When trying to get into a club with no sign, an address known by next to no one and a rumored performance by SZA happening later that evening (the seven-time Grammy winner had posted the location on her IG story hours before the event), it helps to know the promoter.
That is, it helps to know the promoter if the promoter is willing to acknowledge your existence.
Instead, I received the following two texts last Wednesday night from my deeply connected, 6’4” friend Anthony Hendley upon my arrival outside BC, a club somewhere below 14th Street (I promised I wouldn’t share its exact coordinates) that might well be New York City’s new hardest door. Anthony’s first text: Oh you’re here! Their second: Act like you don’t know me.
Not exactly the VIP treatment I was hoping for.
Tail between this cub reporter’s legs, I retreated to the bar next door and commiserated with the bartender. While he didn’t exactly empathize, he did supply me with a free shot (I told him that I, too, tend bar), and then, according to code among service workers, he swept me downstairs, through tunnels and back rooms and — via what is presumably the club’s service entrance — into BC. It felt like my very own Goodfellas moment.
BC soft opened this past June, but it’s taken until Fashion Week to blow up. People, it would seem, are ready for it — that is, a brand of velvet-roped nightlife that doesn’t exactly smack of inclusivity. It does feel like it’s been an impossibly long minute since the city has given us night owls anything that feels genuinely impenetrable. My generation knows all the stories. Where is our Studio 54? Our Max’s Kansas City? Bungalow 8? Beatrice Inn? Lot 61? Is BC their long-awaited heir? In a city where nightlife is perhaps not what it once was (or maybe that’s just my Gen-Z nostalgia), it does feel like a ripe time for a revival. I spot Anthony, now inside (they greet me with a “hi, doll”) and ask them as much. They give me a look while refusing to go on record about, well, anything.
They didn’t need to. One needn’t look further than the decor to understand BC’s lofty ambitions. The subterranean spot boasts all the trappings you’d expect from a club cosplaying as the type of glamorous early-aughts joint Kate Moss might’ve been seen chain-smoking Marlboro Lights in. Cocktail tables? Check. Blood-red banquettes? Check. A pink marble bathroom straight out of a Gianni Versace Miami Beach fever dream? You bet. As for the barmen, they were impeccably attired, draped in white double-breasted dinner jackets like those you see at Torrisi.
Decor aside, BC is intimate — i.e., not the sort of spot you’d expect to rub elbows with SZA in (more on that below). As for this particular evening’s crowd, it checked the right boxes. Marc Rebillet and Michael Miracco were in attendance. Ravyn Lenae, Anthony Blue and Siobhan Bell, too. (Clavicular was rumored to be stuck in line upstairs, but if he was, he didn’t make it in. Thankfully.) There was also the requisite gaggle of photographers, videographers and a trio of tatted-up skaters who seemed like the most excited people in the room. My personal favorite had to have been a sound engineer named Isiah, whom I quickly befriended. It’s predictable how “industry” people (aka service workers) routinely end up drawn to other industry people. After all, the real keyholders that make things happen are the people working the floor.
In the DJ booth, Heron Preston and Venus X tag-teamed tunes, followed by Kaytranada, another Grammy winner — sandwiching this appearance between a sold-out August set at Pacha Ibiza and his upcoming October return at Pacha NYC.
So many bold-faced names. Does this mean clubs are back? They might be.
As for me, I was starting to worry I’d fail my dual missions of both meeting SZA and being in bed before 4 a.m. But a hero in the shape of a hand appeared on my shoulder while I was sidled up against the wooden DJ booth. It was Isiah showing off his new positioning right behind Kaytranada. In my Notes app, I typed “WHEN SZA?” and faced the screen at him. Isiah held his hand up at me with four fingers raised. Ah, 4 a.m., my witching hour.
A few moments later, however, Isiah returned with SZA and introduced me to her. Normally, I’m above fangirling over celebs. But SZA is different. She posed for me, flashing a gorgeous, bright smile.
I looked at my phone. 3 a.m. Uggh. I had work the next morning at 9 (I got in at 10) and as I’d already chatted SZA up and got some photos, I felt secure making for the exit, even though she wouldn’t go on for another hour.
Before leaving, I watched Anthony float around, from standing atop a couch, keenly surveying the scene, to descending upon the dance floor, and then eventually, they landed next to me beside the booth. We air-kissed cheeks and I shared my evening’s accomplishments. Anthony’s smile (and looming height) felt parentally loving.
I exited through the front doors, weaving through a marginally smaller crowd of rabid SZA fans. The doormen held strong, not moving an inch of their bodies or their faces for the still-pleading mob.
Maybe next time, folks.
All photos by Dani Brand
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