Lifestyle
L.A. brand 424 understands quality clothes, and they've never been at this level before
It’s now been a year since the luxury streetwear brand 424 opened its cave-like home and store on Melrose Place, and what the store offers on the block is decidedly different. In the words of founder Guillermo Andrade, “There’s a place for you here.” Andrade, who previously ran his store on Fairfax, offers that rare combination of accessible clothes — hoodies, jackets, jeans, tees — of the highest quality. “I’m giving you something so familiar, yet so new, so fresh, so unexpected, but obvious at the same time,” he tells Keyla Marquez, Image’s fashion director at large.
This week marked 424’s first runway show at Paris Fashion Week, which for Andrade felt like the natural culmination after seven years of making and selling clothes in Paris and Milan. To celebrate this accomplishment, Marquez sat with Andrade at his store ahead of the show to reflect on the effort and vision that brought him here. “It’s never been at this level before,” he says of the 33 looks he put together. Photographer Carlos Jaramillo was at the Paris show on Tuesday to capture some special backstage moments.
Guillermo Andrade, founder of 424, at Paris Fashion Week.
Keyla Marquez: We are here on Melrose Place. What’s good, G?!
Guillermo Andrade: It’s like the Wild West. Musicians are inclined to copy the hot song instead of sticking to the spirit in their soul. Because the label is like, “Bro, that song is a hit — if you did a version of this, it would hit.” And it’s this vicious cycle. It’s fully incestualized. It’s so far away from the original that it’s just kind of a chicken with its head cut off. It’s essentially just the blind leading the blind. Then someone stands out because they’re quirky, and then the big machine is like, “Oh my God, this has wheels, it popped off on TikTok!” And then all the main players now suck the soul of this one thing. That’s fashion.
KM: But it doesn’t have to be that way. I feel like with us, it’s really important to be intentional with the stories that we’re telling.
GA: It’s skin color, our family history, our position in this society, the community, you know? Not just L.A., not just the fashion community, but at large, the American community. Our representation is still not defined. How is it possible? We’re like f–ing half of the country. Physically.
KM: What do you think is the American Dream now?
GA: The American Dream shifted so far from that original pitch that was given to everybody. It looks like us now. We are more representative of what chasing that dream actually looks like, because we’re laboriously doing it. Like we are those animals [burrowing] through the dirt — they get to the gold. We’re in that process. I’m even owning this, like I’m patriotic now. I’m American now. Because I think we have to send a positive reflection.
When I did my first presentation in Milan, it was still kind of COVID, and I did a video contribution, and it was in the calendar and the tagline that WWD wrote was “an American in Milan.”
KM: What do you think about that?
GA: I felt some type of survivor’s guilt. But at the same time, you’re able to look at that and say, you know what? That’s my face there. And it says American on the world stage. It’s also important, so that my brothers [see] a face that looks like them attached to it. I didn’t realize that in Europe they call us Americans. I was just another immigrant, another wetback. The thing is, the second you speak English, they know you’re from California. Because especially in Italy, they love California. Specifically, L.A. — they love Los Angeles.
“The show is really a response to the state of all the work that I’ve been putting in, so now it’s time to really send that communication out to the world,” says Andrade.
KM: How was getting into Paris Fashion Week for you? Was it hard getting in?
GA: The calendar is all politics. You have to engage to a certain degree. And they play hot and cold. No matter what happens, you continue to push forward. For example, I’m not doing the show because the calendar says it’s time to do the show. I’m doing the show because I’ve been in Paris now seven years, two times a year. That’s where I do my market, that’s where I do the sales to all my stores. The brand is at a point now where I can’t walk every buyer through the collection every single time during the week that we have to do our sales. Because you lose steam after the 40th, 50th appointment of walking a buyer and telling them the story, showing them the techniques, showing them the product — you start to sound like a broken record. The buyer can really feel it when you deliver a singular message that they can see, that they can feel.
KM: Your appointments are more intentional.
GA: The show is really a response to the state of all the work that I’ve been putting in, so now it’s time to really send that communication out to the world. I’m at the moment now where every single piece in that rack, even though there’s a lot of pieces, they all connect to each other. Nothing in the collection is there by accident. You can wear the whole collection together.
KM: It’s literally like one person’s closet. I’m like, “G just makes clothes for himself and somehow it sells.”
GA: One hundred percent. And it took me nine years now, more or less.
KM: But you found the code that works for you.
GA: This is finally it. It’s never been at this level before. Both the quality of the product execution and to make and deliver production at that level. For independent brands, it’s not feasible. My personal life savings is in that s—. It’s not just like, “Oh, I got some money from these people, now I make nice things.” No, those are painstaking ideas that take years and years to develop.
KM: I feel like every collection is just a different variation of the last, and it just gets better and better.
