"The Future is Unwritten" - Rembembering Joe...

This past Tuesday would have been Joe Strummer’s 60th birthday had we not lost him like so many of our great voices. He was only 50 when he died and its hard to believe its already been ten years without him. In their prime the Clash were widely christened “The Only Band that Matters” and that sentiment has lost none of its truth in the passing years. With Paul bringing the style and swagger, Mick supplying consummate musicianship and Joe giving voice to the cause, the Clash succeeded in transcending the numerous labels heaped upon them in their all-too-brief existence. They were too big for punk and 2-tone’s limited scope but never lost sight of the values intrinsic to those worlds; infusing them into their later experimentation with rockabilly, rap, pop and the endless directions they pursued. They were punk with a soulful spirit; 2-tone with an incensed snarl; pop with an idealist’s manifesto. The intensity of their performances is legendary and has been described variously as a rallying discourse, a religious experience and a call to arms. It was the kind of intensity and urgency that can’t be controlled or sustained, always growing and looking for a release, and they would succumb to its pressure after ten short years, six albums and a vibrant flash of inspiration that we’re still only just learning to fully appreciate.

I was nine or ten the first time I heard Joe’s voice. I remember stumbling upon a cassette copy of Combat Rock somewhere around the house that must have belonged to my sister or one of her friends before she moved out. The only music I’d really been exposed to at this point were my parent’s old records; Steppenwolf, Janis, Elvis…not the worst but certainly not my own. I remember thinking the first time I heard “Know Your Rights” that it was unlike anything I’d ever heard before; it sounded angry and a little weird to my novice ears. There was a definite, desperate passion in the voice; he was pleading for me to listen, to act, to do….something, though I didn’t know what. I listened to the tape a few times and smiled whenever I heard “Rock the Casbah” or “Should I Stay or Should I Go” on the radio, thinking to myself “Hey, I know what this is”. After awhile my tastes changed; within a few years I was caught up in a whirlwind of De La Soul and Tribe Called Quest and The Clash had slipped away with my parent’s Buddy Holly and Creedence albums. I never saw the cassette after those first few months.

I didn't find the Clash again until I was sixteen. I was looking for new sounds and a brief flirtation with Nirvana and grunge provided a smooth transition into punk.  Whereas with my first experience I had jumped in at the end when the band was on the verge of collapse, this time I started in their frantic, idealistic youth. After hearing “Janie Jones” on a local AM punk radio show and being reminded of my first introduction a few years earlier I almost immediately ran out and picked up their 1977 self titled release . It was everything my angst-ridden teenage heart and soul yearned for; loud, confrontational, inspiring, alive. Songs like “White Riot”, “Hate and War” and “Career Opportunities” fueled my anger over social injustice and inequality and gave my teenage anger a cause to rail against and the words with which to do so. I spent the latter part of my teen years devouring Joe’s words; his thoughts and ideals about equality and justice. His belief that the poor and downtrodden masses were worth something; something more than their current lot anyway. That they deserved to be heard and the Clash could deliver this message to the world without compromising their integrity or losing sight of the message. I believed in the Clash and their message and still do to this day.

As my tastes evolved over time I was pleased to find that the Clash’s expansive catalogue kept pace. The two-tone beats of “Rudie Can’t Fail” and “Wrong ‘em Boyo” were there for my obsessive Specials phase while the haunting strums of “Straight to Hell” complimented my more melancholy tastes. I have sat and listened to "London Calling" until the days were indistinguishable and spread themselves leisurely across the span of a fortnight or more, and there have been near year-long stretches where I've not heard a word in Joe's voice, but have thought warmly of the words with the knowledge that they were intrinsically part of me. Other than the Cure no band has woven itself so completely into my fabric.

