Lifestyle
Inside the daring L.A. party that's like Studio 54 for 'the dreamers and the outcasts'
On the tip of Cahuenga Boulevard in Hollywood, beyond the vape-scented sidewalks and partygoers waiting for their ride-shares, there’s a velvet-roped portal to another dimension. Every first Saturday of the month, those in the know gather at the historic Spotlight nightclub for Simon Says, the city’s most daring, avant-garde LGBTQ+ party.
It’s a scene that defies easy description: Nipple tassels twirl beside kabuki-painted faces; “My Fair Lady” hats tilt above bodices constructed from yellow caution tape; liberty spike hairstyles collide with exposed flesh; and professional dommes in fishnet bodysuits playfully flog (with permission) their friends while goddesses with antlers sip drinks on velvet couches wedged between potted palms.
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1. Daffne E. Cruz, left, and Daniella “Ellez” Herrera at Simon Says. 2. D’Mahdnes LaVaughn and Nathan Sierra. (Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
This isn’t Studio 54, though it shares the same spirit. It’s Hollywood reimagined. And if Simon Says, you’d better bring it.
Seductively clad dancers, including longtime host Love Bailey, flank the stage where DJs spin a fusion of New Wave, late-stage disco and early bloghouse that attracts L.A.’s queer creative underground. It’s not uncommon for celebrities like singer-songwriter Adam Lambert, electronic-pop star Slayyyter, queer streaming network co-founder Damian Pelliccione, contestants from “RuPaul’s Drag Race” and film director John Waters to pop by for a visit.
The vast majority of attendees identify as LGBTQ+, and while the door is technically open to all, it’s the ones who show up transformed — glistening, feathered, glammed out — who are whisked in the quickest. Founder and executive producer Andrés Rigal, part master of ceremonies and part fairy godmother, prowls the line, handpicking the most striking attendees and sending them past the bouncer with a nod and a smile.
Reese Rush and Andrés Rigal.
(Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
“We do run an old-school nightlife door, rewarding those who show up in stunning looks,” Rigal says. “If they’re wearing an elaborate costume they’ve been gluing together all week just to be at Simon or are a trans person all the way in the back by themselves in heels — ouch — I will give them that special moment and make them feel seen.”
Rigal is one of Los Angeles’ most prolific nightlife producers, with a reputation that precedes him. Numerous Simon Says attendees told The Times that they initially came to the party simply because they saw Rigal’s name on the flier.
Cassie Carpenter, an entertainment reporter who identifies as asexual, makes it a point to attend every event Rigal puts on. Dressed in a revealing keyhole dress and towering beehive wig, Carpenter comes to Simon Says for the ambience and the chance to dress in drag.
Cassie Carpenter.
(Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
“I hate to get in full glam for a subpar party; it’s a waste of lip gloss,” she says. “Simon Says is always worth it. I’ve met amazing people and ran into surprising old friends. Friendship is everything when you’re asexual.”
Mostly known for large-scale fêtes that attract the likes of Katy Perry, Kesha and Paris Hilton, Rigal has been a feature in the city’s queer party scene since the mid-2000s when he revamped Avalon’s former Spider Club into the boho-chic nightclub Bardot and unveiled one of the city’s longest-running and most popular Pride events, SummerTramp.
If Simon Says sounds familiar, it’s because it had a short-lived moment in 2012 when Rigal’s company, Andrés Rigal Presents, introduced it at the now-closed A-lister club Smoke & Mirrors.
Grasping onto the coattails of the waning mid-aughts, Simon Says failed to conjure much interest at the time. Rigal thinks it might have been too early to cash in on the hipster-indie-sleaze era, as “everyone was still coming out of their American Apparel hangover.” Simultaneously juggling a number of other events such as Evita, Rasputin and Mr. Black, Rigal decided to shelve Simon Says for the time being.
Toward the end of 2023, pining for a more intimate party that wouldn’t draw crowds in the thousands, Rigal discussed reviving Simon Says with his partners Daisy O’Dell, Sean Patrick and Mark Hunter. An opportunity to host it at the Spotlight, a new Hollywood club housed in the bones of one of L.A.’s oldest gay bars, presented itself, and the party kicked off at the beginning of last year.
