Lifestyle

In L.A., sometimes waiting in line is the whole event

Published

2 years ago

June 6, 2024

In L.A., sometimes waiting in line is the whole event

As a child, I hated nothing more than waiting in line at school. I remember not being able to go back to class from the school yard unless we were in a perfectly straight, unnaturally silent line. “Why?” I found the courage to ask my seventh grade math teacher once. She smirked with 30 years of knowledge on me and said, “Trust me. You will always have to wait in line.” Of course, Mrs. Willis was right, and at the time I thought she put a curse on me. But I’ve come to accept lines, especially in L.A., where they’ve become a part of the city’s social architecture.

From Mindless Behavior concerts at The Novo to Maru Coffee to Born X Raised Sadie Hawkins, I’ve found myself reeling in ridiculously long lines, planning my days and outfits around them, gawking at them when I couldn’t be bothered.

In the words of Virginia Woolf, “Time, unfortunately, though it makes animals and vegetables bloom and fade with amazing punctuality, has no such simple effect on the mind of man.”

People reveal the best and worst parts of themselves while waiting in a queue. For sample sales, for example, I get a little competitive. Surely, no one likes this brand like I like the brand. Except, of course they do. Why else would we make ourselves a part of a spectacle to passersby on a sunny Sunday afternoon on Fairfax?

Once that fact settles after hours, a sense of community is formed. We’re all eavesdropping on our line neighbors. We all hope that the coveted item from five drops ago is 70% off. We all need our spot saved to refill the parking meter. We’re marveling at how folks have assembled pieces we were either too broke or unsure to buy. It’s inspiring, even comforting.

In L.A., lines wield a transcendent power to reveal who we are, our desire to be seen and what we’re willing to do for them.

The line outside Courage Bagels on a weekend morning.

Courage Bagels, 10:06 a.m.

You can smell everything from down the block. The everything, that is — salt, onions, garlic, poppyseeds — all on a hot, freshly baked bagel.

I’d driven by Courage Bagels numerous times — on my way to afternoon open mics at the Lyric Hyperion or to a group show at Guerrero Gallery. And I used to roll my eyes and ask myself, what could possibly draw someone to want to wait in line first thing in the morning?

Contrary to the stereotypes, the city’s pace can be chill, but it’s not languorous by any means. So for many Angelenos, waiting in line for breakfast on a Saturday morning is a chosen moment of pause. It can be as much a retreat from the churn of the week as a weekend trip to San Diego.

Over the course of an hour, a Courage line stander is almost in a meditative state. Here, there’s an understanding that experiencing every second is what grants access to the next and eventually the ultimate boon: staring down that handwritten menu in the window. And folks have come ready for battle: securing allyships (couples and friend groups yap the hour away), wearing a suit of armor (Gymshark set, Moncler cap and New Balance sneakers on) and expecting the unexpected (a light removable layer in case of inclement weather).

Woman in a white skirt stands outside a line.

Even Shen, fashion data analyst

Position in line: Seventh.

Time spent in line: 1 hour.

How often do you find yourself waiting in line in L.A.?

A lot, actually. We just came from this cafe in the Melrose area called Community Goods. I think we were probably 20-30 minutes for a cup of drink there. Every popular spot, you need to wait in line. We even got those portable stools.

At what point do you feel like you’ve had enough of a line?

On the weekends, I don’t have any events to go to anyway, so it’s fine to just chat with friends in line because the food is actually good. I feel like it’s worth it.

Man in brown shirt and black pants stands outside a line.

Michael Manos, graphic designer

Position in line: 14th.

Time spent in line: 40 minutes.

I overheard your friend say that he’s not a “line guy.”

Yeah, my friend said, ‘Oh, I’m not a line guy.’ And I said, ‘Who is a line guy?’ I don’t think anyone’s dying to go wait in the line. I think it’s worth it, what’s at the end of the line. I’m a bagel guy. I’ll wait in an absurd line for a good bagel. I also think I’m an idiot.

Besides the destination, what’s the best part about waiting in line?

