It was about 20 minutes after the National Book Awards after party was scheduled to start at Cipriani 55 that we remember being glad that the event was held in the middle of Wall Street. Normally this thought would never have crossed our mind, but with it being very, very cold – we were hidden beneath our peacoat until we stumbled inside the venue – we were glad to be surrounded by the colossally tall buildings that blocked the cold gusts of wind.
Even better than waiting outside, though, was being inside the dimly-lit interior of the of the former bank building. We’re not sure how things looked during the actual ceremony but by the time we got in, it was a wasteland of a fancy dinner, nothing left but empty wine glasses, rumpled napkins, and the odd reporter rushing through their award show recap (Louise Erdrich won for fiction, Katherine Boo for non-fiction, David Ferry for poetry, and William Alexander for young people’s literature), so they could, presumably, make it upstairs to the actual party.
The party, held on the second floor balcony, was loud, bright, and endearingly wholesome, closer to a wedding reception than anything else. Many of the evening’s more distinguished guests left as soon as the ceremony ended, only to be replaced by the bright, young, pretty things of New York’s rapidly shrinking literary world who were dressed in their going-out-best, trying in vain to be heard over DJ Rabbi Darkside.
“There’s a lot of awkwardness,” we heard one woman say, and yes, at first there was. But as the night wore on, and more and more of the free drinks were imbibed, the stiffness of the crowd gradually dissipated, replaced by drunken chatter and writhing dancers elbowing for space on the temporary parquet dance floor. Was the dancing good? No (as one anonymous insider told us, “You never see worse dancing than at the fucking National Books Awards.”), but the crowd was having fun, screaming along to Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love” or the Temptations “My Girl.”
We tried to do our reportedly due diligence, attempting to talk to the faces we recognized, but time and time again it was made clear to us that no one was interested. “No!” fiction finalist Dave Eggers told us, in the nicest way possible, when we asked him for a minute of his time. “It’s a party,” he added. “Have fun!” We set off for new real estate, carefully avoiding the packed dance floor to mingle with writers, editors, and the occasional literary-minded rapper (Das Racist’s Heems) or shy-seeming TV actor (Alex Karpovsky). Surprisingly, or maybe not, the talk was rarely about books, people instead chatting about old roommates, basketball jerseys, or how this party compared to previous ones. “Last year I was invited, but this year I found out how much more fun it is when you crash the party,” an agent, who will remain nameless, told us.
As stated on the invite, the night came to a prompt end at 1 a.m. Though the crowd had thinned considerably over the last hour, there were still 70 or so stragglers left. The coat check, a scene of chaos at the beginning of the evening, was remarkably efficient at a time when most of those left would’ve been fine with an excuse to hang out a bit longer. Nevertheless, jackets were zipped and the crowd shuffled out into the cold.
Click on the slideshow to see images from the National Book Awards after party.