ON THE FOURTH FLOOR of the Versace boutique on Fifth Avenue, just stories above a screaming Fashion’s Night Out mob spilling into the street, 24 year-old world-famous hip hop sensation Drake sat on the armrest of a stiff-looking chair, not drinking the bottles of Dom Perignon chilling in front of him. It’s a night when any building with a clothing rack is spiritually obligated to wrangle celebrities and crazed crowds—and feed them designer-branded cookies, too—but even in the middle of this uptown scrum the crowd by this particular store out-crazied the others. Draaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake! a group of girls yelled as The Observer shouldered our way toward the front. “No, we are not leaving,” said another of the girls, to her friends. “We’re going to get in and see Drake perform.”
It’s safe to say they didn’t get in (the well-controlled crowd successfully avoided the claustrophobia associated with this miasma, a New York Mardi Gras of status-consumerism) but either way, they wouldn’t have seen Drake perform. He was DJing.
After a few glasses of bubbly The Observer was whisked upstairs to the suite where Drizzy had been hiding. Which of your infinite sweaters did you choose, Drake? None, it appeared—he had on black pants, black shirt, black jacket. They all fit him disconcertingly well. We managed to grab Drake for a quick moment, to yield policy decisions from the Young Money star himself about New York nightlife, cardigans, and our girl problems.