The line here is famously long, but I think anyone who comes to Courage knows what they’re getting themselves into. It’s almost part of the order. To get your bagel, you get a long line. If you come here alone and wait in line alone, it’s not gonna be that fun. But if you come here with your friends, it’s not a bad experience. It’s part of the experience.

The Courage line is misunderstood, kind of slept on. I’ve had some good memories in the Courage line. There was one time this guy came [down the line] just high-fiv[ing] everybody. True story. I think there’s some camaraderie to it, sitting in some insane line for a bagel.

Man in a green jacket stands with his dog on the sidewalk.

Jeff Forrest, designer

Position in line: 24th.

Time spent in line: 45 minutes.

What’s been your experience waiting in line in L.A.?

We’re happy to wait in line. We meet really interesting people in line. Because of the dog, we get a lot of attention, and chat with other [dog] owners and talk about the city.

L.A. is a really closed-off city. I come from Toronto, and a lot of my work is in New York, too, so I’m used to the hustle and bustle of being around people. When I’m here in L.A., I don’t get that a lot. We live in Studio City. Silver Lake is a little bit of a different story. But we don’t have random run-ins a lot of times, like we would in a walking city. So when we come to Silver Lake, we like it because it reminds us of back home, and the line is kind of the epicenter of it, in a way.

The line outside the Gustaf Westman pop-up.

Gustaf Westman pop-up shop, 1:22 p.m.

Past the brunch rush, the sunlight starts melting the clouds away. Ceramics enthusiasts file in for the Gustaf Westman pop-up shop in Echo Park, pressing themselves against the store to hide away from a nosy sun.

The Swedish designer’s first solo pop-up shop graces Sunset Boulevard, beckoning hundreds of local fans to score the TikTok-famous cups, plates, mirrors and seats found in the homes of Yung Lean, Emma Chamberlain, Reign Judge, Matilda Djerf and Tyler, the Creator.

“If you know, you know, and we definitely know” is definitely the vibe here.

“What’s the line for?” a Patagonia-vested tourist asks, and a Miu Miu bag-touting baddie completely ignores him.

Within the first two hours of the shop opening, the sunk-cost fallacy is in full effect. “Dude, let’s just go,” mutters a guy to his friend. Excitement grows into restlessness. There’s only so much satisfaction you can glean from watching people pose with their pink paper bags in triumph.

Sometimes, it’s not just about the journey. It’s what you have to show for it.

Rico Nasty, rapper

Position in line: 12th.

Time spent in line: 1 hour, 40 minutes.

Are you a patient person?

No. I was complaining the entire time. [Her friends] were like ‘Oh, this is what your fans do for you.’ And I was like, ‘Wow.’ I don’t know how they love me so much, but I definitely see them in a different light. My legs hurt.

You are Rico Nasty. Why are you in line?

I don’t know [Gustaf Westman]. I just feel like it shows respect. Like, I respect him. I just feel like you can wait in line for s— sometimes. Everything doesn’t have to be, ‘Hey, I’m a celebrity. Let me in.’”

Nicole Duque, fashion merchandising buyer, Matthew Yuguchi, executive creative director, and Theo Yuguchi, aspiring soccer star

Position in line: First.

Time spent in line: A little under 2 hours.

How does it feel to be at the front of the line?

Nicole Duque: Ready to go. We’re really excited to head in.

How often do you find yourself waiting in line?

ND: I grew up here and so it’s not something that I love to do. Rarely do I actually have the patience to do it. But there’s a really cool vase in there, also maybe a little book stand. There’s also a table stand. Those are definitely some of the items that piqued our interest.

How’d you guys pass the time?

ND: Well, they went to eat. I stayed here [Laughs].

Ti’lien Dallas, administrative assistant, and Amelia Moore, musician

Position in line: On the other side.

Time spent in line: 2.5 hours.

What was your line strategy?

Amelia Moore: I got here 15 minutes before it opened, and the line was down the street already. I was planning initially to get here earlier, but I just got lazy and got a coffee to make myself not hate myself in line. But we waited. We committed.