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1. A masked partygoer, left, with Drake James. 2. Wang Newton. (Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
On Saturday, Simon Says will celebrate its one-year anniversary, with music by Felix Da Housecat and house DJs Patrick and O’Dell.
The small-capacity venue sees around 700 partygoers through each night, each of whom pays $10 to dance from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m.
Motivation for guests to arrive early comes in the form of a limited-edition zine that may contain a photo of people from the previous month’s event.
Co-founder Hunter, better known as the photographer Cobrasnake, has compiled these tactile time capsules printed in black-and-white since Simon Says’ first iteration in 2012. The goal is to highlight the party’s best-dressed guests. As the back of the zines say: “Turn a look, get in the book.” Although the zine is free, only a handful are printed, scattered around the venue at the start of each night, and you won’t know if you’re in the zine until you look through it.
Queer fashion designer Drew Arvizu, 25, has attended all but two of Simon Says’ events in the last year. He’s become a party fixture not just due to his regular attendance but because of the over-the-top bespoke outfits he dons.
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1. Drew Arvizu. 2. Colin Campbell, left, Drew Arvizu and Pat Posey holding a Simon Says zine. (Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
For the inaugural Simon Says, he wore a horned luchador mask and polka dot clown suit; in November 2024, he balanced a four-foot, 20- to 30-pound vintage Las Vegas showgirl headdress atop his head; and in March 2025, he flaunted one of his own creations: a floor-length yellow taxicab-checked tube dress with intentional cutouts across the breasts and groin area.
“Simon Says reminds me of why I love nightlife, and it’s definitely an incentive to pull out my sewing machine,” Arvizu says. “These zines are keepsakes from a moment in my life, and I hope I keep them forever.”
Christian Morris, a pansexual, nonbinary artist from Inglewood, attended his first Simon Says in March dressed in a tiger stripe suit, blond mullet wig and Aladdin Sane-inspired lightning bolt face makeup. Describing the event as “feeling plugged into a queer power source,” Morris noticed the partygoers didn’t just want to go to the event; they wanted to be the event.
Christian Morris.
(Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
“From the leather and chain looks to the queens in long black and yellow spiral dresses to the woman dancing on a speaker in a gold sequin romper outfit, everywhere I looked people felt hot and haute and danced with abandon,” he says.
And apparently, miracles can happen at Simon Says. Despite hardly ever meeting romantic partners on nights out, Morris left with the phone number of a “funny, super smart, sexy” crush he met on the dance floor, and the two scheduled a picnic date for the following week.
An element of romance permeates the Spotlight’s interior, with an intimate dance space and a sumptuous lounge area outfitted with Persian rugs, Victorian-style furniture and steam trunks that double as coffee tables. Also, there’s no need to leave your drink behind or grab your coat if you want a quick nicotine pick-me-up when you’re at Simon Says. Thanks to a grandfathered-in back patio, which includes the venue’s second bar, one can smoke indoors because the area doesn’t have a roof.
“Being in the space just makes me feel at home with the couches, the rugs on the dance floor and the fact that you can often find a place to sit even if you’re not paying for bottles,” says pop musician Morganne Yambrovich, 27, who came to Simon Says in March to celebrate her first night out after ending an eight-year relationship.
To mark this transformation and get back in touch with a creative side she’d kept dormant during her relationship, Yambrovich spent six hours wrapping craft wire around hair extensions to create her look for Simon Says. The resulting piece was a pair of butterfly wings braided into her hair intended to symbolize her recent metamorphosis.
“If you go out in certain neighborhoods, everyone’s going to look the same. But there’s no such uniform at Simon Says,” she says. “Most people show up in the most creative expressions of themselves. For instance, I would not wear a giant hair sculpture and butterfly makeup to Tenants of the Trees [a bar in Silver Lake].”
