And Gawker’s third annual “silent disco,” held at the New York Public Library, offered us a rare occasion to go back inside, with the musical accompaniment of DJs Dapwell of Das Racist, DJ Kalkutta, and Yeasayer being broadcast into the bulky headphones provided.
The vast library hall was decked in gold. Gold masquerade masks, bows, ribbons and Big Apple Shandy cocktails littered the tables. All the girls working the party also seemed to have gold-blonde hair.
Like a magpie, we were drawn to the shiniest individuals at the party. One guest appeared to be jamming on the dance floor with a golden walking stick, the strangest accessory to have lying around the house. Naturally, we demanded an explanation.
“I broke my ankle,” Tom Imateacher told us. “So it’s half function, half fashion.” An awkward silence promptly ensued and we made a mental note not to offend any more incapacitated guests at the party.
The Observer edged away and found one artsy type, Najva Sol, wearing a long, golden cape, which she had made herself.
“I had gold booty shorts and I thought I couldn’t just walk out like this,” Ms. Sol told us, demonstrating with a theatrical swish that the handy cape could cover her entire torso like a flasher’s trench coat. “I’m like gold-encrusted meets Aladdin meets King Midas.”
The Observer was then accosted by one dark horse, dressed in black, who told us his name was Jacques Garvin and that he worked as a corporate anthropologist by day, whatever that means.
“I am basically a walking pull-quote,” he announced. “I only come up with quotable lines.” A man of few words, he then vanished as quickly as he had appeared, like Batman with a jew fro.
Mr. Garvin wasn’t the only one with an alternate identity. Meet nail artist Taryn Multack aka Miss Ladyfinger.
“I started my blog last year in May. I was trying to brainstorm catchy names for a nail blog and was watching the episode of Friends when Rachel attempts to make an English truffle. She accidentally includes a layer of ladyfingers. I was immediately inspired.”
A group of fashion bloggers were groove gliding on the dance floor. One known as Sketchy Blonde had a huge, elegant bun high on her head, adorned with a golden bow.
Amid the crowd of media types, The Observer found one attorney who appeared to be a little lost.
“I’m basically the only mature one. I’m an attorney,” whispered Amanda Kissel. “Hey! He’s wearing the same gold pants as me!” She wandered off to harangue the bloke cramping her style.
The Observer then discussed the benefits of silent disco with Rex Sorgatz, founder of Kinda Sorta Media and Party Pervert.
“I like being at a party where you can watch pretty girls dancing and have a conversation. It’s the best of both worlds.”
Rina Raphael, features editor on The Today Show, had a slightly different take on silent disco.
“It’s like you’ve muted your television and you can see what people really look like dancing,” Ms. Raphael said. She went so far as to suggest that silent disco frees your soul.
“It unleashes unexpected independence,” another partygoer, Samantha Ortega, mused. “People come out of their shells.”
While this may be true, it was a curious feeling to remove your headphones and witness a sea of drunk, sequined figures grinding to their own beat, singing out of tune to different, often unrecognisable, songs.
Dapwell, of hip-hop group Das Racist, who described his look as a “carefree Indian manboy,” revealed a soulful, sensitive side, commiserating with the bouncers who were excluded from the joys of silent disco.
“I like the type of music you can play to head-phoned crowds that wouldn’t really fly otherwise, although I was upset the bouncers and security couldn’t get a taste of the action this way,” he said, concluding, “Overall, sexy stuff.”