GA: There are a lot of pieces that I’ve been making every season since I started, literally the same piece over and over and over and over again. And a lot of them arrived basically at the point where it’s like, don’t touch it, it’s done, it’s finished. And they’re going to stay permanently. They might not be merchandising to every single season, but when we do use it, it’s finished — the trucker jacket finished, the trench coat finished, the wide leg pant finished, the skinny leg pant finished, the baggy shorts finished. I’ve finally arrived at the place where finally that jacket’s done. But we will continue to tweak it, to improve the construction to maximize our production efforts to make sure that we’re really making the best quality clothes possible.
KM: I feel like whatever medium you would have gotten into, you would have been a great storyteller. But why fashion?
GA: I’ve been chopping and screwing my clothes for as long as I can remember. I had no idea that that was a thing people do. Or that fashion was a job that people could do.
I was super poor growing up — getting evicted for living in your car poor. Actively trying to figure out how to pay your bills. But I never felt poor, so I always used clothes as a way to protect myself or shield myself. And I dressed great. I would go to wherever I had to make sure that I looked sick at school. I was just always a really savvy shopper; I was always particular about the things I would buy. I grew up wearing bootleg clothes, fake sneakers, Goodwill or thrifted stuff. I didn’t even know what thrift stores were, I just thought it was a place where rich people sell their clothes because I would go in and I would buy blazers and Armani Exchange stuff. I would buy goofy s– that was way too big on me, like pink polos or rugby shirts, and I would just oddly stitch them in the back, so in the front it would look like it fit me but then I would put a coat over so you wouldn’t be able to tell. It was super punk rock; it was more like styling just to make it look cool on me. The Oakland flea market, usually everything that was super popular they had it there, so I would just buy it, and then kids started thinking that I had a plug that they didn’t have, so then I would sell them that s— at a premium.
KM: You were already doing this in high school. It was like survival-style hustler.
GA: Since I was a kid. I had no clue that it was ever going to be my job.
KM: How long have you been making everything in Milan? How was that transition?
GA: 2017 I was ready. I wanted a perfectly sewn shirt.
KM: I was going to ask, are they annoyed that you’re always there?
GA: One hundred percent, they hate it, and when I started bringing [Valeria Semushina, my partner who styles our shows], it was even worse because she understands the language.
Yasiin Bey at the 424 Paris Fashion Week show.
Valeria Semushina: I think Italian fabric [designers have] never seen anybody crazier than you, because once [G was] like, “I want destroyed leather, it should be very destroyed.” They couldn’t understand what it meant. So, we put it on me and there is this video of me and it was very rainy outside, it’s super dirty. I was just rolling around and trying to scratch all this leather. And [G] said, “That’s how it should look.” But what’s funny is that when the product was done, they were like, “Que bello!”
GA: No one goes into Loro Piana and actually finds something cool to wear. Because when they conceptualize this dream, they did not have us in mind. Ralph Lauren included his universe, and as beautiful as it may be, it didn’t take us into account. By default, it can never be for us. We have to assimilate if we want to be a part of this world. If I want the highest quality, I have to go to a brand that offers it — and that brand never expected me to come and take part in their world. I love quality, I love products and I love interesting stories. Those brands that I just mentioned, I love them, I think they’re awesome, they just don’t love me. I have to adapt who I am as a person to take those products into my life and make them look cool on me. 424 is that: It’s saying, I get it, I love it, but I understand it’s not for me, so here’s my version.
KM: I told you, I bought your sweater three times. Three times. The first one, I bought with my best friend Isaiah at the store, we bought the same sweater together. Then we both put it in the washer, not realizing. I still wear it sometimes. It’s just not as cozy, just a little harder but still fits; I wear it to sleep sometimes. Then I bought it again on some random website that was selling it, but the story doesn’t end there. I was going to Paris for Fashion Week and randomly the girl sitting next to me was also wearing a 424 sweater. This should have been a sign to hold on to that sweater, in retrospect. But then I got hot, took it off and I lost it at the airport — I had the Uber take me back, I literally went up and down and I was so sad. I was like, “Not again!” Lastly, SSENSE had one, their last one, an XXXL, and I just bought it. It’s huge but I don’t care, that is how much I love this sweater. Three times. I am your forever customer. That’s what I love about your pieces, that they are forever pieces. I’m going to wear that sweater forever.
So, what’s next?
GA: I absolutely love the good, the bad, the ugly of everything that’s happened. Everything here is really like pure. Everything here is what I always wanted it to be.
KM: I can tell there’s so much love here. G, it’s really beautiful. Coming to your parties and just seeing everyone come together. This energy you’ve harnessed is really beautiful to experience.
GA: We have a new thing that we can do. The block, the pull-up is different now. You can pull up to Melrose Place. There’s a place for you here.
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
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.
Karaoke jockeys Sophie St. John, 27, second from left, and Cameron Armstrong, 30, right, get the crowd involved with their song picks at Mic Drop.
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 karaoke together inside a private lounge 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
A disco ball hangs from the ceiling.
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).
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.”
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