It’s past 1 a.m. on a Tuesday in downtown Manhattan, and A$AP Rocky, in a white long-sleeve tee and relaxed jeans—his khaki Saint Laurent trench and Chanel trapper hat slung across a chair—is contemplating his next pool shot. These late weeknight hours are usually reserved for working, Lindsey, a member of his production-management team, tells me, as Rocky paces around a corner nook at Soho House, behind him a delightful display of glass candy jars situated on sage-green lacquered shelving. But it’s been only eight days since the Harlem-born rapper, designer, and father to two was acquitted on assault charges. Everybody’s on a post-not-guilty high.
Rocky’s been at this for roughly 10 hours—by which I mean hanging out, seeing friends, family members, and business associates, and talking to me about the upcoming Met Gala over tea (chamomile for him, English breakfast for me). I’ve met his assistant, Marco; his photographer, Brandon; the designer Joshua Jamal; Rocky’s longtime friend A$AP TyY; and his grandmother Cathy. And I’ve watched strangers float in and out of his orbit, including a handful at Soho House, who, after stealing glances at the self-professed “pretty boy” from Harlem, sensed correctly that he was open to them joining our group.
Rocky has an inviting spirit. I’d experienced it earlier that day uptown in the sprawling basement of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, across the street from a brownstone once owned by the poet, playwright, and activist Langston Hughes, where Vogue had staged its shoot. This featured, among other things (Balmain, Jacquemus, and Ozwald Boateng suits; trunks of jewelry; a pair of dalmatians), Rocky’s collection of vintage Louis Vuitton and Goyard suitcases, all stacked on a stage. Nearby was a craft-services table laden with the plant-based items he requires—trays of sweet potatoes, avocado rolls, and cabbage salad next to a coffee-and-tea station with fresh lemons and ginger root. The candle burning was Flamingo Estate Adriatic Muscatel Sage, and Law Roach was on hand, too, fitting Rocky into his next look. “What’s up, sis,” Rocky said to me, flashing a smile and extending his arms for a hug. “It’s nice to meet you.”
He remained infectiously gregarious for what would become hours, talking about everything from The Brutalist (“I really did watch it three times,” he said. “It’s that good, to me, because I’m an aspiring furniture designer”) to Roach’s diamond-bezel Audemars Piguet watch (“That’s my watch, bro! I was supposed to buy it when I was told not guilty, but I got too high”) to his affection for Cathy (“I was a grandma’s boy kind of kid,” he told me. “She was my best friend”). Cathy herself arrives at the shoot in a red suit, a double strand of pearls, and caged, kitten-heel mules in gold. The two pose for photographer Tyler Mitchell’s camera.
She lives nearby and that’s where we head next, Rocky in his chauffeured Rolls-Royce Cullinan; his grandmother and a family friend in an Escalade behind us. He has something to share about nearly every building and block we pass, and a few that we don’t. He knows that those who call Harlem home are no monolith, and he’s proof. “I’m not a street dude at all,” he says. “I’m just from here.”
Before we go inside his grandmother’s building, Rocky—now dressed in oversized jeans, the band of his Savage X Fenty boxer briefs peeking out; a white collared shirt from the fashion design arm of his creative agency, AWGE; and a floor-length faux-fur Puma coat—offers a disclaimer of sorts: “I know my circumstances, I know who I am, but none of that matters to me. I’m still regular, as much as possible. This is what I do all the time—come here, kick it with her.”
As for the apartment I’m being welcomed into, “You’re not going to believe it,” he says. “I swear you won’t. You’re going to be like, You stay here?”
But it’s not surprising at all. The apartment is marked by a narrow hallway, off of which are two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen, and if you make your way to the living room in the back, sink into his grandmother’s plush sofa, and listen to Rocky and Cathy banter and reminisce, you’ll learn that he often spends nights in the second bedroom on his old full-size bed. Laundry hangs from the type of wooden-and-glass china cabinet innumerable Black grandmothers have in their houses. (“Grandma’s still old-school, she likes to air-dry,” Rocky says.) Cathy tells me they used to watch cartoons together when her little “Rockman” was a boy. She’s lived at this address for more than 20 years. “At one time, I was considering getting an apartment [with] a terrace on the top of the building,” she says, referring to a nearby luxury mid-rise. “But why pay three or four times the amount of money to be in the same neighborhood?”
“Because your grandson is me!” Rocky tells her, throwing his arms in the air. “You can get that terrace if you want it.”
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Cathy was always convinced Rocky “was going somewhere,” she says—but she’s especially proud of the parent he’s become to sons RZA and Riot, and the relationship they were born from. “I’m glad that he settled down, and I’m happy with who he settled down with,” she says of Rihanna. “She’s a down-to-earth person.”
“She loves her some Rih Rih,” Rocky adds. (Both Cathy, who is Rocky’s paternal grandmother, and Rihanna are Bajan, so that helps too.)
“Are you excited for the Met Gala?” I ask Cathy.
“She don’t know what that is,” Rocky says.
