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.
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. “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, so far, has showed off five 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.’”
He tells me he bought four Labubus this week. “I got lucky,” he says, noting how difficult they are to get ahold of as demand has soared. “It’s becoming more mainstream. I feel like it’s gonna stick. It’s not gonna go away in like a year. It’s gonna grow through time.”
The scarcity of Labubu is essential to its appeal. Not everyone can get one, which only makes people want them more. “I love that they go rare,” John says. “It’s dope that they run out of supply.”
The phenomenon around Labubu, in part, has to do with how the collectible is sold. Dolls are packaged in a blind box, meaning you don’t know which version you’re buying until you open it. It’s a clever marketing strategy that incentivizes repeat purchases. On TikTok, unboxing videos have helped maintain its aura of exclusivity. (Labubu unboxing ASMR videos are also apparently a thing.) The popularity has gotten so intense it has led to a counterfeit market of imitation dolls called Lafufu and a resellers market where limited editions are sold at an even higher markup. In the US, a retail blind box Labubu runs from $20 to $40, which can be purchased via the company’s website or app, but limited edition collaborations are selling for thousands on sites like eBay. At auction houses, the tiny demon toy can demand an even higher price; in June, a Sacai x Seventeen collaboration sold for $31,250, setting a new record. To meet the growing demand, Pop Mart has “significantly ramped up production” to 10 times higher than last year, Bloomberg reported.
“China always drops stuff at the right time. It’s like they know what’s going to trend,” says Bran, 34, who drives for Uber but also describes himself as a “hustler.” He doesn’t own any but says he is fascinated by all the symbolism people have projected onto Labubus. “They say that the doll has something to do with the devil—I dunno. People are always putting shit onto things. It’s crazy.”
The symbolism is also central to understanding Labubu. People want something good and innocent to believe in. It’s easy to feel cynical about the state of American society today as the Trump administration stokes fear and undermines the idea of a free democracy. With Labubu, people have found a fad worth rallying around—if for no other reason than to feel a sense of joy in a time of suffering.
And it’s working. Labubu-themed events are a booming market. What started as a viral obsession has transformed into a wave of in-person experiences, from raves and tattoo pop-ups to cakedecorating workshops. On the ticketing platform Eventbrite, Labubu-themed gatherings surged 518 percent between June and August, and attendance jumped 178 percent month over month, according to data shared with WIRED. “These numbers point to a broader shift,” says Page Dudley, a spokesperson for the company. “Cultural moments are moving IRL faster than ever.”
At the party, every square of the dance floor is nearly accounted for, and to each person present it takes on a different meaning: To some, it is a universe; to others, a church; and for many more, it is just another Friday night out with friends.
“I’m a fake, I’m a fake” Mercedes, 20, says of not owning a Labubu or knowing much about the trend. She smiles and pretends to shield her face, as if her cover might get blown. She came to party with friends in support of Jungle House, the event producers behind tonight’s celebration. “We gotta rave, you know.”
Avery, 26, didn't want to miss the event. He’s wearing a pink mesh long-sleeve shirt and has four Labubus clipped to the waist of his jeans. “It’s kinda related to Funkos or like the little Tamagotchis. You can put it on your bag, take it everywhere with you.” For him, a Labubu is the perfect accessory. “I was at another rave. I took one to Hard Summer, and everyone was like, ‘Oh my god, Labubu! Oh my god, Labubu! Oh my god, Labubu!’” I ask if having one makes him feel like part of a larger community with a shared sense of purpose. “Maybe, I dunno. I’m an attention whore. I just love attention.”
In the back corner, a young couple makes out to a techno remix of Pitbull’s “Give Me Everything”—I can’t help but wonder if they’ve been waiting for a moment exactly like this all night—and the crowd, high on the euphoria of the evening, sings in unison: For all we know we might not get tomorrow / let’s do it tonight. There’s jumping and gyrating; people crash into one another like waves onto the shore, dizzy with joy. Not long after, a bass-heavy flip of Soulja Boy’s “Crank Dat” gushes from the sound system, enveloping the dance floor in even more pandemonium.
As I watch the scene unfold, I’m struck by the wild abandon of it all. It’s a silly, overhyped trend that never made much sense to me, but one with a purpose I couldn’t even see. I went to the rave in search of meaning and all I got was a party.
“They’re just fun,” Avery says of Labubu before disappearing into the crowd.
Tonight, that’s all that matters.