What did you guys get?

Ti’lien Dallas: I didn’t really come to buy something today. I just came with her. If we have small tasks to do we usually just meet up, grab food and run all errands, chitchat. I just think there’s no better feeling than having to do nothing with friends.

Firmé Atelier’s “Til Death Do Us Part” show, 7:27 p.m.

“Oh there’s a line?” I hear on three separate occasions at the door of the Firmé Atelier show at John Doe Gallery. Inside, the atelier is showcasing a meticulous couture bridal collection in a museum-style exhibition. The line isn’t exactly inconspicuous. It casually flows under scaffolding. 11th Street is lined with sleek lowriders and old friends have reunited as the DJ spins ‘90s and 2000s R&B. It feels like a really well dressed block party. Whether asked in oblivion or in jest, once they step back to notice the queue of people behind the bouncer what follows is one of three outcomes.

Outcome 1. Look for your homie to get you in. While curious passersby and fans of the brand wait, friends of the atelier met with the line are escorted to skip it.

Outcome 2. Cut someone: Alfonso Gonzalez Jr., who did not have to wait in line, commented, “You can cut, but there’s a respectful way to cut.” You have to have the audacity. Be stealth and steadfast. Commit. Go for it.

Outcome 3. Just go to the end of the line. A few folks who come straight to the door are turned away and asked to wait. In actuality, getting sent to the back of a quickly moving line isn’t as bad a condemnation as it seems. But I would be lying if I said we didn’t enjoy seeing people getting turned away and doing a kind of walk of shame to the end of the line.

Two people pose at twilight beside a line.

Isaías Cabrera, a.k.a Blondchyna, president of Somos Loud LA, and NoNo, addiction and mental health professional

Position in line: Second.

Time spent in line: About 3 minutes.

So you just cut the line. I’m assuming you’re not ones for waiting.

Isaías Cabrera: To be honest, not to be conceited, but no.

NoNo: I mean, if these people behind us trip, I’ll just get out of line.

IC: I think it’s gonna be OK.

What are the rules or best practices for cutting the line?

IC: Go to the front of the line, and live in opulence. You own everything.

What if someone cuts you?

IC: I let them. Because I do the same.

Is there anything worth waiting in line for?

IC: I was just in line for a Heaven bag. I love Heaven. I love Marc Jacobs. I think it’s worth it.

Which bag was it?

It was the Blumarine collaboration.

Any other thoughts about waiting in line?

IC: We work hard. What are we doing lines for?

Two young men pose in all black outfits at night.

Juan Carlos Palma, designer, and Alex Palma

Position in line: Fifth.

Time spent in line: 20 minutes.

What brings you out tonight?

Juan Carlos Palma: I follow the page @firmeatelier. I’m from New York/New Jersey and my brother lives out here in California and I came here because he graduated. I said, “Let me see some fashion events out here. Let me pop out.” I’m tired of streetwear to be honest, and this is really haute couture level.

How has your experience been waiting in line?

JCP: It’s cool. Because you see people with different styles. It’s interesting seeing L.A. fashion because I’m usually in New York. I just observe. What else can you do?

Alex Palma: I think the most interesting [thing] is how people style themselves to fit their personalities and say, “Let me show it through the outfits.”

Robert Aubert wears Sinners Saints hat, jacket, Sinners Saints pants, Christian Louboutin shoes, Nouvintage sunglasses.

Robert Aubert, designer

Position in line: Fourth.

Time spent in line: “Too long.” (Couldn’t have been longer than 15 minutes.)

I saw you get turned away from the front. How does that feel?

I didn’t know there was a line. I was here earlier, then they told me I had to get in line. I helped with the production on the shirts, so I should be inside. I’m just kidding. But no, I’m here to support the show. I’m out here as a rider. It doesn’t matter how long I wait.

Would you consider yourself a patient person?

Absolutely not. It’s killing me to stand in line.

