No matter what New York Fashion Week party you're at, there's always a better one that you're not invited to. The days unfold as a series of micro-anxieties: How do you get into this runway show, whose list are you on? Who are you going to air kiss, who are you going to blank? The nights are even more harrowing. You shiver in the cold, waiting to get into a hype party where The Black Madonna and Nina Kraviz are opening acts for Richie Hawtin—yet once you're in, nobody seems to know (or care) who these DJs are. You suffer the casual heartbreak of being surrounded by beautiful boys who will never fuck you, The only straight man who speaks to you is Billy Farrell asking how to spell your name.
Yet, in spite of all the bullshit, that feeling of being caught up in a tornado of decadence and desperation is half the sick pleasure of it. In this middle of this vortex, if you're lucky, you find moments of savage beauty that make the whole clusterfuck worth it—like the time Migos ordered pizza for everyone in New York's most pretentious club.
On Friday night last weekend, I find myself wriggling out of a suffocatingly crowded Givenchy party headlined by The Martinez Brothers, and walking over to 1OAK, a celebrity spot in the Meatpacking District with the questionably brag-worthy reputation of being the "hardest door in New York." The club is celebrating their 10-year anniversary, and Migos, who'd just played another Fashion Week party for Boiler Room and Fendi a few hours before, are slated for another (late) night show.
Four burly police officers stand outside the club's doors with their arms crossed, gossiping about which A-lister is going to show up next. "Who else we got?" drawls one of the guys to the group. "I think it's just Kylie and Tyga," said another, trying to sound nonchalant but unable to keep the edge of excitement out of his voice.
The crowd waiting to get into the club surges against the velvet ropes like waves roiling against a cliff. "Come on man, you remember me," whines a squat, hairy white man reeking of wealth and despair. My friend's friend sidles up and whispers some magic words to the bouncer to make him open the ropes for a few seconds and let us in.
Migos are already up on a small stage. They stand with their backs against each other, red-tinted sunglasses and leather jackets glinting under a pale yellow spotlight. Behind them on a wall is an LED screen that flashes the mysterious message: PIZZA BOYS WORLDWIDE… 4 FUN… CALL 1-310-PIZ-ZZZA. Heads hanging low, iced-out fingers clutching mics, the trio rains their triplet flows into the crowd. When they drop the most anticipated song of the night, the VIP booths explode into a mob pit. My bitch is bad and boujee… The socialite bros in purple fur-lined suits scream the line with pride.
Every 15 minutes or so, a parade of waitresses holding sparklers and champagne bottles cut through the dancefloor with the unquestionable authority of ambulances screaming through crowded New York streets. The tables they are bringing bottles to, my friend tells me, start at $10,000 a pop. As Travis Scott's paranoid party anthem "Antidote" starts playing, the waitresses with sparklers reappear, but this time, they're carrying dozens of red and white pizza boxes above their heads. The MC hops on the mic and shouts over the song: "WE GOT PIZZA!"—She just want the coco (Cocaina!)—"FOR EVERYBODY"—I just want dinero—"IN THE FUCKIN BUILDING!"
The pies make their way to the stage for Migos to get first dibs, then get distributed back into the crowd. For a few delicious minutes, all the conspicuous peacocking takes a back seat to the simple joy of eating pizza (and taking Instagrams of yourself eating pizza). Coked-out wraiths wrinkle their noses as drunk boyfriends lick their lips. Bella Hadid and Kendall Jenner perch on one of the booths, double-fisting bites. Even the stony-faced bouncer cracks a smile. It's lit at the nightshow…
There is no denying that Migos ordering pizza to a VIP club is them punking Fashion Week. Carrying out those pizza boxes like they are overpriced bottles of liquor destroys the lines between highbrow and lowbrow, turning that splashy, sparkler-enhanced show of conspicuous consumption that plagues every VIP club into a joke. Dropping your pretensions to stuff your face with cheese and dough only makes you even more aware of how stupid those pretensions were to begin with.
It's almost like the VIP booths lining the walls are turning into sofas as everyone in the club—from the glittering, glazed-eyed socialites to the sweaty buttoned-up bankers, the fuccbois dripping in swag to the bathroom attendants in all-black uniforms—starts hanging out like we're in Migos' living room. That moment is the only one all night that feels real.
Michelle Lhooq is THUMP's Features Editor. Follow her on Twitter.