Lifestyle
The Okalolies of Old Year's Night: Celebrating tradition on the world's most remote inhabited island
A group of Okalolies head toward a house belonging to one of their own in Edinburgh of the Seven Seas on Tristan da Cunha, in the South Atlantic Ocean, on Dec. 31, 2023. New Year’s Eve, or Old Year’s Night as it’s known on the island, is a chance for the whole community to come together.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
A group of Okalolies head toward a house belonging to one of their own in Edinburgh of the Seven Seas on Tristan da Cunha, in the South Atlantic Ocean, on Dec. 31, 2023. New Year’s Eve, or Old Year’s Night as it’s known on the island, is a chance for the whole community to come together.
Julia Gunther
Dec. 31, 2023, shortly before 2 p.m. Gray, low-hanging clouds obscure the tops of green cliffs that tower over Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, a village of 238 people and the sole settlement on the island of Tristan da Cunha.
Tristan lies in the middle of the South Atlantic ocean, a famously wild and unpredictable expanse of water.
The closest inhabited place is St. Helena, the island where Napoleon Bonaparte lived out the last of his days that sits 1,514 miles to the north; around 2,434 miles to the west lies Montevideo, the capital of Uruguay; to the south, you’ll find nothing but cold ocean and icebergs until you hit Antarctica; and 1,732 miles due east lies Cape Town, South Africa.
Buffeted by blustery South Atlantic gusts, I follow brothers Dean and Randal Repetto as they make their way through the deserted streets. We’re the last to arrive at a small sawmill nestled in between two corrugated iron warehouses.
An Okalolie poses inside a clandestine changing room — a small sawmill. The Okalolies are part of a type of visiting custom known as mumming in which young men disguise themselves, visit homes and engage in playful pranks — mainly at Christmas and on New Year’s Eve — that have existed in Europe for the past 500 years.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
We walk into an impromptu, clandestine changing room, home of this year’s Okalolies of Old Year’s Night. Old skirts and masks and cans of spray paint that are ordinarily used by islanders to mark their sheep line both sides of the sawmill. The other participants are already getting dressed. The goal is to disguise oneself as fully as possible and to remain anonymous throughout the day.
On Tristan da Cunha, the Okalolies only come alive on Dec. 31, hours before the start of the new year. For 26-year-old Dean and 21-year-old Randal, who were both born on Tristan and have lived here their entire lives, Old Year’s Night is an annual tradition they look forward to.
Photographer Julia Gunther and I asked if we could join the Okalolies for the day, which they agreed to.
An ecosystem of global significance
A single dormant volcano reaching 6,765 feet above sea level, Tristan da Cunha is part of a remote archipelago with the same name. Other than Tristan, the islands — Inaccessible, Nightingale, Middle and Stoltenhoff — are uninhabited, except for a South African manned weather station on Gough Island.
Two of the islands were awarded UNESCO World Heritage status for their outstanding natural beauty and universal value: Gough Island in 1995 and Inaccessible Island in 2004.
The Okalolies pose with Janine Lavarello, who holds Emily Swain, after she stopped to say hello. Riaan Repetto, Emily’s father, is the Okalolie on the far right.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
The waters around Tristan are some of the richest and pristine in the world, and the archipelago is home to the world’s only breeding colonies of spectacled petrels and Atlantic yellow-nosed albatrosses, as well as 37 endemic species of plants and the world’s largest population of sub-Antarctic fur seals.
In a testament to the significance of the archipelago’s flora and fauna, the waters surrounding Tristan da Cunha were declared a marine protection zone in 2020 by the island’s government along with the U.K. — the largest in the Atlantic Ocean.
An archipelago of islands difficult to reach
The first thing most people will tell you about traveling to Tristan Da Cunha is just how hard it is to get there. For many, though, that’s part of the appeal.
Depending on the weather, the trip from Cape Town can take seven days across flat, calm water, or up to two weeks rolling and pitching in the strong westerly winds that blow sailing ships from Europe to the East Indies or Australasia.
Most will have traveled from Cape Town on the MFV Edinburgh or MFV Lance — two lobster fishing vessels that offer the only regular connection to Tristan. A third far larger ship, the Agulhas II, makes the trip once a year.
A group of Okalolies share a drink while on a break from roaming around the village. The Okalolies are often invited for a drink by “brave” members of the community who open their doors to the group. Many are also fathers and will pass by their own houses during the day’s festivities.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
A lucky few will have arrived here on one of the cruise ships that regularly cross the South Atlantic as part of their annual relocation from the Northern to Southern hemispheres.
Our own trip was a good example of the uncertainties islanders and visitors face to reach the island. After spending a month in Cape Town waiting for space on one of the regular ships, we decided to risk hitching a ride on an expedition cruise ship, the SH Diana.
