DRESS HOWEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT FOR THE HYPERPOP DANCE PARTY
revisiting the aesthetics and attitudes of hyperpop and the self
On May 25th I returned to the Fine Line for my second HyperPop Dance Party, this time with special guest Bejalvin and EVEN MORE TVS (40 to be exact)! This time, I wasn’t at a total loss of what I would wear. Coming straight from a bartending shift from Hell, I had packed in my bag a maxi-skirt maybe sort of reminiscent of a petticoat, cut a hole in the crotch and toes of a pair of tights, wormed my way inside, and stretched and ripped my incisions until it fit right and looked cool enough. An all-black ensemble to evoke the chic-goth-lite thing I’m going for. In the six months that had elapsed since the last HyperPop Dance Party, I had (with no authority) crowned myself the ‘preeminent HyperPop journalist in the Twin Cities.’ The night wasn’t just an excuse to dance, I had an obligation to journalism—I had to document the HyperPop Stylez yet again!
I took laps around the venue toting my cracked iPhone, looking for party-goers who looked both cool and willing to chat. After my awkward spiel about being “a local journalist with a lifestyle and culture blog’” (whatever the hell that means), I’d ask, “Can you tell me a bit about your outfit?” and “Do you mind if I take a picture of you?” All the while my Subaru was getting towed four blocks away.
The estrogen in the room was palpable, and I saw a lot of the same outfits that were present the last time I danced to a Night-Core version of a Luka Megurine song. EDM-looking raver chics, weebs, y2k coquette girlies and recession-core baddies, furries, lingerie, fetish gear. Outfits one would expect to see at the HyperPop Dance Party, but never anywhere else. I counted at least THREE Hatsune Miku’s including one of the Bejalvin members who had on the full cosplay, wig, and everything.
I’ll spare you the self-righteous postmodernist analysis a friend and I (half) jokingly made atop the balcony and our pompous intellectual imitations, “and yet, a trace of the true self exists in the false self.” I’m pleased to announce that I came out of my second dance party with a more present, positive, and less academic reading compared to my last blog post. I found myself repeating a certain mantra that’s been ever-present in my mind as I traverse experimental and avante-garde artistic experiences in the Cities.
“Wow! Look at them doing their little freaky thing!”
How the fuck am I supposed to dress for a HyperPop dance party? However, the fuck you want to dress for the HyperPop dance party! The responses from party-goers I got were mostly “I just like dressing like this.” The party seems to be an indulgent and exciting excuse to be the most over-the-top, the most hyperreal version of yourself—sorry I just can’t help myself!
I’ve been ruled by shame and conformity before, and this is not to say that all of the wonderful guests don’t always display the sort of hyperbolized authenticity seen at the Fine Line. It’s easy to water yourself down while out and about, refinement culture and all. But there was a boldness, a freedom, and an acceptance at the HyperPop Dance Party that was devoid of shame and monotony. I think back to my interview with VISA カード,
“I want this space to continue to be a space that when people show up, they don’t feel like they have to be afraid or on guard. I just want people to feel like wherever they are, or whoever they are there with, they can enjoy and have [HyperPop] as an excuse to celebrate and have fun!”
I think that kind of Utopian space has been cultivated amongst the fake dog tails, the anime wigs, and the Kandi bracelets. At the HyperPop Dance Party, amongst the glowing TVs and pulsating bass, everyone is doing their little freaky thing.
And you know what, I’ll keep doing my little freaky thing too.