THE JULIA FOX ENDORSEMENT

THE JULIA FOX ENDORSEMENT

By MAX PALMER

I parked my Specialized bike directly across from the box office so that if it all fell through, I could just hop on and ride back home, blissful and proud of my attempt. It all felt so me… rolling up with my simplistic, Midwest biker persona juxtaposed by my overconfident, cowboy-boot, Brooklyn-length denim short, Berlin-bang twinkness. An hour before, I had texted my best friend “I’m going to Charli XCX,” as a way of manifesting; the next 2 hours would determine whether I was right.

It’s not unheard-of to show up to an event without a ticket and still get in. There’s always scalpers and StubHub, but when the latter is reselling a single GA ticket for $900 one must use more creative means. This was the first live U.S. performance of an album that would soon become a cultural zeitgeist infiltrating not just the Brooklyn queer scene, but the 2024 presidential race too. So, I paraded myself down an endless line of attendees with a sharpie-scribbled – slightly pathetic looking – cardboard sign reading simply: “I need a ticket!!!!” I met others doing the same, and while our small talk was cordial, I embraced the selfish truth that I deserved this more. They knew it too.

Sympathy and words of encouragement from sweet Charli stans donned in brat green was matched by sneers and a sarcastic “good luck babe” from an established NYC it girl waiting for their guest list ticket. By now it was close to 9pm, the sky shades of sherbet and indigo, and I still had no way in. At this point black SUVs started arriving: Gabriette adorned with her (breaking news!) fiancé Matty Healy, Kim Petras (the only celebrity with a security guard), Lily Allen (cigarette in hand). And a slew of hunky, hot gays.

Amidst the chaos, Brooklyn Paramount’s late-20s PR rep burst out of the VIP doors, scanning the crowd. A fellow ticketless patron pleaded with her (the poor thing had come all the way from Mexico City with fake tickets). She effortlessly ignored him; so, I knew to keep my distance despite my growing desperation. She took one final leftward look as PR perfection approached: the entourage of the moment, the pack leader in tow. Someone, well, so Julia.

Julia Fox walked up all smiles, adorned in a chartreuse bodysuit and platinum white hair. She looked comfortable, sheer, and sweet. I said “Hi” directly to her, because it’s never the celebrity that speaks first. To my surprise, she responded gently, “Can I take a picture of you?” Me? A picture of me? Isn’t this supposed to be the other way around? She giggled as she snapped a photo, nodding to the sign and whispering something to pal and collaborator, Richie Shazam. I self-deprecated to Richie in order to advance the evening’s mission: “The sign? Pathetic. But unfortunately, I need to be in there.”

It turns out my trivial piece of cardboard (and the ineffable it-girlishness of my aura, of course) was as good as any ticket. They saw me as a fellow member of the brat pack, 5 foot 7 inches of unadulterated Midwest-bred star power and delusion. Eyes locked on mine, Richie signaled to come closer, slipping a neon green brat VIP ticket right in my hand. In a matter of moments, I metamorphosed from a pleading fan to an all-access Charli XCX dignitary.

The subsequent moments passed in a vape-filled haze: making casual conversation with Julia as we passed through security, gliding up Paramount’s grand staircase to access the VIP balcony, deciding which $30 cocktail we’d order (a shot, too?), and oh my god is that Emily Ratajkowski coming up to us? I embraced my newfound celebrity persona as strangers exclaimed “you got in!” when I passed by. My manifestation and refusal to live within the confines of reality had worked, orchestrated by a fairy bratmother I am forever indebted to.   

If you’re cool enough to have attended one of the three sold-out U.S. brat shows, you’d understand when I say it was life-altering. The intention, tenacity, and execution of brat is a cultural phenomenon that will be remembered (and replicated) for decades for its beautiful contradictions. brat means toeing the line between giving enough of a shit and not giving a shit at all. It showcases a career-long battle for success, but saying fuck it, let’s rave in the end. It’s about rising above industry rivalries and working it out on the remix. To be a brat is to show up to a party ticketless and get in anyways. It’s about equal parts grit and serendipity. We undoubtedly all got a little brattier this summer, but that night in Brooklyn, I took the cake.

p.s. Julia: If you see this, can you send me that picture you took?