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1. Carter Daniel. 2. Phoenix Lee. 3. A partygoer with Ian Lomas, center, and Francisco Alcazar. (Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
As the adage goes, those who turn a look probably will get into Simon Says’ book, but those who don’t quite turn a look will still get into the party. That’s because the event is about inspiring others as much as it is creating a safe space for self-expression. On any given night, you’re likely to find three generations of partygoers at the club — Gen Z, millennials and Gen X — and yes, straight people are welcomed with open arms.
“Once we gather under the disco ball, identities blur,” Rigal says. “On the dance floor, we become something shared, something bigger.”
Rigal and his team make a point of meeting with security and staff before every event to ensure that the ethos of welcoming all is maintained throughout the night. Although the bathrooms are divided by gender — and marked with Basquiat-style dinosaur imagery — on the nights when Simon Says takes over the Spotlight, those designations are ignored, and the toilets become unisex. There are no VIP sections either, and while it can get chaotic, everyone is allowed on the stage. When this reporter descended the stage stairs to the dance floor, a security guard offered their hand for support.
“It’s kind of like making a salad,” Rigal says. “The more ingredients touching one another, the better. I want all of my spaces, especially Simon, to be melting pots of interaction. When you allow the space to be free, you are more likely to have these really incredible moments, and I don’t want to rob anyone of that.”
In recent months, some Simon Says attendees have funneled political statements into their fashions. Longtime friends Colin Campbell, 63, and Pat Posey, 46, coordinated red and black looks for a recent party. Posey wore a mini dress featuring the colorway, while Campbell dyed his beard red and black and donned a red and black pigtail wig and shirt with the slogan “Resist Fascism.”
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1. Colin Campbell’s colorful beard. 2. Pat Posey. (Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
After the November presidential election, the friends experienced their first hate crime in Hollywood when a car passing by shot them with airsoft pellets and yelled a gay slur. Now more than ever, Campbell and Posey stress the importance of being visible and fighting back, and fashion is their chosen vehicle for doing so.
“We dance to celebrate ourselves, to recharge our batteries, to have the energy to put up with the ignorance and hate that is spewed at us every day,” says Posey, who started cross-dressing after moving to L.A. six years ago. “At Simon Says, everyone is welcome. Bring your true freak, and let it fly.”
Inspired by Campbell and Posey, to whom he has grown close through Simon Says, Arvizu has started imbuing political messages into his clothing as well. For a recent red-carpet event, he wore a shirt with the message “Protect trans youth,” and at the December Simon Says party, he dressed in rainbow from head to toe.
As the 2001 Basement Jaxx tune “Where’s Your Head at” thumped through the speakers at the March event, one partygoer dressed as a cowboy initiated a spontaneous dance-off with another partygoer dressed in a vintage Vietnam War vet uniform.
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1. Cocoa Rigal. 2. Omarr Herrera. (Chiara Alexa / For The Times)
“Work it out, work it out!” cheered the cowboy, Ricardo Logan, 36, who included light blue in his outfit for trans solidarity.
His dance partner, tax and accounting professional Omarr Herrera, 44, a stranger until this moment, gurgled back, “Ahhhh, I love you!”
It’s moments like these that remind Rigal why he created this party.
“Queer nightlife is a sanctuary,” he says. “For the kid arriving in L.A. from a conservative hometown, for someone pushed out of their family, for the dreamers and the outcasts — this is where they find kinship, voice and vision. That metamorphosis is the heartbeat of everything I do.”
When John Lantigua, a retired journalist in Miami Beach, checked his email one recent morning, he was glad to see an invitation.
“It was like, ‘Come and share an evening with me. Click here for details,’” Mr. Lantigua said.
It appeared to be a Paperless Post invitation from someone he once worked with at The Palm Beach Post, a man who had left Florida for Mississippi and liked to arrange dinners when he was back in town.
Mr. Lantigua, 78, clicked the link. It didn’t open.
He clicked a second time. Still nothing.
He didn’t realize what was going on until a mutual friend who had received the same email told him it wasn’t an invitation at all. It was a scam.
Phishing scams have long tried to frighten people into clicking on links with emails claiming that their bank accounts have been hacked, or that they owe thousands of dollars in fines, or that their pornography viewing habits have been tracked.