Astrid Kayembe is a writer from South-Central Los Angeles covering style, food, art and L.A. culture. She was a 2022-23 reporting fellow at the Los Angeles Times. Her work has appeared in USA Today, ABC7, L.A. TACO, The Memphis Commercial Appeal and Refinery29.

Lifestyle

L.A. Affairs: I loved someone who felt he couldn’t be fully seen with me

Published

26 minutes ago

April 24, 2026

Press Room

L.A. Affairs: I loved someone who felt he couldn’t be fully seen with me

He always texted when he was outside. No call, no knock. It was just a message and then the soft sound of my door opening. He moved like someone practiced in disappearing.

His name meant “complete” in Arabic, which is what I felt when we were together.

I met him the way you meet most things that matter in Los Angeles — without intending to. In our senior year at a college in eastern L.A. County, we were introduced through mutual friends, then thrown together by the particular gravity of people who recognized something in each other. He was a Muslim medical student, conservative and careful and funny in the dry, precise way of someone who has always had to choose his words. I was loud where he was quiet, messy where he was disciplined. I was out. He was not.

I understood, or thought I did. I thought that I couldn’t get hurt if I was completely conscious throughout the endeavor. Los Angeles has a way of making you feel like the whole world shares your freedoms — until you realize the city is enormous, and not all of it belongs to you in the same way.

For months, our world was confined to my apartment. He would slip in after dark, and we’d stay up late talking about his family in Iran, classical music and the particular pressure of being the son someone sacrificed everything to bring here. He told me things he said he’d never told anyone, and I believed him.

The orange glow from my Nesso lamp lit his face while the indigo sky pressed against the window behind him. In our small little world, we were safe. Outside was another matter.

On our first real date, I took him to the L.A. Phil’s “An Evening of Film & Music: From Mexico to Hollywood” program. I told him they were cheap seats even though they were the first row on the terrace. He was thrilled in the way only someone who doesn’t expect to be delighted actually gets delighted — fully, without guarding it. I put my arm around his shoulders. At some point, I shifted and moved it, and he nudged it back. He was OK with PDA here.

I remember thinking that wealth is a great barrier to harm and then feeling silly for extrapolating my own experience once again. Inside Walt Disney Concert Hall, we were just two people in love with the same music.

Outside was still another matter.

In February, on Valentine’s Day, he took me to a Yemeni restaurant in Anaheim. We hovered over saffron tea surrounded by other young Southern Californians, and we looked like friends. Before we went in, we sat in the parking lot of the strip mall — signs in Arabic advertising bread, coffee, halal meats, the Little Arabia District — hand in hand. I leaned over to kiss him.

“Not here,” he said. His eyes shifted furtively. “Someone might see.”

I understood, or told myself I did, but I was saddened. Later, after the kind of reflection that only arrives in the wreckage, I would understand something harder: I had been unconsciously asking him to choose, over and over, between the people he loved and the person he loved. I had a long pattern of choosing unavailable men, telling myself it was because I could handle the complexity. The truth was more embarrassing. I thought that if someone like him chose me anyway — chose me over the weight of societal expectations — it would mean I was worth choosing. It took me a long time to see how unfair that was to him and to me.

We went to the Norton Simon Museum together in November, on the kind of gray Pasadena day when the 210 Freeway roars in the background like white noise. He studied for the MCAT while I wrote a paper on Persian rugs. In between practice problems, he translated ancient Arabic scripts for me. I thought, “We make a good team.” Afterward, we walked through the galleries and he didn’t let go of my arm.

That was the version of us I kept returning to — when the ending came during Ramadan. It arrived as a spiritual reflection of my own. I texted: “Does this end at graduation — whatever we are doing?”

He thought I meant Ramadan. I did not mean Ramadan.

“I care about you,” he wrote, “but I don’t want you to think this could work out to anything more than just dating. I mean, of course, I’ve fantasized about marrying you. If I could live my life the way I wanted, of course I would continue. I’m just sad it’s not in this lifetime.”

