“Who the fuck are you looking at? Stupid bitch. That’s why you’re in line in the fucking cold.”
This quote from Uncut Gems, delivered by the incomparable Julia Fox, plays in my head on loop outside of The Hollywood Roosevelt this final evening of October. I’m waiting to enter The Dare’s Freakquencies Halloween party. I don’t feel so Julia, who, in the 2019 film, skips the line and then sits comfortably in the club, listening to The Weeknd’s best song, “The Morning.” I feel, instead, like the target of her words. The stupid bitch in the cold, if you will. It’s pissing rain in LA for the first time in months, and I’m hardly protected from it by my panties and bralette beneath my see-through dress. I’m using her script as soul-warming entertainment while waiting; I’ve seen that movie so many times that I can play a few scenes back in my head if I shut my eyes hard enough. The Julia in tonight’s chilling case? God, perhaps. Or The Dare. Probably the hotel, since entry (both guest list and ticketed) begins as one massive, unmoving line.
So, outside, I observe the crowd. Costume of the year is quickly made clear. Nearly every group in line contains a pair of Frost Children. Fitting, considering they’re playing tonight. Lulu and Angel Prost actually helped put points up themselves; they’re dressed as one another, swapped. I’m burnt out from my Friday night Halloweekend shenanigans, so I’m calling my all-white, lazy quasi-costume “Working Ghoul.” I’m here on spooky, journalistic prowess, dammit! I shiver for 30 minutes, then, a bit before midnight, a separate line forms where I’m told I can snag my photo pass. I breach the Roosevelt.
I’m soaked for The Dare and haven’t even laid my eyes on his little brunette head yet!
Haunting and beautiful, like Halloween itself, is the knowledge that every LA “young hoe,” myself included, is spending this night together on the same grounds. That’s super sexy. My group briefly splits once inside. I wander towards the pool area first and find refuge under a tent where Ky Newman and atlgrandma are commanding a small but mighty crowd. Next to me is a guy dressed as an Erewhon employee. I like that. Maybe I’ll go for breakfast in the morning? I see some mutual friends and toss my hair with them to “CRANK” and some fakemink. The latter really hits because I find his Essex accent helps create a lowkey spooky sonic homeostasis. Onstage, alongside Ky and this atlgrandma character, is a secret third dude, the patchwork-tatted menace colloquially known as Role Model. He’s cutely taking part in a couples costume with Ky, who’s wearing a yellow hoodie; Role Model’s is brown. The garments are respectively labeled “Pee” and “Poo.” I linger after their set, thinking about posing them for a photo, then realize that I actually don’t want any part in memorializing such a crude costume. Their set was fun, though, with a proper amount of seasonal cuts.
I leave and find some of the friends I came with before entering a red-lit room with ladies pole dancing in an elevated boxing ring. The Hollywood Roosevelt feels sprawling. I think I’m just confused and nervous because it’s Halloween, and the body keeps the scary score. Boo!
I find Tinashe playing in a big, Bowser’s Castle-looking ballroom where, while trying to reach another set of friends (as I said, everyone I’ve ever met is in attendance), a grown man gropes my waist. Confusing, considering he’s not doing it because I look good. He’s doing it to get my attention so he can tell me to fuck off and stop pushing past him and his girlfriend. I wish it wasn’t so loud so I could explain that I’m actually not pushing; I’m trying to uplift Tinashe. I reach my friends, who are standing on the hearth of a fountain. Frazzled, I grab the ledge of it to hoist myself to their level, then quickly realize the stone is not cemented in place. It tips and starts to spill water. Fuck. My friend Lam and I thankfully catch it before the point of no return. Still, I feel majorly awkward.
Not for long, though. I can count on one hand the things I love more than to get 2 on. So I do, forgetting the diddling and embarrassment I’ve so recently faced as a result.
The Dare comes out. I can’t tell what his costume is, but I can tell that it is one, seeing as he’s not in his typical black suit and tie. As you can tell, I’m beyond overstimulated at this point, so I weasel my way off the dance floor and head upstairs, where I find security breaking up the chokehold someone dressed as the devil has on a kid in a black hoodie and skinny jeans (Opium member costume?). I join my music industry-enmeshed college friends on the mezzanine behind the decks.
I frankly don’t know how I feel about The Dare. For a long time, I was resistant to his white boy swag. However, since his Nymphet Alumni episode dropped on Christmas Eve 2024, I’ve been quite charmed. I think we’d get along. Though I have no way of knowing whether he actually likes all the archetypes of women he describes in his biggest song, “Girls,” the unashamed affection for trans chicks he voices in verse one is obviously super hot to me.
Speaking of which, Kim Petras joins him to play a few throwbacks, then “101.” I prefer most of Detour’s tracklist to that song. I mentally digress. I physically shake my lil butt.
A whirlwind night, yes, but also one that won’t end; the clocks suddenly turn back. I really don’t understand daylight saving time. Every year, it tweaks me. Scared (and somehow still wet from the rain, though now there may be sweat in the mix), I call a car and thus end my night.
God had a simple message for my generation of LA-dwelling chicks and dicks this Halloween: send them to The Dare, yeah, I think he freaks it.