The invitation scam is a little more subtle: It preys on the all-too-human desire to be included in social gatherings.
The phishy invitations mimic emails from Paperless Post, Evite and Punchbowl. What appears to be a friendly overture from someone you know is really a digital Trojan horse that gives scammers access to your personal information.
“I thought it was diabolical that they would choose somebody who has sent me a legitimate invitation before,” Mr. Lantigua said. “He’s a friend of mine. If he’s coming to town, I want to see him.”
Rachel Tobac, the chief executive of SocialProof Security, a cybersecurity firm, said she noticed the scam last holiday season.
“Phishing emails are not a new thing,” Ms. Tobac said, “but every six months, we get a new lure that hijacks our amygdala in new ways. There’s such a desire for folks to get together that this lure is interesting to people. They want to go to a party.”
Phishing scams involve “two distinct paths,” Ms. Tobac added. In one, the recipient is served a link that turns out to be dead, or so it seems. A click activates malware that runs silently as it gleans passwords and other bits of personal information. In all likelihood, this is what happened when Mr. Lantigua clicked on the ersatz invitation link.
Another scam offers a working link. Potential victims who click on it are asked to provide a password. Those who take that next step are a boon to hackers.
“They have complete control of your email and, in turn, your entire digital life,” Ms. Tobac said. “They can reset your password for your dog’s Instagram account. They can take over your bank account. Change your health insurance.”
Digital invitation platforms are trying to combat the scam by publishing guides on how to spot fake invitations. Paperless Post has also set up an email account — phishing@paperlesspost.com — for users to submit messages for verification. The company sends suspicious links to the Anti-Phishing Working Group, a nonprofit that maintains a database monitored by cybersecurity firms. Flagged links are rendered ineffective.
The scammers’ new strategy of exploiting the desire for connection is infuriating, said Alexa Hirschfeld, a founder of Paperless Post. “Life can be isolating,” Ms. Hirschfeld said. “When it looks like you’re getting an invitation from someone you know, your first instinct is excitement, not skepticism.”
Olivia Pollock, the vice president of brand for Evite, said that fake invitations tended to be generic, promising a birthday party or a celebration of life. Most invitations these days tend to have a specific focus — mahjong gatherings or book club talks, for instance. “The devil is in the details,” Ms. Pollock said.
Because scammers don’t know how close you are with the people in your contact list, fake invitations may also seem random. “They could be from your business school roommate you haven’t spoken to in 10 years,” Ms. Hirschfeld said.
Alyssa Williamson, who works in public relations in New York, was leaving a yoga class recently when she checked her phone and saw an invitation from a college classmate.
“I assumed it was an alumni event,” Ms. Williamson, 30, said. “I clicked on it, and it was like, ‘Enter your email.’ I didn’t even think about it.”
Later that day, she received texts from friends asking her about the party invitation she had just sent out. Her response: What party?
“The thing is, I host a lot of events,” she said. “Some knew it was fake. Others were like, ‘What’s this? I can’t open it.’”
Andrew Smith, a graduate student in finance who lives in Manhattan, received what looked like a Punchbowl invitation to “a memory making celebration.” It appeared to have come from a woman he had dated in college. He received it when he was having drinks at a bar on a Friday night — “a pretty insidious piece of timing,” he said.
“The choice of sender was super clever,” Mr. Smith, 29, noted. “This was somebody that would probably get a reaction from me.”
Mr. Smith seized on the phrase “memory making celebration” and filled in the blanks. He imagined that someone in his ex-girlfriend’s immediate family had died. Perhaps she wanted to restart contact at this difficult moment.
Something saved him when he clicked a link and tried to tap out his personal information — his inability to remember the password to his email account. The next day, he reached out to his ex, who confirmed that the invitation was fake.
“It didn’t trigger any alarm bells,” Mr. Smith said. “I went right for the click. I went completely animal brain.”
The new scam comes with an unfortunate side effect, a suspicion of invitations altogether. It’s enough to make a person antisocial.
“Don’t invite me to anything,” Mr. Lantigua, the retired journalist, said, only half-joking. “I’m not coming.”
