They say laughter is the best medicine, but dancing is certainly a close second—the kind that leaves your cheeks flushed and legs blissfully sore. Clearly, Emily Dawn Long sensed that’s exactly what the world is craving right now. (Or her fellow New Yorkers, at least.) Over the weekend, amid the frenzy of New York Fashion Week, the namesake designer behind the brand threw a no-phones-allowed disco rager with the cheeky tagline “No One Dances Anymore,” thus bringing together revelers from all corners of the city.
The concept began to take shape while Long, who has amassed a fan club for her intricate craftwork, was designing her third drop. “I was talking to my friends, and everyone was like, ‘No one dances anymore,’” she told Vogue. That offhand remark set everything in motion, from the designs to the dance floor. “Without meaning to, this party became huge,” she laughed. “I just thought it would be my homies.”
“Huge” is a huge understatement. Despite the teeth-chattering weather, a crush formed outside (SUB)MERCER, a discreet club tucked beneath The Mercer Hotel in SoHo, with everyone vying for a nod from the bouncer. Those who made the cut were ushered down by freight elevator into the close-quarters space, which remained shoulder-to-shoulder packed deep into the night. To enforce the phone-less policy, attendees received stickers stamped with the evening’s slogan to cover their cameras. The only lens in the room? Photographer Daniel Arnold’s.
Long—in one of her just-released “No One Dances Anymore” T-shirts and ultra low-rise jeans—was, naturally, the life of the party. As she stopped to say hello to various guests, Long likened the affair to the secret loft dance parties that defined New York nightlife in the ’90s. “I think that’s just what people want right now,” she mused.
The bar, stocked with Lalo Tequila and The Zero Proof, became its own scene. Maude Apatow was among those hoping to catch the bartender’s attention. After securing her drink, the Euphoria star, sporting her signature bob and an emerald green cardigan, could be seen weaving through the crowd, eventually settling at a table with fashion editor Ella O’Keeffe and friends. Jack Harlow, stationed nearby, kept it low-key in a zip-up sweater, black baseball cap, and rimless glasses as the brick walls behind them doubled as a backdrop for Long’s aforementioned tops.
By midnight, the dance floor was impossible to resist. DJ—and it girl—Beatrice Hardy spun hit after hit, including No Hands, My Humps, and Guess. Even the bathrooms down the hall vibrated with rhythm. One partygoer enjoying the feel-good playlist was Ella Emhoff, who beamed as she made her rounds, breaking into dance as she maneuvered through the bustling room. Others enjoying the bash included Laura Reilly, Ian Bradley, Blake Abbie, Imani Randolph, and Alyssa Vingan.
And for once, it really wasn’t phone screens illuminating the space, but the electricity of the crowd. Sweat dripped, pulses pounded, and for a fleeting few hours, nothing beyond the walls of (SUB)MERCER seemed to matter, offering a rare escape no one seemed ready to let go of.
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