Jeremy Scott’s joint Resort and men’s show in L.A. tonight was an ode to uber-groovy psychedelic glam, an over-the-top cultural mish-mash of ’60s references, and, in the end, pretty much exactly what we’ve come to expect from this marquee-driving master of kitsch. “I just wanted to make something fun,” Scott said backstage before the show, “something a little theatrical, something colorful, and upbeat, and bright, that my SoulCycle instructor, and neighbors, and the pop stars who I adore, who are also my neighbors, could come and see together.” Well, mission accomplished.
The show, part of Made Los Angeles, mixed those ’60s beats (the decade when, Scott noted, Los Angeles really came into its own) and the designer’s personal, piled-on “more is more” aesthetic, all made of froth and prints and belly chains worn below expanses of smooth skin. Giant floral pool floats sat as a centerpiece, and it was all plopped smack in the middle of downtown Los Angeles at L.A. Live. An audience swollen with a specific breed of L.A. celebrity (typically pneumatic in their proportions, which sort of makes sense, considering Scott’s love of cartoon) watched big-ticket models like Miranda Kerr, Devon Aoki, Alessandra Ambrosio, and Chanel Iman strut out in bra tops and oversize mod pageboy caps, crocheted crop tops and flared Indian mirror-embroidered pants, patchwork and sequins and studded leathers, and swingy pantsuits printed with the same psychedelic daisies found on Scott’s tracksuit backstage.
A joint WME/IMG venture, the show was open to the public, and tickets had been priced between $55 and $400 (though there were rumors of scalper involvement, so who knows the final cost for some). These had quickly been snapped up by the brand’s fans—and boy, does the brand have fans: Multiple generations turned out in Moschino or Scott’s eponymous line. “That’s a Jeremy baby carriage,” explained one PR rep backstage, as what must have been the littlest showgoer was perambulated through. (In Europe, the PR added, one version of the stroller comes complete with golden wings.)
But back to the show. Slated, as it was, for the first day of L.A.’s Pride weekend, male parade-goers and other fun loving fellows could certainly do worse than Scott’s brightly printed briefer-than-briefs (Speedos, really) and neon color-blocked moto jacket, his tie-dyed trousers and skinny kaleidoscope-like printed pants, or his slim-cut tangerine-color lace suiting, which turned up in a ladies’ cut near the end. Men’s sandals were futuristic, strappy, and possessing the requisite funk to rank their wearer among the best dressed at Burning Man—yellow pom-poms! woven iridescent straps!—while the embroidered brogues will find many happy buyers more suited to the concrete jungle. There were plastic leis and papier-mâché bangles, embroidered versions of the Moschino moto jacket bag, mirror sequined go-go boots, little crocheted purses that looked charmingly homespun, and a recurring motif of cartoon tigers, cobras, teddy bears, monkeys, and at least one heavily bejeweled pink elephant, a sort of rave-ready Ganesh, present to watch over Scott’s growing flock.
