I like Post Malone’s music, but what the hell does he know about fashion? Apparently, enough to make me come to Paris and find out. I ask the universe for a rockstar who will jet me around the world, and the universe delivers in the form of a first-class Eurostar ticket. I know my way around the country lifestyle—I’ve been to Skinny Dennis in Brooklyn, and I once spent a weekend showing Zach Bryan around London (I didn’t know who he was). I know Lana Del Rey kissed Morgan Wallen. Honestly, I think it went to his head. But cowboy fashion? Not exactly my rodeo. Still, I’m invited to witness the launch of Austin Post, the musician’s eponymous clothing line.
I arrive at Hôtel de Bourdon, previously Maison Pozzo di Borgo, a gilded Parisian palace that once housed fashion kaiser Karl Lagerfeld. Today, it smells faintly of leather, smoke, horses, and Bud Light. Karl is rolling in his grave. Across the courtyard, Post and his friends lounge like a Renaissance painting—cowboy boots on freshly cut grass. I think they’re soaking in the last of the sun before the rain returns, but no: they’re chain-smoking like proper Parisians.
Post Malone—Austin to his close friends—lives in Utah, my favorite place on Earth. I’ve never been, but I’ve consumed enough Real Housewives of Salt Lake City to know there’s nowhere better. I ask if he’s met the cast. He grins and says, “Man, that’s a fucking fun show, but not my crowd.” He says the Housewives are Sundance; he’s more Randolph, the tiny ranch town.
The show is titled “At First Light,” referencing his debut as a creative director but also, as he puts it, “telling the story of waking up in Utah, watching the sun come up, it’s freezing cold… then you go punch cows and go get them, and then you go play a show.” If, like me, you’re disturbed by the thought of Post Malone punching a cow, relax—it’s cowboy slang.
When I speak to him, the 18-time Grammy nominee has just rolled out of bed. “I woke up maybe 3 hours ago, and I went to bed maybe 6 hours ago, something like that. But I’m good. I’m hungover, but let’s bring the shitshow to Paris,” he says, breakfast beer in hand—no green juice, no meditation, no daily affirmations. Even with no sleep, he looks fresh. While he gives me an OOTD breakdown, I can’t stop thinking: is he wearing Skims underwear? I let the intrusive thought win. “Maybe I’m not wearing any. I guess we’ll never know,” he says. I do it for all my girls at home who want to know.
The night before, he goes to WWE. “John Cena is there, and he is good. So badass. Seth Rollins wins. We got beef now,” he says. I love gossip. “Oh really? What’s the tea?” I ask. He laughs at my choice of words. “I ain’t running. I run it already. Wrestlemania 2026. I’ll see him there.” I don’t really speak WWE, but I’m on his side—and I’d better get guest list for that too.
The show itself is cinematic. It opens with “A Horse with No Name” by America (so fitting), part of a playlist Post curates with Paris-based artist Wladimir Schall. A Utah sunset glows across Lagerfeld’s former ballroom. Dan Sablon of Vogue France styles the western-inspired collection beautifully: joggers tucked into cowboy boots, half-undone shirts, and bandanas in unexpected places. Every pair of pants has a tiny guitar-pick pocket. For a straight guy, Post Malone never shies away from fashion risks; he painted his nails before Harry Styles.
Maddie Stapleton crafts the turquoise jewelry for the show, while her husband, country star Chris Stapleton, sits front row. A$AP Nast is there too—always down to support a fashion venture. The crowd is sensory overload: blonde highlights, perfect wavy hair, leather boots, Southern accents echoing off marble walls. Is this the American dream? I meet people from Utah, Idaho, Iowa, Wyoming. The show closes with a model on horseback (gasp). I watch the frantic effort to make sure the horse doesn’t turn the hotel into a stable.
Post-show, the models look at him with pure adoration—wide-eyed, reverent, gagged. He is one of the top 10 most-streamed artists in the world. Everyone wants a selfie. The boy who closed the show in a buffalo-hair coat—Post’s favorite piece—a 22-year-old Parisian who has never walked a runway, tells me: “I cannot believe I closed my first show. I am just a child of Paris, I am not signed, and I’m at Post Malone’s first show.” He looks like he could fly that night.
The after-party is fab, basically a Bud Light–sponsored meet-and-greet. Post’s preferred beer flies in en masse from the U.S. He welcomes everyone like an old friend, kissing babies’ heads, chatting with ease, aura-farming without even trying.
It’s rough waking up for the brand’s pop-up at WORDS SOUNDS COLORS & SHAPES the next day. My head—unaccustomed to Bud Light—is pounding. I’m usually more of a martini girl, but I’ll drink anything with Post Malone. I perk up the second I slip into a black leather jacket with fringe across the back and arms, retailing for around €1,000 (if PR or Post is reading this and feeling generous, just know it’s on my wishlist). Even if I don’t wear an Austin Post leather jacket, I think I wear his attitude. With only 3 hours of sleep, I feel like I understand him on a deeper level. That night, I meet a food influencer from L.A. outside Aux Deux Amis who lies about being besties with Post—but he does buy my friends and me côte de boeuf, so all is forgiven.
At the sold-out concert later, I expect fake cowboy costumes, but these are Parisians; they don’t waste money on prop hats and boots. I meet two girls in the bathroom, both in cowboy boots, leather hats, and oversized denim jackets. They say they loved the collection. One begs: “Posty, if you hear this, next season, please, womenswear!” He doesn’t perform his Beyoncé collab, “Levii’s Jeans,” but he does perform “Rockstar.” People cry.
Backstage, I ask Post his plans for the rest of the week. He shrugs. “I’m gonna drink a lot of red wine and try my best to hit 80 cigarettes a day—it’s a lifestyle,” he says. Some may question whether the world needs Post Malone’s clothes, but in Paris—with the boots, the denim, the smoke in the air—it’s obvious: people aren’t just buying it. They’re living it.