I was in Mexico City when these texts were exchanged. That night I flew to Oaxaca to clear my head and then, after less than 24 hours, flew back to L.A. No amount of vacation would allow me to process what had just happened, so I threw myself back into work.

My therapist told me to use the conjunction “and” instead of “but.” It happened, and I am changed. The harm I caused and the love I felt. The beauty of what we made and the impossibility of where it could go. She gave me a knowing smile when I asked if it would stay with me forever. She didn’t answer, which was the answer.

I think about the freeways now, the way Joan Didion called them our only secular communion. When you’re on the ground in Los Angeles, the world narrows to the few blocks around you. Get on the freeway and you understand the whole body of the city at once: the arteries, the pulse, the scale of the thing.

You understand that you are a single cell in something enormous and moving. It is all out of your control. I am in a lane. The lane shaped how I drive. He was simply in a different lane, and his lane shaped him, and those two facts can coexist without either of us being the villain of the sad story.

He came like a secret in the night, and he left the same way. What we made in between was real and complicated and mine to hold forever, hoping we find each other in the next life.

The author lives in Los Angeles.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.

Lifestyle

The Nerve Center of This Art Fair Isn’t Painting. It’s Couture.

Published

12 hours ago

April 23, 2026

Press Room

The Nerve Center of This Art Fair Isn’t Painting. It’s Couture.

The art industry is increasingly shaped by artists’ and art businesses’ shared realization that they are locked in a fierce struggle for sustained attention — against each other, and against the rest of the overstimulated, always-online world. A major New York art fair aims to win this competition next month by knocking down the increasingly shaky walls between contemporary art and fashion.

When visitors enter the Independent art fair on May 14, they will almost immediately encounter its open-plan centerpiece: an installation of recent couture looks from Comme des Garçons. It will be the first New York solo presentation of works by Rei Kawakubo, the brand’s founder and mastermind, since a lauded 2017 survey exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Costume Institute.

Art fairs have often been front and center in the industry’s 21st-century quest to capture mindshare. But too many displays have pierced the zeitgeist with six-figure spectacles, like Maurizio Cattelan’s duct-taped banana and Beeple’s robot dogs. Curating Independent around Comme des Garçons comes from the conviction that a different kind of iconoclasm can rise to the top of New York’s spring art scrum.

Elizabeth Dee, the founder and creative director of Independent, said that making Kawakubo’s work the “nerve center” of this year’s edition was a “statement of purpose” for the fair’s evolution. After several years at the compact Spring Studios in TriBeCa, Independent will more than double its square footage by moving to Pier 36 at South Street, on the East River. Dee has narrowed the fair’s exhibitor list, to 76, from 83 dealers in 2025, and reduced booth fees to encourage a focus on single artists making bold propositions.

“Rei’s work has been pivotal to thinking about how my work as a curator, gallerist and art fair can push boundaries, especially during this extraordinary move toward corporatization and monoculture in the art world in the last 20 years,” Dee said.

Kawakubo’s designs have been challenging norms since her brand’s first Paris runway show in 1981, but her work over the last 13 years on what she calls “objects for the body” has blurred borders between high fashion and wearable sculpture.

The Comme des Garçons presentation at Independent will feature 20 looks from autumn-winter 2020 to spring-summer 2025. Forgoing the runway, Kawakubo is installing her non-clothing inside structures made from rebar and colored plastic joinery.

Adrian Joffe, the president of both Comme des Garçons International and the curated retailer Dover Street Market International (and who is also Kawakubo’s husband), said in an interview that Kawakubo’s intention was to create a sculptural installation divorced from chronology and fashion — “a thing made new again.”

Every look at Independent was made in an edition of three or fewer, but only one of each will be for sale on-site. Prices will be about $9,000 to $30,000. Comme des Garçons will retain 100 percent of the sales.

Asked why she was interested in exhibiting at Independent, the famously elusive Kawakubo said via email, “The body of work has never been shown together, and this is the first presentation in New York in almost 10 years.” Joffe added a broader philosophical motivation. “We’ve never done it before; it was new,” he said. Also essential was the fair’s willingness to embrace Kawakubo’s vision for the installation rather than a standard fair booth.

