By Heather Kenny
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As set changes transformed the stage into various famous clubs–none of them in Chicago–and androgynous young men in skinny pants gyrated to the beat, models sashayed down the runway (consider yourself warned: flowered pants for men and women appear to be big for fall). In between songs, Queen Latifah and Chic entreated the audience to get up and boogie. “Some of you look pretty young and fit,” Queen Latifah declared, scanning the seats. “But some of you…” She herself looked like a hip jockey in shiny brown leather pants folded up below the knee, capri style, and a brown argyle-print top. Challenged, the well-behaved crowd waved complimentary glow sticks to the beat. Bobby Short, a suave figure in white, belted out “Hooray for Love” during a set that was jarringly low-key given the hip-grinding, pseudodecadent atmosphere of the rest of the show.
The postshow party was at the State Street store two blocks away, and in keeping with the evening’s theme of privilege, a red carpet had been rolled out for us. The wood-paneled Walnut Room on the seventh floor had been transformed into New York’s Cafe Carlyle; sedate jazz played as people nibbled on tiny lamb chops. A polite but determined crowd swarmed around the mashed-potato bar. “Are you sure these aren’t olives?” a man asked as he poked the mushroom topping. The rest of the floor, separated from the Walnut Room by velvet ropes and guarded by “bouncers” who demanded to see people’s invitations before they were allowed in, was designated “Studio 54.” Dancers doused in gold paint and clad in scant Alley Oop outfits danced on tables. Assorted drag queens, kids in sleek candy-colored rave wear, and a bare-chested guy in an Indian headdress paraded through the crowd, presumably to give the proceedings a little credibility. A corpulent ponytailed man stalked about with women in matching red sequined dresses on each arm; I couldn’t tell if they were guests or some of the help.
