The most frequent phrase heard at Prabal Gurung's after-party at Mister H in the new Mondrian Soho was, "No way I'm making it to Derek Lam tomorrow, dude." We felt bad for Lam, but it seemed pretty apparent that none of the people swigging free Belvedere and dancing feverishly to early-nineties club hits (what up, "Finally"!) were going to make it out to a 10 a.m. Sunday show. Egging them on was Prabal himself, grabbing strangers' shoulders and screaming, "Party!" as he encouraged everyone he could, including Barbara Bush and her BFF Maggie Betts, to dance, dance, dance. "You need a drink! Just have fun!" he told us. Then he did a little dance.
Mister H at the Mondrian Soho is the second venue to preview this Fashion Week, following hipster strip club Westway, which opened its unfinished doors for rag & bone's after-party on Friday night. Subterranean and red-lit, with a Shanghai-opium-den feel and a wonderful neon sign reading, "This is not a brothel. There are no prostitutes at this address," the club encouraged a kind of sweaty hedonism also found at the next stop on the night's party train: The Z Spoke/Purple Magazine party on the eighteenth story of the Standard Hotel.
The Boom Boom Room, with a hip-hop soundtrack and golden lighting, was its usual opulent self, but across the way at Le Bain, Paul Sevigny was playing everything from Joplin to Springsteen to obscure eighties dance-punk tracks only he and his wildly gyrating sister Chloë seemed to know. We knew the party would be epic when immediately upon our arrival, Olivier Zahm, shades on and cigarette dangling from his mouth, pushed us out of the way to chase after some young thing. It felt like we had arrived.
By following the bodyguards, we managed to locate Kanye West in a dark corner of the good-music room, though he was too well protected for us to ask what the hell he was doing at the Standard till all hours, when he's supposed to be at the Grammys tonight. Jared Leto could be found in the hallway between the two rooms, recently arrived from Guadalajara, if his poncho was any indication. And we spotted James Murphy entering the elevator, seemingly minutes after he'd released his amazing screed against scalpers. As we left, around 4 a.m., Chloë Sevigny was still dancing, and Zahm had just squeezed his way into our elevator car. His eyes lit up when he saw us. "I love you!" he said, then realized that he may not know us. He doesn't, but he gave us two big kisses on our cheek anyway.