As British label Palace builds its reign in Southeast Asia, it’s tempting to ask: do skate brands still matter? Or are we simply paying royal tribute for a screen-printed hoodie?
If you were strolling outside Scotts Square yesterday, perhaps towards the ineffable Far East Plaza, you would have noticed a long queue. The last time such a row formed, it was for the gourmet American restaurant chain Egg Slut in September 2021; today, the scramble is to breach the store of British label Palace Skateboards. Those in line were essentially participating in an air-fryer demonstration where their souls were the main ingredient and the device was set to extra-crispy. One’s eyes followed the queue to Palace, whose front door was kept closed and then pulled opened to modulate the traffic. We don’t even see this at Louis Vuitton. Or, to take the analogy a notch down, not at neighbours, Stüssy and Carhartt.
The theatrical bottleneck would work for Scotts Square, formerly Scotts Shopping Centre, where the now-defunct Tangs Studio held court. But the mall, after a multi-year crisis of identity, effectively discarded the rigid hierarchy of the old court and traded the sovereign box for the world of youth culture. It has cleverly re-engineered itself into Orchard Road’s primary high-street enclave for legacy skate and subculture labels. With Stüssy’s anchor of a prominent Chapter Store space, Carhartt WIP next door, and Palace now firmly in place, the ground floor configuration has coalesced into a tight cluster of blue-chip streetwear names. It is a fascinating real estate pivot: turning a mall that once tried to market itself on quiet, polished refinement into a gravitational pull for queue-heavy, logo-driven retail.
One’s eyes followed the queue to Palace, whose front door was kept closed and then pulled opened to modulate the traffic. We don’t even see this at Louis Vuitton
When luxury brands stock a skate deck and the only thing still doing the kickflips is the price tag, where do skate brands really stand today? In the 1990s and early 2000s, asking whether a skate brand mattered was almost nonsensical. The answer was obvious. Brands were social infrastructure. They sponsored riders, produced videos, funded scenes, created identities. Buying a hoodie was effectively buying into a tribe. Whether it was Palace in London, Supreme in New York, Polar in Malmö, or Quartersnacks on the internet, the garment was only the visible residue of a larger cultural machine. Today, the relationship feels inverted. With Palace opening its first Southeast Asian store here, we do not sense those queueing evaluating whether the team landed memorable parts this year. They saw Palace as a luxury-adjacent lifestyle signifier. The Tri-Ferg logo has become fluent in a language that has little to do with handrails, slam sections, or Southbank.
When we first visited the closed-last-month Palace flagship in Brewer Street, Soho, London years ago, we walked in and walked out, all within a grand three minutes of it. When we later encountered the brand in Dover Street Market at Haymarket in the West End, a ten-minute leisurely walk from Palace, we totally skipped the rack. It was the same for us at Supreme in Shibuya, Tokyo. Admittedly, we were not interested in the specific ritual of the drop. We could almost inventory the floor mentally before entering the stores. For those who enjoy discovery, the experience can feel strangely inert. Palace is mostly built around anticipation rather than exploration. To be sure, this is not indifference. It is pattern recognition. To us, a screen-printed hoodie is still a screen-printed hoodie. The queue outside Palace yesterday proved that, ultimately, Palace would reward the patient, also for their allegiance.
When every luxury house stocks a skate deck, the only thing still doing kickflips is the price tag
Screen shot: rokyunnn/Instagram
