers into the charmeuse-strewn workroom where Vuitton collections are born, all the while portraying its creator sympathetically. But beyond this hallowed space, where Jacobs compulsively snacks on protein bars while giving the “yay” or “nay” to fabric flower adornments, there was a marked absence of meaningful insight into Jacobs himself.

I was searching for neither a scathing exposé of Jacobs’ drug-addled years, nor lascivious confessionals from ex-lovers, but a genuine inquiry into the Mythos of Jacobs. What we are given instead is, at best, a half-realized portrait of the slim couturier, and a digitally rendered purple fairy flitting about to symbolize “inspiration.” But alas, had Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton been a less benign movie, you probably wouldn’t be able to purchase it at Marc by Marc Jacobs stores internationally, as is now the case. Look for it somewhere between the mushroom key chains and coffee table photography books.

That said, it still gets points for featuring one of my favorite Vuitton collections to date. It’s pretty, fun, and often inspirational, even if it sometimes comes off like a less thoughtful creative patchwork than the LV Tribute Bag at the center of the Vuitton Spring/Summer 2007 showcase.

Official website of Marc Jacobs & Louis Vuitton

It's funny 'cause it's true.

“You’re Fired! Surviving and Thriving After the Pink Slip,” read one of the headlines on the cover of Vogue’s May issue.

In the article, Lynn Yaeger, the eccentrically-accoutered former fashion editor of The Village Voice, reflects on her recent layoff from the publication and the dizzying aftermath. For a woman whose closet boasts frilly Comme des Garçons skirts nestled alongside the likes of Marni and Lanvin, the loss of a stable income abruptly ended her freewheeling shopping ways. From Stella McCartney to Suze Orman in one fell swoop, with Yaeger quickly realizing that, at least in the discernable future, the answer to “Can I Afford It?” would be a resonant “Oh, hell no.”

In other words, get your spendthrift ass away from Henri Bendel.

The crux of the article is Yaeger’s unflagging lust for luxury items, and her almost adolescent inability to realize that, when no longer on payroll, $50 T. LeClerc powder is a dead necessity—if ever it was a necessity to begin with. This disconnect is embodied in the author’s reluctant return of an antique diamond-and-sapphire snake ring, her final purchase before getting booted from the New York weekly. She mourns the glittery loss like one would a dear friend, describing the accessory in loving, anthropomorphized terms. “Boo-fucking-hoo,” I thought, “People are facing home foreclosures and you can’t troll Saks for Thakoon. Handle it.”

When I first read this three-page missive from the recently pink-slipped Yaeger, I was employed. Not gainfully, but employed nonetheless. This changed yesterday morning, and while I had been waiting for the proverbial axe to fall for months, joining the ranks of fellow workless John and Jane Qs still sends limb-numbing waves of shock over my body. This is unlikely to change anytime soon.

Suddenly, I have been forced to rethink the purpose and direction of my life, and, on a micro level, the purpose and direction of this blog. Hyperkult was conceived of prior to me being laid off, and I never intended for this to be my first entry. Rather, I imagined the site as a virtual cross-section of aesthetic musings—a place where I could share the things I love with an intimate audience of friends, family, and anonymous internet folk who happen to stumble upon it. These things would sometimes be luxe in nature, but more by virtue of their craftsmanship and visual appeal rather than their exorbitant price tags. How now to “ooh” and “aah” over Dries Van Noten when the nausea-inducing effects of an economy in peril are more manifest than ever? Does this shit even matter?

My connection to recession-era stresses is palpably personal now. And, despite differing modes of processing our respective layoffs, Yaeger and I have more in common than I’d like to admit. I know what it is like to conspicuously consume, sometimes irresponsibly (see: the once-worn pair of Dries Van Noten boots sitting in my closet, or the Louboutin wedges lying on the floor by my bed as I type this). What’s more, I know what it is like to be afflicted with consumer lust. Yager more often acts on these lusts, but mutually, at the heart of every “I want” is an appreciation of well-executed artistic vision. My very pure love of fashion will not die along with my formerly dependable paycheck. This love exists independent of my purchasing power, though I certainly wouldn’t argue if someone delivered a batch of Ann Demeulemeester clothing to my doorstep come fall. Fashion is in part fantasy, and admiring beautiful things for nothing but the sake of their beauty isn’t harmful.

Now is a time for simplification and deep personal reflection. I will do both, and I am far less concerned with the shopping I will (or rather, will not) be doing than figuring out how to proceed during a difficult time. What do I love and what am I good at? What future career can I embark upon that will intellectually and emotionally sate me? Those are the more important questions to ask, and I am.

At the end of her article, Yaeger admits to retrieving her snake ring from the antiques dealer she begrudgingly returned it to. It brings her comfort while punching out freelance articles and subsisting on a diet of Lean Cuisine. I haven’t sold any such valuable personal affects (yet), and, despite petting a pair of satin Miu Miu stilettos while out with a friend last night, I am not inclined to participate in impulsive retail therapy.

Instead, I’ll be hiking the uneven terrain of Runyon Canyon today, hoping for a momentary break in the cloud coverage. Because really, that would be more symbolic and affirming than any diamond-encrusted promise of a brighter future.