You want to know where men’s fashion is heading? Follow the geeks.
These are the obsessives, fixated, with a NASA technician’s precision, on how their pants fit or on which pair of Paraboot shoes is the correct pair. These are the obsessives who in the aughts were early to selvage denim (now available at a Uniqlo near you!) and soft-shouldered Italian tailoring in the mode that, eventually, trickled down to your local J. Crew.
And where has the attention of this cohort landed now? On a vanguard of newish-to-the-West labels from Japan, like A.Presse, Comoli, Auralee and T.T.
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A.Presse is probably the most hyped of this cohort. What other label is worn by the French soccer player Pierre Kalulu and the actor Cooper Hoffman and has men paying a premium for a hoodie on the resale market? Kazuma Shigematsu, the founder, is not into attention. When we spoke, he wouldn’t allow me to record the conversation. Notes only.
“You mean a better-fitting denim jacket that’s based on an old Levi’s thing? Yeah, OK, sold,” said Jeremy Kirkland, host of the “Blamo!” podcast and the textbook definition of a latter-day Japanese men’s wear guy. Mr. Kirkland, once someone who would allocate his budget to Italian suits, admitted that, recently, over the course of two weeks, he bought four (yes, four) jackets from A.Presse1.
“I’m not really experimenting with my style anymore,” Mr. Kirkland said. “I’m just wanting really good, basic stuff.”
Basic though these clothes appear, their hook is that they’re opulent to the touch, elevated in their fabrication.
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Over the years, the designer Ryota Iwai has told me repeatedly that he is inspired by nothing more than the people he sees on his commute to the Auralee offices in Tokyo. When asked recently if he collected anything, he said nothing — just his bicycle.
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The true somber tale of this wave. The brand’s founder, Taiga Takahashi, died of an arrhythmia in 2022 at 27. The label has continued to plumb history for inspiration. The latest collection had pieces that drew on bygone American postal-worker uniforms.
An Auralee2 bomber looks pedestrian until you touch it and realize its silk. Labels like T.T3 make clothes that echo the specs of a vintage relic yet come factory fresh, notched up, made … well, better. They bestow upon the wearer a certain in-the-know authority.
And so there is a hobbyist giddiness present on Discord channels where 30- and 40-something men trade tips on how to size moleskin trousers by the Japanese label Comoli; at boutiques like Neighbour in Vancouver, British Columbia, where items like a $628 dusty pink trucker jacket from Yoko Sakamoto and an $820 T.T sweater sell out soon after hitting the sales floor.
What’s notable is how swiftly these geeky preferences have wiggled into the broader fashion community. While I was in Paris for the men’s fashion shows a year ago January, all anyone wanted to talk about were things with a “Made in Japan” tag. I would speak with editors who were carving out room in their suitcases for Auralee’s $3,000 leather jackets.
But these were clothes being shown away from the fashion week hordes. The A.Presse showroom was on a Marais side street in a space about as long as a bowling lane and scarcely wider that was crammed with racks of canvas, silk and denim jackets with Pollock-like paint splatters. There were leather jackets as plush as Roche Bobois sofas and hoodies based on sweatshirts made in America a half-century ago.
I got the hype. After 10 days of puzzling over newfangled stuff on the runways, the display of simple, understandable shapes we’ve known our whole lives, but redone with extra care, couldn’t have felt more welcome.
Kazuma Shigematsu, the A.Presse designer, said he had collected a trove of vintage pieces that he housed in a separate space to plumb for inspiration. He made new clothes based on old clothes that benefited from a century of small design tweaks.
By this January, A.Presse had upgraded to a regal maison facing the Place des Vosges, with giant windows and even more reverent hoodies, even more tender leathers. Back in America, I asked an online department store executive what his favorite thing from Paris was. He took out his phone to show me photos of himself trying on a zip-up leather jacket in A.Presse’s high-ceilinged showroom.