After five days at sea, we arrived at Tristan to find the only harbor closed due to heavy swells. Luckily, the Edinburgh was fishing nearby and we were able to transfer to her to wait out the weather. After another five days, the seas were calm enough for us to land. Had the Edinburgh not been where she was, we would have ended up at the cruise ship’s final destination, in Ushuaia, Argentina.
Other than day tourists from visiting yachts or cruise ships — the latter of which can momentarily double or even triple Tristan’s population — and a busy few weeks at the end of August when the largest regular ship of the year, the SA Agulhas II, drops off new expats, returning islanders and a few tourists, the island sees very few visitors.
Several Okalolies peer into the kitchen of a house belonging to one of their own. Although they are careful not to frighten children and the elderly too much, they are expected to make light mischief, and will attempt to soak any woman they find with a garden hose.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
On Tristan da Cunha, a night for making ‘mischief’
You’d be forgiven for thinking that it’s impossible for a group of 15 young men to keep anything a secret in a community this small, but that is exactly what we — 16 Okalolies in total — manage to pull off.
Okalolies are always male. There is no selection process. “You just need to be brave enough,” explains Randal, who himself was 15 years old when he first took part.
Young boys see the tradition as a rite of passage. Randal remembers putting on an Okalolies mask as a child. “I looked into the mirror and frightened myself to death,” he laughs as we get into our costumes. Now, he can’t wait to find others to scare.
One of the first years that Albert Green, 67, was an Okalolie, he and a friend were getting dressed in his father’s shed. “We had our backs to one another and when we turned ’round, we both jumped with fright,” Albert says.
At 94, Gladys Lavarello is one of the oldest Tristanians on the island. She remembers a young woman called Liza, who, during one Old Year’s Night back in the 1970s, dressed up as an Okalolie and managed to fool all the men into thinking she was one of them. “She was dancing around with them and they didn’t even know it was her,” Gladys recalls with a smile.
Like his older brother, Randal is a seasoned Okalolie. Now, it’s their job to show Tristan Glass, 16, Kieran Glass, 18, and Calvin Green, 15, how it’s done. “The young guys learn by watching us older ones. They just follow us and pick it up as they go on,” Dean explains.
Kieran Glass (left) waits for a drink while Tristan Glass checks on Jake Swain, who is fast asleep. Most children are terrified of the Okalolies and will cry or hide when they approach. Jake, however, was utterly unimpressed and slept through most of the day.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
Although the village fully expects them to appear and cause havoc — as they have for at least a hundred years — exactly who will be an Okalolie and where they will get dressed remains a closely guarded secret.
“We don’t want to let people know where we’ll be coming from, as it makes it scarier,” Randal explains.
Randal knows the look he’s going for. “Anything that looks ragged and scary, especially zombie-like,” he tells me as we walk through the sawmill.
Dean has been an Okalolie for the last 13 years, but he still gets excited. “I feel really energetic,” he says. “I’m ready to look scary and roam the village, knocking on doors and frightening people.”
Some Okalolies, like Randal, Dean and 36-year-old Shane Green, planned their looks days before and have brought their own masks or dresses — Shane has worn the same costume for the past 10 years.
Others, including me, design their outfits on the spot, picking from an extensive collection of masks ordered from the U.K. and South Africa by a community development fund — which helps pay for and promote island traditions — as well as old skirts and coats and bits of worn workwear.
A group of Okalolies — Calvin Green (from left), Dean Repetto, Christopher Swain, Shane Green, Kieran Glass, Cedric Swain and Callum Green — take a break from roaming around the village. Roaming normally lasts a few hours, and the men will stop for breaks at friendly houses to cool off before putting their masks back on.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
I choose a white disposable coverall — which I am encouraged to “personalize” with green and orange spray paint — and a black and red cape. For a mask, I pick out an alien-type thing.
I’m told that Okalolies don’t speak, as this would give away our identities. The silence also adds to our eeriness — a masked group of young men, marauding through the village, looking for “mischief.”
As we head out onto the empty streets of Edinburgh of the Seven Seas, a few last islanders hurry past.
We communicate through hand signals, whistles and whispers, but we can make noise by banging on windows and doors, blowing on horns and playing whatever instrument is at hand — this year, it was a toy accordion and a child’s tambourine.
We decide as a group which houses to visit. Some have made arrangements with the residents, who allow us to frighten their children or invite us in for a beer or cider.
