The following narration was distributed to attendees of SHAO's Danger Zone NYFW S/S 2024 show on 9-11-2023. 

I'm Shao Yang, and I want you to buckle up as I welcome you to the Danger Zone: a collection where precision tailoring collides with defiance, challenging a fashion industry that has grown far too comfortable. Gritty fashion debuting at NYFW is often tagged "grit meets glamour" to justify what Jay McInerney captured in Bright Lights, Big City. His novel exposed the excess and disillusionment of 1980s NYC but only told part of the story. Yuppies chased status and self-destruction in a concrete jungle of allure and alienation.

Tonight, I bring you a collision of past and future: a mash-up of my childhood memories and my vision for what’s next in fashion. This fresh take on denim and leather feels like the materials were stitched together with Billy Idol-style fist pumps. The Rebel Yell Songman found wild freedom in the debaucherous underground, a post-apocalyptic club scene spreading like an uncared-for infection as NYC's lingering financial crisis warped the city into a neurotic haze—something like illicit diet pills from an 800-number infomercial. These were the gangrenous parts of ‘80s NYC, yet their imagery carried an undeniable beauty. They turned the Downtown neighborhoods into their respective playgrounds, stitched together like the pieces of a garment in rebellion.

At ground level, this vertical jungle makes you feel something different: a moment of shared survival, a pulse that binds the city together. In the ‘50s, jealous outsiders misnamed it "the rat race"; over the years, the terms of endearment for NYC have piled up like layers of graffiti on a tenement wall. During the pandemic, every Squarespace user with access to a fire escape penned an essay about New York’s supposed demise. Even Jerry Seinfeld came to the city’s defense, declaring it would, like Muhammad Ali, always be "the greatest." He recalled the day he moved to Manhattan: stepping out of his car and into dog shit, his first thought was that these little things are what make NYC great.

Tonight (weather permitting), we unveil this collection on a rooftop in the East Village, a not-so-common venue for a reckoning in denim, leather, and Loro Piana wools. Step onto that rooftop, absorb the explosive pulse of runway looks designed to remind you: this is still the city that never sleeps. In the ‘80s, Gordon Gekko twisted this into "money never sleeps," justifying his mantra that "greed is good." McInerney might say it was the coke talking. But here, under the skyline towering like a mountain range of brick, steel, and cement, let the chipped walls, graffiti tags, and rusted fire escapes remind you of a deeper truth: beauty is found in the details that others pass over.

That’s the duality we live by: the monumental and the minute, clashing in a spectacular reveal of upright expression.

Danger Zone was created with bottled aggression from the 80s. I've painstakingly cut, stitched, slashed, and molded fabrics with the same relentless exactitude as an analog clock ticking away in a digital era. Yet, each garment isn’t immaculate for perfection’s sake; it’s battle-scarred, a cold emblem of metropolitan contempt, like the Megalopolitan Blizzard of 1983. It’s like uncovering a weathered, forgotten vinyl record in a Catskills Airbnb attic: its surface worn, but its sound quality, its authenticity, unparalleled.

Tonight, as the dim glow of scattered lights pulses against the unsettled gloom of a storm-heavy sky, let me break it down for you. I’m not here to parade my credentials or hold up a trophy of technical mastery. I’m here to shake you awake, to jolt you with reality. This collection isn’t just fabric; it’s a rupture, an interruption to fashion’s current trajectory, which feels more like a crusade against offensiveness than a celebration of rebellion. You will question how fashion has become too cautious, too predictable. Because in a world where every face is filtered, every moment staged, I want you to reclaim the coarse tempo of genuine tenacity.

Classic, sharp pinstripes collide with audacious splashes of highlighter yellow: a bold adjacency that is as deliberately troubling as it is elegant. One moment, you’re admiring the quiet sophistication of a perfectly tailored suit (a symbol of order); the next, you’re struck by vibrancy shouting like a New Yorker mid-rant on a crowded street. It’s the same disparity as watching Midtown skyscrapers sprawl from high above, only to catch sight of a single street performer captivating a crowd below: the grand and the granular, laced up like a pair of Chuck T’s in perfect, mutinous accord.

The magic is in the details, the ones most people overlook. Run your fingers over fabric cut with a surgeon’s scalpel: there’s tension between the rigid precision of a suit jacket and the unpredictable flow of an accent panel. Every thread carries the memory of a thousand late nights: reworking designs in a cramped studio, armed only with fierce determination and a disregard for convention.

Beauty is imperfect. There’s solace in knowing life isn’t polished; the most captivating moments challenge you to see perfection as just a concept. Danger Zone is my ode to authenticity. A love note to everyone who’s ever felt caught between the promise of a gleaming future and the unyielding reality of the present.

This isn’t just a collection; it’s a conversation. My unvarnished truth about a world too afraid to confront its own contradictions. So, let down your guard tonight. Embrace the uncomfortable, question everything, and let your senses be jolted awake by the collision of measured precision with unrestrained rebellion.

Let this be a reminder: the 80s came first, NYC’s dark decade, an era of excess, decay, and untamed creativity. And let it be known: long before Banksy, Richard Hambleton painted fear into the city’s bones, transforming New York into his canvas of paranoia. His Shadowmen lurked on building facades, revealing their eerie silhouettes only when car headlights flashed against the walls (though they’d always been watching).

The irreverent artist prowled the streets like a feral phantom, leaving behind figures that felt more like specters than street art. His NYC was one of trepidation and mystery, where art wasn’t a decoration but a reckoning: a way to unblur our vision and force us to see the city’s slow descent. His mission was mistaken for psychosis, but he saw demons; he saw the real demons.

Calling New York a cesspool because of society’s depths was, in truth, a compliment. Outsiders critique the city without ever understanding its Empire State of mind. But New York has been inclusive since long before Lady Liberty arrived: all are welcome, and we insiders know you pass the same people on the way down as you did on the way up.

So, as the sounds of the city rise into the night, and the lights dim to a shadowy glow, remember: you’re not here to climb six flights of stairs and watch a show. You’re here to experience a moment of veritable resistance, where every detail, every look, is part of a story as intricate and unpredictable as NYC life itself.

Welcome, my comrades, to Danger Zone. Make of it what you will, and remember, we are all in this together.