Kawakubo began consistently engaging with fine art decades before such crossovers became commonplace. Since 1989, she has invited a steady stream of contemporary artists to create installations in Comme des Garçons’s Tokyo flagship store. The ’90s brought collaborations with the artist Cindy Sherman and performance pioneer Merce Cunningham, among others.

More cross-disciplinary projects followed, including limited-release direct mailers for Comme des Garçons. Kawakubo designs each from documentation of works provided by an artist or art collective.

The display at Independent reopens the debate about Kawakubo’s proper place on the continuum between artist and designer. But the issue is already settled for celebrated artists who have collaborated with her.

“I totally think of Rei as an artist in the truest sense,” Sherman said by email. “Her work questions what everyone else takes for granted as being flattering to a body, questions what female bodies are expected to look like and who they’re catering to.”

Ai Weiwei, the subject of a 2010 Comme des Garçons direct mailer, agreed that Kawakubo “is, in essence, an artist.” Unlike designers who “pursue a sense of form,” he added, “her design and creation are oriented toward attitude” — specifically, an attitude of “rebellion.”

Also taking this position is “Costume Art,” the spring exhibition at the Costume Institute. Opening May 10, the show pairs individual works from multiple designers — including Comme des Garçons — with artworks from the Met’s holdings to advance the argument made by the dress code for this year’s Met gala: “Fashion is art.”

True to form, Kawakubo sometimes opts for a third way.

“Rei has often said she’s not a designer, she’s not an artist,” Joffe said. “She is a storyteller.”

Now to find out whether an art fair sparks the drama, dialogue and attention its authors want.

Lifestyle

They set out to elevate karaoke in L.A. — and opened a glamorous lounge that pulls out all the stops

Published

13 hours ago

April 23, 2026

Press Room

They set out to elevate karaoke in L.A. — and opened a glamorous lounge that pulls out all the stops

Brothers Leo and Oliver Kremer visited karaoke spots around the globe and almost always had the same impression.

“The drinks weren’t always great, the aesthetics weren’t always so glamorous, the sound wasn’t always awesome and the lights were often generic,” says Leo, a former bassist of the band Third Eye Blind.

As devout karaoke fans, they wanted to level up the experience. So they dreamed up Mic Drop, an upscale karaoke lounge in West Hollywood that opens Thursday. It’s located inside the original Larrabee Studios, a historic 1920s building formerly owned by Carole King and her ex-husband, Gerry Goffin — and the spot where King recorded some of her biggest hits. Third Eye Blind band members Stephan Jenkins and Brad Hargreaves are investors of the new venue.

Inside the two-story, 6,300-square-foot venue with 13 private karaoke rooms and an electrifying main stage, you can feel like a rock star in front of a cheering audience. Want to check it out? Here are six things to know.

The Kremer brothers hired sculptor Shawn HibmaCronan to create an 8-foot-tall disco-themed microphone for their karaoke lounge.

1. Take your pick between a private karaoke experience or the main stage

A unique element of Mic Drop is that it offers both private karaoke rooms and a main stage experience for those who wish to sing in front of a crowd. The 13 private rooms range from six- to 45-person capacity. Each of the karaoke rooms are named after a famous recording studio such as Electric Lady, Abbey Road, Shangri La and of course, Larrabee Studios. There is a two-hour minimum on all rentals and hourly rates depend on the room size and day of the week.

But if you’re ready to take the center stage, it’s free to sing — at least technically. All you have to do is pay a $10 fee at the door, which is essentially a token that goes toward your first drink. Then you can put your name on the list with the KJ (karaoke jockey) who keeps the crowd energized throughout the night and even hits the stage at times.

Harrison Baum, left, of Santa Monica, and Amanda Stagner, 27, of Los Angeles, sing in one of the 13 private karaoke rooms.

