Chloë in the Early Morning

98295538 Chloë in the Early MorningChloë Sevigny was standing a few feet from the DJ booth, swaying in a polka-dot dress and a black beret. Sometime around midnight she had started drinking Patrón against her will.

“It’s not my favorite,” she told The Observer Saturday night, talking not two centimeters from our nose. The Human League was wailing on the sound system, and the leather-and-denim-clad crowd was singing along.

She pointed to the red vinyl couch behind her, where some shaggy-haired boys and blondes in T-shirts were swiftly dispatching the offending bottle of tequila.

This, The Observer told her, was simply unacceptable. If anyone deserved her precise drink of choice, it was Ms. Sevigny. She’s been beloved of the downtown crowd since she played the tragic teenage waif in the ever-more-legendary Kids. Hollywood adores her, too. In The Last Days of Disco she bopped from one polyester-fueled night to the next, sashaying with a revolving cast of New York party boys and ambling through Whit Stillman’s nimble dialogue. She nabbed an Oscar nomination for her stunning role in Boys Don’t Cry, then entered into TV polygamy. Her smile still beguiles.

And Saturday it was her party. Earlier in the day, Opening Ceremony debuted Ms. Sevigny’s new collection, and to celebrate she invited her friends to the bash at Don Hill’s.

Where else? Her brother, Paul, hot-spot impresario par excellence, owns the place with Nur Khan, and it has endured in the months since the bombast of its opening week—Iggy Pop bled and spat and all the pretty faces of Fashion’s Night Out were going to hell.

The Observer hadn’t talked to Ms. Sevigny since that night. She’d been in Los Angeles filming Big Love and just recently returned to her East Village digs.

“Every time I’ve been back I come here,” Ms. Sevigny told The Observer, without a hint of nepotism. “I love it! You can let your hair down.”

Mr. Sevigny, though, couldn’t make his sister’s bash. He had absconded to their mother’s house in Darien, Conn.

Out of the young and trashy-gorgeous crowd, Mr. Khan emerged flanked by two brunettes. After scoring drinks, they repaired to Sante’s Inferno, the back lounge, where Mr. Khan held court. In front of an image of a skeleton smoking a cigarette—an homage to Jean-Michel Basquiat—a small girl in spike-studded Chucks and matching bra writhed atop the black wooden box fixture in the back.

She became indignant when The Observer complimented her bangs-and-bobbed Nicki Minaj wig.

“Dude, she didn’t invent the fucking wig!” said the dancing girl. “I’ve been wearing wigs for a long time. Plus, Nicki wears pink, and I wear blue.”

Noted. She turned her head back into the canopy of smoke and shook her arms to the Outfield’s “Your Love.”

“It’s hard to take pictures in here,” a photographer for Interview yelled as a wave of pixie-dust green spots filled the manic strobe light. “It’s so dark.” He spun his camera around at a set of couches, where two leggy girls were grinding, and snapped a few shots.

It was 2 a.m., then 3 a.m. passed without ceremony, and the dance floor’s undulations showed no signs of wavering. Depeche Mode and the Smiths gave way to a string of muscular pop numbers that, after some lubrication, strike the pleasure lobes and disarm. The scene boasted its fair share of meticulously curated looks and tastes, but even with these kids, Katy Perry’s creampuff ditty “Teenage Dream” totally killed.

Ms. Sevigny, too, couldn’t seem to leave the dance floor. She would periodically slink up next to a girlfriend or some lucky guy, drink in hand. By the look of her cocktail, it seemed that deep into the Sunday morning hours she had moved on from Patrón to, well, something preferable.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234