Inside the cavern of Catch One nightclub on the last Friday in August, neon laser beams shower the dance floor and bodies sway in devotional harmony, as ravers from every corner of Los Angeles flock to deliver an offering at the altar of Labubu.
Everyone is here. The true believers and truly curious, the trend chasers, the nightlife purists, the wannabe influencers, the party crashers, and those who simply want to be seen.
It’s a celebration of Labubu, the furry Ewok-like collectible that, in an age of fly-by-night TikTok trends, AI influencers, and cheap hype, seems to have become a bona fide phenomenon. Some 250 people aged 18 and up have gathered, unified in their appreciation for their new toy god. Outside, a line snakes through the parking lot, and soft hints of weed smoke perfume the balmy night air.
“It’s the Labubu rave, baby!”
John, a law student
There are three things I know about Labubu: Either you have one, you want one, or you have an opinion about one. So I’m here to make sense of its cultlike mania.
“It’s the Labubu rave, baby!” announces John, a 27-year-old law student who is at the party with a group of friends. “I just think that they’re really cute,” he says. From his backpack he pulls a limited-edition Coca-Cola Labubu and delicately holds it as if it were a trophy, waiting for me to admire it. “I know part of why they are so popular is consumerism. But they’re so cute. It’s a trend. Things catch on.” (Attendees WIRED spoke to declined to share their last name, citing privacy or work concerns.)
Originally conceived in 2015 by Chinese-Dutch artist Kasing Lung, Labubu has since taken off at a global scale in the past year, with high demand driven by celebrity endorsements. Everyone from Rihanna, BTS, Kim Kardashian, and Naomi Osaka—who showed off four crystal-encrusted limited editions at this year’s US Open tournament—have sung the praise song of Labubu. Today, Labubu is sold by the Chinese toy maker Pop Mart as part of its franchise “The Monsters.” According to the company, it has generated over $670 million in revenue in the first six months of 2025, a 668 percent increase compared to the same period last year, WIRED reported in August.
From a stage inside Catch One, a movie-theater-size LED screen plays animations of the furry toy deity, and the DJ summons his faithful. “Everybody put their Labubu up,” he instructs into the mic. Hands launch into the air. Bass shoots from the speakers. There is a contagious velocity to the moment that is hard not to get hooked on. The DJ cues up “Late at Night,” Lily Palmer and Maddix’s techno earworm, and the crowd erupts as one. Labubus swing from necks, are fist-pumped skyward, and sway from vest pockets. The energy is constant.
“It’s a good fashion statement,” says Aiden, 21. “If you match it well, depending on the colors, put a good outfit on and take a photo, it’s a look.” A manager for a clothing company, Aiden says having a Labubu has become an indicator of taste. “People who have one already know, like, ‘Oh shit, a Labubu. OK you’re cool.’”