2. Thumping, high sound quality was a top priority

As someone who toured the world playing bass for Third Eye Blind, top-tier sound was a nonnegotiable for Leo. “Typically with karaoke, the sound is kind of teeny, there’s not a lot of bass and the vocal is super hot and sitting on top too much,” he says. To combat this, he and his brother teamed up with Pineapple Audio, an audio visual company based in Chicago, to design their crisp sound system. They also installed concert-grade speakers and custom subwoofers from a European audio equipment manufacturer called Celto, and bought gold-plated Sennheiser wireless microphones, which they loved so much that they had an 8-foot-tall replica made for their main room. Designed by artist Shawn HibmaCronan, the “macrophone,” as they call it, has roughly 30,000 mirror tiles. “It spins and throws incredible disco light everywhere,” says Leo.

3. A concert-level performance isn’t complete without good stage lighting and a haze machine

Each karaoke room features a disco ball and dynamic lighting that syncs up with whatever song you’re singing, which makes you feel like you are a professional performer. There’s also a haze machine hidden under the leather seats. Meanwhile, the main stage is concert-ready with additional dancing lasers and spotlights.

Brett Adams, left, of Sherman Oaks, and Patrick Riley of Studio City sing together in one of the private rooms at Mic Drop.

4. The song selection is vast, offering classics and new hits

One of the worst things that can happen when you go to karaoke is not being able to find the song you want to sing. At Mic Drop, the odds of this happening are slim to none. The venue uses a popular karaoke service called KaraFun, which has a catalog of more than 600,000 songs (and adds 400 new tracks every month), according to its website. Take your pick from country, R&B, jazz, rap, pop, love duets and more. (Two newish selections I spotted were Raye’s “Where Is my Husband” and Olivia Dean’s “Man I Need,” which both released late last year.) In the private karaoke rooms, there’s also a fun feature on Karafun called “battle mode,” which allows you and your crew of up to 20 people to compete in real time. KaraFun also has an entertaining music trivia game, which I tested out with the founders and came in second place.

The design inspiration for Mic Drop was 1920s music lounges and 1970s disco culture, says designer Amy Morris.

5. The interiors are inspired by 1920s music lounges mixed with ‘70s disco vibes

If you took the sophisticated aesthetic of 1920s music lounges and mixed it with the vibrant and playful era of 1970s disco culture, you’d find Mic Drop.

When you walk into the lounge, the first thing you’ll see is a bright red check-in desk that resembles a performer’s dressing room with vanity lights, several mirrors and a range of wigs. “So much of karaoke is about getting into character and letting go of the day, so we had the idea to sell the wigs,” says Oliver. As you continue into the lounge, the focal point is the stage, which is adorned with zebra-printed carpet and dramatic, red velvet curtains. For seating, slide into the red velvet banquettes or plop onto a gold tiger velvet stool. Upstairs, you’ll find the intimate karaoke studios, which are decorated with red velvet walls and brass, curved doorways that echo the building’s deco arches, says Mic Drop’s interior designer, Amy Morris of the Morris Project.

Sarah Rothman, center, of Oakland, and friend Rachel Bernstein, left, of Los Angeles, wait at the bar.

6. You can order nontraditional karaoke bites as you wait for your turn to sing

While Mic Drop offers some of the food you’d typically find at a karaoke lounge such as tater tots, truffle popcorn and pizza, the venue has some surprising options as well. For example, a 57 gram caviar service (served with chips, crème fraîche and chives) and shrimp cocktail from Santa Monica Seafood. For their pizza program, the Kremer brothers teamed up with Avalou’s Italian Pizza Company, which is run by Louis Lombardi who starred in “The Sopranos.” He’s the brainchild behind my favorite dish, the Fuhgeddaboudit pizza, which is made with pastrami, pickles and mustard. It might sound repulsive, but trust me.

As for the cheeky cocktails, they are all named after famous musicians and songs such as the Pink Pony Club (a tart cherry pomegranate drink with vodka named after Chappell Roan), Green Eyes (a sake sour with kiwi and melon named after Green Day) and Megroni Thee Stallion (an elevated negroni named after Megan Thee Stallion).