“Of course I know what the Met Gala is,” Cathy says.
“My bad, damn,” Rocky says, then throws his head back, remembering one of his fellow Met Gala co-chairs. “My grandma got a crush on Colman Domingo.”
“I love him,” Cathy says.
Because the windows are often down while we’re in the car, people on the street spot Rocky, making their enthusiasm known by yelling his name. He replies to everyone with a “What’s up?,” a “’Preciate you!,” a “Thank you, G,” or a “Thank you, sis.”
“It’s just like an exchange of energy, right?,” he says of the interactions. “Like, I sincerely love people; I’m a loving person. When you come across people that genuinely match that energy, you feel like a kindred spirit.”
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We’re headed downtown, to Mitchell’s new exhibition of photographs at Gagosian, “Ghost Images,” and once we’re inside it’s Rocky who is doling out the praise. “It feels like a scene from a movie,” he says about one image of a group of subjects on a dock. His reaction to a photograph, printed on fabric, of a man wearing a general’s jacket: “Alright, Tyler.” And when he first sees a print of three women all dressed in white, he proclaims, “That’s the one.”
Rocky spent much of 2024 working on his forthcoming album, Don’t Be Dumb, and during the week leading up to his Vogue shoot, he transformed a two-room suite at Soho House into a studio space—with one room furnished to his liking with a number of his suitcases, a furry lime-green coatrack he designed in the shape of a giant cactus, and various baskets filled with an ever-growing collection of toys he’s bought for his kids. “I need to include what I just experienced,” he says of the music left to record.
It’s in this suite where Rocky conducts a video interview, sequesters himself to FaceTime with his family, and eventually reflects on what it was like to be named a Met co-chair and given a cover of Vogue.
“Shooting in Harlem today was surreal,” he tells me. “It was like a dream come true.” Even though his family sometimes struggled when he was younger, he says, “what I was privy to and got to experience made me so lucky. I grew up with both parents; I got to see love. And being from Harlem, it just gives you this…pizzazz.” (Being photographed inside Hughes’s brownstone was a consolation of sorts, as Rocky inquired about buying the home a few years ago. The owner wasn’t willing to sell.)
While Rocky appreciates his co-chair appointment, he wasn’t necessarily surprised by the honor. “Who else?” he jokes. Figures spanning decades and a mix of backgrounds come to mind when he thinks about Black dandies: Louis Armstrong, Frank Lucas, his father, Malcolm X, the members of Dipset. Even his sons come up. “It’s in them already,” he says. “Look who they moms is. She dress her ass off.”
Despite his New York City roots, Rocky set foot in The Metropolitan Museum of Art for the first time in 2014 at the Met Gala, which honored the late designer Charles James. “I know that sounds mad ignorant, because you could be a local and still go to a museum,” he says, but the Louvre isn’t always filled with Parisians either. At this year’s gala, “I’m looking forward to seeing everybody celebrate Black excellence,” Rocky says. “When people celebrate a different culture or race,” he adds, “sometimes it’s done with intent, sometimes with ulterior motives.” The exhibition “Superfine: Tailoring Black Style” strikes Rocky as “genuine…and very, very, very.…” He takes a second, choosing just the right word. “So many I want to say, but I’m just going to say, important.”
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While Rocky realizes that his own penchant for the pearls, kilts, barrettes, furs, and Saint Laurent suits he wore throughout his trial have labeled him a modern dandy, he’s quick to point out that what some call a very specific aesthetic, he just calls getting dressed. “That’s regular for us, bro,” he says. “I’m from Harlem, we showed y’all how to do this.”
The late-night hours involve a delivery of orecchiette and ravioli from Cucina Alba, drinks and fries upstairs, and several smoking breaks. There is also more talk of Rihanna (Rocky describing his love for her as “internal, external, infinite, the past, the future”) and his kids, whom he’s seemingly missing. “The older one, he stays to himself—he likes his books,” Rocky says of RZA. Riot, on the other hand, thrives on attention. “He likes to take stuff from his brother so his brother can chase him.”
By 1 a.m. there are no fewer than 10 people at the Soho House pool table, and by 1:30 we’ve migrated to the center of the dining room for three rounds of crazy eights. (Half of the people Rocky deals in are those who just happened to be at Soho House.) At 2 a.m. the bartender is pouring tequila shots at Rocky’s insistence, and Rocky raises his glass to propose a toast: “I’m so glad to be here with all of you and not in jail.” At 2:52 a.m. (when I’m ready to bid my farewell) Rocky and a few of his collaborators have decided to head back to the suite to work on some music. The look on his face is of pure contentment—which is exactly what he describes: “I feel so blessed,” he says. “I feel lucky. I feel happy. I feel joyful. I’m on a high. I’m going to enjoy it while it’s still here. It’s just beautiful.”
In this story: For Rocky: hair, Tashana Miles; grooming by Michelle Waldron using Dior Sauvage. For Cathy: hair, Sondrea “Dre” Demry-Sanders; makeup, A. Love. Produced by Rosco Production. Set Design: Julia Wagner.
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