MILWAUKEE — Which song coaxes Republicans onto the dance floor of a warehouse? Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl,” it turns out.
The hundred or so partygoers in the warehouse’s cavernous space were mostly ignoring the band. Boca Raton, Fla., mayor Scott Singer twirled among the clusters of wallflowers, trying to inspire some collective dance action.
Then, an electric guitar strummed out the telltale opening riff of the boomer anthem. Suddenly, the dance floor was flooded with men dressed like Tucker Carlson and women in that Tuckernuck dress, sha-la-tee-da-ing under the muted shimmer of fog machines and a disco ball. They stayed for covers of Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back” and Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling!” mirroring the lead singer’s crisp choreography with booze-soaked shuffles.
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The lead singer pointed his microphone toward the crowd, asking what they were feeling good about on this Monday night.
A young woman in a pink shift dress moaned into his microphone: “I love Donald Truuuuummmmp!”
What else would you expect at 1 a.m. after the first night of the Republican National Convention?
This party was the Warehouse Party, an RNC tradition dating back to 1996. It is the convention’s secret party — as much as any party with required lanyards and official merchandise can be a secret. You know about it because you are a Republican with actual Republican business at the Republican National Convention. The scant number of journalists who attend do so with the promise that what they witness is off the record, unless they obtain permission to share certain things. Nothing witnessed was major news, though. These parties aren’t technically “fun.”
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“By the time the parties come in the evening, people are already thinking about the work left to do the next day,” said Libby Emmons, the editor of the Post Millennial. “It’s the work, not the trappings, that are the point of the enterprise.”
At this year’s RNC, the Warehouse Party is happening in the husk of a former die-cutting factory. The decorations matched the space’s industrial aura: chandeliers fashioned from Edison bulbs, chains and sprockets; industrial metal shelves stacked with bottles of Captain Morgan and Grey Goose behind the bar. In one wing of the warehouse, tucked behind thick velvet curtains, was “Kitty’s Jazz Lounge,” where a singer was doing a bluesy cover of Guns N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” A wall of soft pretzels anchored a buffet of wagyu burgers and bratwurst, under the watchful eye of the portrait of some futuristic industrial elephant, staring at the revelers through a gear-rimmed monocle.
The last time it happened, in 2016, the Warehouse Party was colloquially known as “the Boehner Party,” since it was technically thrown by the speaker of the House. (Paul D. Ryan was the speaker at that point, actually, but the ghost of John A. Boehner reigned supreme.) Boehner’s GOP is now a distant memory, especially here, where a red MAGA hat goes with any outfit and the vibes were high — on Donald Trump’s miraculous survival, and the Democrats’ slo-mo implosion.
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On Tuesday night, each convention subculture retreated to their corners. Journalists and PR flacks headed to the CNN-Politico Grill at Turner Hall, half a block from the convention, for fried cheese curds and dangerously strong skinny margaritas. They’re briefly visited by Sen. Ted Cruz (R-Tex.), who haunts their tables seeking attention. The better party was probably the Texas delegation’s Lone Star Social, at the Grain Exchange, which was closed to media.
Share this articleShareAbout a mile south, guests of the New York State Young Republicans soiree climbed an obscene number of stairs to get to the party at Shaker’s Cigar Bar. Some 70 attendees — mostly young, mostly men — mingled on the roof. They stood in a circle taking long drags of cigars in the darkness, like a benign initiation ceremony for a bizarre secret society.
Paul Stephen, a delegate from New York, puffed a cigar by the bar with his tall adult son, Paul Jr., who tagged along to Milwaukee. “The mood is mellow,” Paul Jr. said of the convention so far. “Usually we’re worried about losing. But now it’s like ‘No, we’re doing good!’”
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“For once,” he added, “the Democrats are disorganized.”
J.D. Vance was still onstage Wednesday night when doors opened at the New Fashioned, a beer emporium across the street from the convention center. Turning Point Action, the electoral arm of Charlie Kirk’s youth-focused right-wing empire, had taken over the top floor for its “Right Wing Revolution” after-party. Early partygoers huddled under the big-screen TV by the bar to catch the end of Vance’s remarks.
Jayne Zirkle, a reporter for Stephen K. Bannon’s “War Room” podcast, was chatting with Emmons by the VIP entrance when Maureen Bannon, Steve’s daughter, walked by sipping a Celsius. She’s holding up all right, Maureen said, gesturing to her caffeinated seltzer. She didn’t elaborate on whether she was talking about convention fatigue or her father’s recent check-in to a Connecticut prison.
Later that night, revelry at the Warehouse Party reached a new level. At 2 a.m. people were still just arriving. A queue of black cars and Ubers stretched around the block. The main hall was packed, and it was hot — bodies pressed against one another as they funneled toward the bar or dance floor. The men had traded in Monday’s golf shirts and khakis for suits; women had traded their heels for white sneakers or no footwear at all. A pile of abandoned stilettos lined the warehouse wall. A throng by the VIP lounge craned their necks to catch Rep. Lauren Boebert (R-Colo.) speed by in a crimson bodycon dress. “You were in Trump’s box!” one guest squealed at the congresswoman.
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The band finished its set and a DJ took over, blasting the Pointer Sisters at a deafening decibel: I’m so excited, and I just can’t hide it! The crowd was beaming, as if expecting great news — as if it were already election night and their main man was toppling the blue wall and snatching back Arizona and Georgia, and maybe carrying the House and Senate with him.
By the bar, a young man in a blazer staggered over to another, slapping his back with fraternal enthusiasm.
“We’re gonna win,” he slurred. “We’re gonna win.”
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