On Their Own Terms
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“We never think about trendiness or popular design details,” Ms. Sakamoto said through a translator. “It’s more like functionality, everyday use.” The label has a thing for natural dyes: pants stained with persimmon tannin, yellow ochre and sumi ink, shirts colored with mugwort and adzuki beans.
The sudden popularity of these labels outside Japan can make it feel as if they are new. Yet each label has built a respectable business within Japan, some for more than a decade. Auralee was founded in 2015. A year later, Yoko Sakamoto4 started its line. A.Presse is the relative baby of this cohort at five years old.
“A couple years ago, we would have to buy off the line sheet or go to Japan and see everything,” said Saager Dilawri, the owner of Neighbour, who has an instinct for what spendy, creative types lust after. “Now I think everyone from Japan is trying to go to Paris to get into the international market.”
This movement’s “Beatles on Ed Sullivan” moment occurred in 2018, when Auralee won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo, granting the designer, Ryota Iwai, financial support. Soon after, Auralee was given a slot on the Paris Fashion Week calendar.
“I had never seen a show before, never thought to do it,” Mr. Iwai said through a translator in February, days after his latest runway show. He has now done five.
As we talked, buyers speaking different languages entered his storefront showroom and ventured upstairs to scrutinize items like a trench coat that looked as if it was made of corduroy but was actually made from cashmere and wool and an MA-1 bomber jacket with a feathery merino wool lining peeking out along the placket.
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The Cale designer Yuki Sato travels throughout Japan to find textiles. Unusually, the company manufactures everything, including leather and denim, in one factory.
At Cale’s5 display off Place Vendôme, the designer Yuki Sato described denim trousers and pocketed work jackets as “modest, but perfectionist.” On the other side of the city, at Soshi Otsuki, whose 11-year-old label Soshiotsuki has gained attention for its warped vision of salary-man suits, I encountered buyers from Kith, a New York streetwear emporium better known for selling logoed hoodies and sell-out sneakers than for tailoring.
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Nearly a decade into its existence, Soshiotsuki has hit a hot streak. Soshi Otsuki won the LVMH Prize in 2025, and he already has a Zara collaboration under his belt. An Asics collaboration is set to arrive in stores soon.
Talking through translators with these designers, I began to worry that it might be unfair to group them together simply because they were all from Japan. Auralee simmers with colors as lush as a Matisse canvas, while Comoli’s brightest shade is brown. Soshiotsuki6 has mastered tailoring, while Orslow is known for its faded-at-the-knee jeans channeling decades-old Levi’s.
Rather, as with the Antwerp Six design clique that sprung out of Belgium in the early 1980s, it is these labels’ origin stories that thread them together.
“They’re being encountered on their own terms and respected on their own account, and they happen to be Japanese,” said W. David Marx, the author of “Ametora: How Japan Saved American Style” and a cultural critic who has lived in Tokyo for more than two decades.
“It is a new era of Japanese fashion on the global stage,” Mr. Marx said.
A Love Affair With Japan
Western shoppers have a history of falling hard for clothes from Japan. In 1981, when Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons and Yohji Yamamoto crashed onto the Paris fashion scene, buyers swooned for their brainy, body-shrouding creations.
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Recently reintroduced as Number(N)ine by Takahiro Miyashita.
Years later, Number(N)ine7 and A Bathing Ape synthesized trends we would call American — grunge, streetwear and hip-hop — polished them up and sold them back to the West.
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Years before American men were trawling the internet for A.Presse, they would scour forums for deals on Visvim’s jeans and sneakers. Today, Visvim has stores in Santa Fe, N.M.; Carmel, Calif.; and Los Angeles.
Into the 2000s, clothing geeks were swapping tips on forums like Superfuture and Hypebeast about how to use a Japanese proxy service to buy Visvim’s8 seven-eyelet leather work boots or SugarCane’s brick-thick jeans.
Along the way, “Made in Japan” became a shorthand for “made well.” This was more than fetishization. As America’s clothing factories became empty carcasses pockmarking the heartland, Japan’s apparel industry grew steroidal.
“Japan still has an incredible manufacturing base for apparel that goes all the way from the textiles to the sewing to the postproduction,” Mr. Marx said.
