Fabrice's rehashing 'Volare' while cramping Versace

By Dini S. Djalal

Jakarta (JP): It has survived a fire and cut-throat competition. On Wednesday, Fabrice's World Music Bar celebrated its first anniversary with thousands of guests.

Yet, despite the suffocating crowd and deafening music, it all felt old.

When Fabrice's first opened, guests queued to salsa every night away. M-Club wasn't around, and neither were Planet Hollywood, Zanzibar, Chequers Bar at the Mandarin or Kartika Plaza's Jungle Pub. Jakarta's nightlife was limited to the hedonistic halls of Tanamur Discotheque, the plush expanse of Hotel Borobudur's Music Room, and the off-beat glamour of Cafe Batavia and B-1 at Niaga Tower.

Fabrice's opening was a star-studded affair of Jakarta's moneyed elite. With champagne flowing through the earthen-colored interiors, guests went wild over the Gypsy-Kings cover band. A great time was had by all, and Jakartans were enthusiastic for the city's new hot spot, shelling-out the steep cover charge of Rp 25,000 (US$11) on weekends.

A month later, the same band was still belting-out "Bambaleo". The crowd drifted to more novel pastures. When the accompanying restaurant, Barbacoa, burned to the ground, people expected the bar to close as well. Fabrice's re-opened after minor renovations, retrieved the Gypsy-Kings-wanna-bes Matador, and hoped for the return of the good old days. People still came through the doors, but Fabrice fever had gone frosty.

Judging by the crowd at the anniversary party, the frost hasn't melted. Like many Jakarta clubs, Fabrice has been yuppified, with many of the clientele coming straight from the office. A few celebrities elbowed their way through the mob, but many starlets stayed away, as did much of the expat community.

Perhaps class distinctions lay behind the no-shows. Some haughty acquaintances remarked, "You don't run into your friends here anymore. Instead you run into orang biasa (commoners)." As prejudiced as that is, every Jakartan nightclub manager's biggest nightmare is preventing their club from becoming a sleaze-pit.

Ironically, however, Wednesday night all class differences vanished. The club's owner, tycoon Sudwikatmono, boogied on the dance floor with his wife and a group of prominent friends, surrounded by trendy youngsters.

Much to the irritation of those packed everywhere else in the club, the dance floor remained empty until Matador came on. The previous band, Kilimanjaro from Tanzania, had alienated the audience with their outlandish African outfits. A shame considering that they're a great band that even play their own music.

The congestion killed the evening. As I stood crammed between the bar and a pack of drunk yuppies, claustrophobia threatened to overwhelm. It is reckless to fit so many people into an enclosed space with only one exit: What happened to fire regulations? The management may have wanted to cause a commotion, but if anything were to occur -- a blown fuse, a fight or an air conditioning failure -- the commotion would have turned into a riot.

Too bad the fashion show wasn't a riot. The invitation said the evening would start at 8 p.m. At 10 p.m. there was still no sign of the Versace show we had gathered for. When the models finally strutted on stage, it was near midnight and the show lasted about ten minutes. What was the point?

Exhibit

The invitation promised an exhibit of Versace's three diffusion lines: Versace Jeans Couture, trendy Versus and more conservative Istante. Versace's technicolor opulence mixed well with Fabrice's ornate decorations. Here was a fiery match.

The clothes were pure Versace. Like a roam through a citrus grove, his attire exudes colorful cheer. They scream glamour.

Second-skin stretch jeans in pinks and purples were paired with boldly-printed satin shirts tied at the waist Marylin Monroe style. A male model swaggered in a glittering mint shirt with a green and yellow polka-dot tie and striped trousers. Casual wear meant patterned waistcoats atop patterned shirts atop patterned jeans.

To some, Versace may be the embodiment of tackiness. Others reply that there is often structure to chaos and beauty in the grotesque.

As if to prove that he is not just glitter and garishness, Versace also heeded current fashion directions and designed subdued, secretary-style suits. Wearing Versace to the office, however, is akin to wearing black velvet on the tennis court. A canary-yellow mini is teamed with a shrunken red-checked jacket. A satin shirt in mint is tucked under a pleated luminous knee- length skirt. Suits came in peachy pink or vivid purple. Want to get your boss' attention? Wear Versace.

Surprisingly, the evening wear was dull -- all black dresses bearing none of the Versace signature gold buttons or suspenders. Maybe Versace wanted to show that he can design "boring" as well as the rest of them. Versace's notion of "boring", however, ends with an exclamation point. Witness the candy-colored shapeless satin coats accompanied by matching dainty bags. Great colors, and the boxy silhouette suits Jakartan Madames with not-so- perfect figures -- probably the only people willing to dispense millions of rupiah for a raincoat.

The highlight was the threesome of dominatrix striding the stage in black patent leather. Tight jackets were worn with short skirts and short shorts: Like Elvis said, "Nice fabric, you should get more of the material and make a skirt out of it." If Versace was a soap opera, it would be "The Bold and the Beautiful".

The show was short-lived, however, and the entertainment returned to yet another rendition of "Volare". The song may be popular, but not even die-hard fans will stick around for the hundredth rehash. The real Gypsy Kings have come and gone in Jakarta. If Fabrice wants to keep its audience, it shouldn't follow their trail but blaze its own path.