Tristan da Cunha’s Head of Tourism, Kelly Green, greets the Okalolies with her daughter Savanna after they’ve arrived at their home. Moments after this image was taken, Kelly was soaked with water from a garden hose. Kelly’s husband, Shane, was one of the Okalolies, and Kelly had trouble figuring out who her husband was before he finally revealed himself.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
A rich and eclectic history
Despite being discovered in 1506 by Portuguese Admiral Tristaõ da Cunha, who named the main island after himself, Tristan da Cunha wouldn’t be permanently inhabited for another 300 years.
In 1810, Jonathan Lambert, from Salem, Mass., claimed the archipelago as his own and renamed them the “Islands of Refreshment” in hopes of attracting passing ships in need of fresh water and supplies.
Six years later, in 1816, Tristan da Cunha was annexed by the British, who were worried the French would use the island as a staging post for freeing Napoleon from his imprisonment on St. Helena.
Another major concern was the possibility of American occupation. During the War of 1812, Tristan had served as a base point for American ships to disrupt British maritime activities. Interestingly, the final naval engagement of that war was fought near Tristan in 1815, just a year before the British arrived.
Shop-bought masks and cans of spray paint — normally used to tag sheep — lie ready to be used inside the Okalolies’ clandestine changing room: a small sawmill. The Okalolies use a mix of shop-bought items, old dresses and coats to put together their outfits. The goals are to disguise themselves as scarily as possible and to remain anonymous throughout the day.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
When the British garrison departed a year later, three men, led by Corporal William Glass, opted to stay behind. They embarked on an extraordinary venture dubbed “the firm,” grounded in a formal agreement for communal living.
This document, now kept at the British Library, entailed equal distribution of shares and provisions, equal division of profits, shared responsibility in covering expenses, and a commitment to equality without any individual islander holding superiority over another.
Although now a part of the British Overseas Territories, much of the independent spirit captured in Glass’s document is still present on the island today.
A tradition of uncertain origins
The Okalolies are part of a type of visiting custom known as mumming or guising, in which young men disguise themselves, visit homes and engage in playful pranks — mainly on Christmas and New Year’s — that have existed in Europe for the past 500 years.
Although she can’t remember how or why the Okalolies got their start on her island, 94-year-old Gladys Lavarello knows they existed when she was a little girl. “The men would dress up and come ’round, singing and dancing. Then they’d take their masks off,” she tells me in her living room, a few weeks later.
“My father would go ’round with a wheelbarrow and a pitchfork and say that he was cleaning up the mess,” she adds with a laugh.
There is no academic consensus on the origins of the name for the tradition here. It could be derived from the Afrikaans words “Olie Kolonies,” meaning “old ugly men” — Cape Town, South Africa, has long been the main port of call for ships traveling to Tristan.
According to Peter Millington, a retired research fellow at the University of Sheffield who has studied house-visiting customs around the world and who took part in the Okalolies tradition in 2019, the Okalolies are likely “an amalgam of the customs of the home countries of the original settlers, including families no longer present on the island.”
An Okalolie peers through the window of a house, looking for children to frighten. Tristanian women try to outsmart the Okalolies by hiding in groups behind locked doors. Where no “victims” can be found, Okalolies enter the homes of families who have left their doors unlocked.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
“The name might have been introduced by transient expat residents, or it might simply have been made up on the island,” Millington offers.
New Year’s Eve used to be called Old Year’s Night in much of Scotland. Corporal William Glass, one of the three British soldiers who elected to stay on Tristan after the garrison departed in 1817, hailed from Kelso, Scotland, where “Auld Year’s Nicht” was still being celebrated in 1923.
Old Year’s Night is also a direct translation from the Dutch Oudejaarsavond. Peter Green, formerly Pieter Groen, from the Netherlands town of Katwijk, was another early settler who remained on the island after his ship, the Emily, wrecked on the coast in October 1836.
The oldest known account referring to the Okalolies tradition on Tristan da Cunha — albeit not by name — is detailed in K.M. Barrow’s book, Three Years In Tristan Da Cunha, and dates back to 1907.
An Okalolie dressed as King Charles III walks out of their clandestine changing room. In honor of the king’s coronation last year — Tristan da Cunha is a British overseas territory — two participants transformed themselves into the king and queen.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
For Tristanians, a tradition that’s expected and — for some — still feared
As with most long-lived cultural practices, the Okalolies’ tradition has changed over time. When Gladys was a child, it was predominantly about celebrating the end of the year.
“They used to fire guns to announce they was coming ’round,” Gladys remembers. “We didn’t have much in those days, but we’d always make sure there was milk for them, and if we had a little flour, we’d make them a cake.”
Initially, participants didn’t wear masks but would paint their faces, and the tradition supposedly was teetotal, whereas more recently, alcohol is consumed throughout the day.
“The whole island would dress up,” Albert Green recalls. “We’d go to every house and wouldn’t finish till the next morning.”