Today, many Japanese labels produce most of their garments and, crucially, their textiles in Japan. When I first met Mr. Iwai years ago, I asked how he managed to create such lush colors. He answered, as if noting that the sky was blue, that he worked with the factories that developed his fabrics. As I spoke with Mr. Sato in January, he shared that Cale’s factory had been in his family for generations and also produced for other Japanese brands that I would know.
Chris Green, the owner of Ven. Space, a boutique in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn that has helped to introduce a number of these labels to an American market, suggested that because Japan is a small country with a fervent fashion culture, a competitive spirit has been stoked.
“They have to be able to cut through the noise,” Mr. Green said, with brands trying to prove that their cashmere sweater can outclass their peers’, that their silks are sourced from finer factories. What’s more, he said, once these brands have nailed a design, they stick with it. That is something that is important to men, in particular, who hate when a brand abandons its favored pants after a season.
Before he opened Ven. Space in 2024, Mr. Green was an admirer of many of these labels, purchasing them during trips to Japan. As we spoke, he was wearing a pair of Comoli belted jeans that he bought five or so years ago. A similar style is still available.
Primed for What They Were Pitching
At the close of the 2010s, streetwear was running on fumes. Quiet luxury was entering at stage left. If the Row and Loro Piana were expert at subtle, fine-to-the-touch clothes, so, too, were the likes of T.T, Graphpaper and Yoko Sakamoto.
“I went from this guy that wears pear-shaped pants to just wearing, like, a denim jacket,” said Chris Maradiaga, a tech worker and freelance writer in Vancouver. His wardrobe today consists of Comoli’s black-as-night trousers and a purple-tinged coat by Ssstein. His kaleidoscopic Bode jackets gather dust.
That Ssstein clothes have landed in the closets of men on the other side of the world defies the early guidance relayed to Kiichiro Asakawa, the label’s bushy-haired designer. His “senpais,” or mentors, warned him that his reduced designs might leave Western audiences cold. “You need something powerful,” they told him.
He tried, but it wasn’t necessary. It’s the most minimal designs — his cotton gabardine zip-ups, his “easy” pleated trousers — that people are most interested in now. “It actually makes me very happy,” he said through a translator. “My instincts were right.” Mr. Asakawa won the Fashion Prize of Tokyo in 2024.
Adapting to North American Markets (and Men)
Several Japanese designers noted that they had modified their sizing to accommodate larger, American bodies.
“I’ll ask them, Can you lengthen the pants by three centimeters? Because you need that for the Western market,” Mr. Dilawri of Neighbour said, noting that the designers were receptive to those requests.
A number of labels, like Comoli and Soshiotsuki, are already oversize. That’s the look.
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Kiichiro Asakawa ran a Tokyo boutique, Carol, before starting Ssstein in 2016. It’s still there. He, too, said he found inspiration in the everyday, for example when watching an elderly couple have dinner across a restaurant.
There is also the matter of price. On the whole, these clothes are not cheap. See Auralee’s silk bomber jacket, which could be military surplus but feels stolen from a sultan’s palace. It’s roughly $1,700. Ssstein’s9 Carhartt cousin chore jacket with a cowhide collar and a factory-massaged fade? About $1,000. Anyone who has traveled recently in Japan, where the yen is tantalizingly weak, will tell you that these Japanese-made clothes, after being imported, are far pricier in North America.
Yet, as luxury fashion labels continue to price out the aspirational middle-class shopper, many of those same shoppers have convinced themselves that the Japanese labels are a better value. A cashmere coat at Prada is $10,000, and you’ll need $1,690 to own a cotton-blend cardigan from Margiela. Similar pieces from Japanese labels can be half that price, or less.
“Brands like Bottega, Balenciaga, the Row — all that stuff — are so unobtainable,” said Mr. Kirkland, whose clothing budget has shifted to A.Presse. “I will never be in that price bracket,” he added, “but I’m wealthy enough to buy a chore coat for $800.”
Of course, Mr. Kirkland and all of the fans of these labels could own a chore coat for far less — but then it wouldn’t be “Made in Japan.”
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