In attendance at Bardot last night were all the staples of the bottle service scene — you know, short Persian guys in untucked button-downs, likely some level of rich; Anglo babes of every description, yet all looking vaguely like California swingers; tall former athletes rocking backwards caps, drinking 1664 — but with half of Pitchfork darlings The Juan Maclean in the house, there was also some heavy cross-pollination going on. Pale foxes with pixie cuts squeezing nervously through the throngs, bros with broad-striped polo shirts and five o’clock shadows breaking in their first pair of skinny jeans. To this outsider, it seemed like the Miami Dream realized. And the soundtrack was spot the fuck on.
Ryan Ray | April 8th, 2012 | No Comments