Over time, the Okalolies have gotten smaller in number, more mischievous, their outfits more frightening, and the day itself more focussed on scaring people rather than visiting homes.
More recently, homemade masks were incorporated, and nowadays, many wear shop-bought latex horror products.
Although all Tristanians are intimately familiar with the Okalolies, some remain genuinely afraid and hide inside their homes when they know they’ll be out on the streets.
On this Old Year’s Night, we roam together as a group for a few hours, during which we stop for breaks at friendly houses to cool off. Luckily, the weather was unseasonably cold for summer in the Southern Hemisphere — walking up the settlement’s steep roads makes wearing latex masks and multiple layers of tweed and plastic outfits a hot and stuffy experience.
Then, silently and suddenly, we split up, with smaller bands roaming between houses searching for “victims,” almost exclusively women or girls.
An Okalolie poses with Savanna Green. After quickly taking off his mask to identify himself, the two posed for a picture, like they’ve done every year since Savanna was a little girl.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
Tristanian women try to outsmart us by hiding in groups behind locked doors. Where no “victims” can be found, we enter the homes of families who have left their doors open.
Chantelle Repetto, 18, tells me she’s been afraid of the Okalolies for as long as she can remember. “Being scared is normal — we don’t know what the boys will do,” she explains.
Rachel Green, 25, is not as frightened as she used to be, but she’ll still run away when she sees them. “They used to throw people in the pool or in the flax,” she says with a laugh, referring to the now-invasive plant first introduced to the island in the 19th century that’s used to provide thatching materials for roofs. “But now they really only wet you with a hose.”
Although some villagers are genuinely afraid of being caught, the Okalolies tradition is all in good fun.
“During Old Year’s Night, the whole community comes together,” explains Chief Islander James Glass — a Tristanian elected by the people of Tristan every three years who represents their interests alongside the Island Council.
“As we’ve become more Westernised; we’ve lost much of our culture,” Glass continues. “The Okalolies are an established tradition that we want to maintain.”
We’re careful not to frighten children and older adults too much, and briefly remove our masks to calm scared children. In a community this small, chances are high that one of the Okalolies will confront their own son or daughter.
After removing his mask to reveal himself, Julian Repetto holds and comforts his daughter, Makayla. When this did not calm the little girl, the other Okalolies followed suit. The Okalolies are careful not to frighten children and the elderly too much. Some islanders, however, are genuinely afraid and will lock themselves inside their houses.
Julia Gunther
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Julia Gunther
After two hours of knocking on windows and spraying water, I join Randal and Tristan as they rush back to the sawmill and quickly change into a new set of outfits. In honor of King Charles III’s coronation, Tristan transforms himself into a king, and Randal into his queen.
Together with a “royal guard,” King Tristan, Queen Randal and I climb onto the trailer of a waiting decorated tractor.
First, our procession heads to the residence of Administrator Philip Kendall — the U.K. representative on the island — to collect his wife, Louise. Then we move on to James Glass’ house — to pick up his wife, Felicity.
Our passengers safely seated on two armchairs in the trailer, we escort our guests to Prince Philip Hall, the building that houses the village hall and the only pub on the island. There, the waiting administrator and chief islander, along with the entire village, wait to welcome us.
The Okalolies’ tractor arrives at the Prince Phillip Hall, home to the village’s town hall and the only pub on the island, to deliver King Charles and his queen. After they’ve roamed around the community for a few hours, the Okalolies pick up a tractor and trailer to collect the wife of the U.K.’s representative on the island, as well as the wife of the Chief Islander.
Julia Gunther
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It is only now that we finally reveal ourselves. Then, it’s time for dancing, barbecues — or braais, as they’re known on Tristan — and, at midnight, the ringing of the fishing gong, an old gas bottle suspended from a rope and hit with a hammer or metal bar.
Although Randal, Dean and the other Okalolies don’t yet know where they’ll meet to get dressed for next year’s Old Year’s Night, they’ll do their best to keep it a secret. Above all, Dean, like Chief Islander James Glass, is keen to carry on the tradition passed down by his ancestors.
“We frighten the old year out and bring the new year in.”
The Okalolies take part in a traditional Pillow Dance after arriving at Prince Phillip Hall. It’s only now that the Okalolies finally reveal themselves. Then, it’s time for dancing, barbecues — or braais, as they’re known on Tristan — and, at midnight, the ringing of the fishing gong, an old gas bottle suspended from a rope and hit with a hammer or metal bar.
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Nick Schonfeld divides his time between writing children’s books and working on stories about affordable health care, gender equality, education and distributive justice.
See more of Julia Gunther’s work on her website or follow her on Instagram: @juliagunther_photography.
Catie Dull photo edited and Zach Thompson copy edited this story.
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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