I remember the last and only time I saw Joe live; playing a small club in Phoenix with the Mescaleros. A weeknight concert and the general set-up of the club allowed me to push my way to only a few feet from the stage.Joe paced the spotlit stage; boxing our ears with his well honed  verbal assault that had lost none of it's frenetic energy after two decades of touring. I'd like to say I remember every song he played; every note and every word that transpired over those two hours, but in my excitement it passed before me in a glorious, hazy dream scape of sight and sound. When the encore came he spoke of Joey Ramone who had died less than a year earlier; about the importance of the Ramones to the Clash and every English band in the early punk years (and, in truth, to every rock band since as we are now realizing). He closed the night with a cover of Joey's classic "Blitzkrieg Bop"; and then the Blitzkrieg was over. I went home feeling like I'd cheated time somehow; that I'd been allowed a glimpse of some transitory yet timeless phenomenon, like the last bit of dream bleeding into the waking dawn. By the end of the year he was gone.

I'm older now; my hair isn't blue anymore and I packed my patch and button covered jacket away years ago. Most of all I'm not the angry, confrontational, punk I used to be. I know what I believe and try to live by those beliefs and let others do the same; but there are times when I feel the anger building just below the calm, responsible exterior; this twisting, clawing indignation building in the back of my throat at whatever social injustice has stirred me. I feel it and I know it's Joe reminding me to keep fighting the wrongs of the world; that there are some beliefs that must hold true and not be compromised. I don't know if its a code to live by, or whether it means he's my hero, but I like to think I'm a better man because I have that guiding voice. In the end Joe wouldn't have wanted to be thought of as a hero anyway; had that sort of status attracted him he could have achieved it by simply following in the footsteps of his father, a diplomat, or his mother, a nurse. Instead he chose a life where the music and the message were the weapons of change for a voiceless, downtrodden majority. In the end he is more than a hero; he is words and ideas that continue to inspire. With that in mind, I'll end with some of those words:

     “I'd like to say that people can change anything they want to; and that means everything in the world. Show me any country and there'll be people in it. And it's the people that make the country. People have got to stop pretending they're not on the world. People are running about following their little tracks. I am one of them. But we've all gotta stop just following our own little mouse trail. People can do anything; this is something that I'm beginning to learn. People are out there doing bad things to each other; it's because they've been dehumanized. It's time to take that humanity back into the centre of the ring and follow that for a time. Greed... it ain't going anywhere! They should have that on a big billboard across Times Square. Think on that. Without people you're nothing."

• Joe Strummer: The Future Is Unwritten (2007)

I LoveHate you, New York...

Saturday the 18^th marks two years in New York for Jess and I; though often times the city still feels so completely alien and new. As is the case with any point on a map its life’s little, stolen moments of bliss that matter, not the few grandiose occasions that generally involve far more stress than enjoyment in the end. This is exponentially true in New York where realizing that you’re sitting in the sand at Rockaway Beach with the Ramones blaring in your ears renders all that day’s troubles to nothing more than vague background noise. Walking through winding streets in Greenwich Village; stumbling through the doors of a new found bar or restaurant that is this weeks “best food I’ve ever had in my life!”, these are moments of surreal perfection that only a handful of places in the world will ever be able to deliver.

Admittedly, however, there are also times when it seems like we’ve been here ages; too long to remember the hopes and dreams that brought us here and far past the point when the city’s sights are able to distract from the indelible struggle of life lived in subways and single room apartments with eight million other’s pushing against the same current as you. Your patience, once seemingly without limit, is spent by mid morning; the weather is perpetually too something not ideal, be it hot, cold, rainy, humid, snowy etc, etc. Your annoyance with yet another person begging for money on the A train when you’re just trying to get home from work is only compounded by your self-directed anger that you don’t care more about a fellow human’s misery when you know you should. You start questioning the kind of person you’ve become; what the grime and cynicism and intolerance of this city has turned you into. You wonder if leaving will bring you back to normal; a part of you is terrified it won’t.

I was talking with a friend and mentioned my love-hate of New York and she, a fellow transplant with a full two decades under her belt, said that feeling is the bond that unites most New Yorkers, especially those not born in the city. The discussion progressed until the realization hit us that living in New York is not un-like being in an abusive relationship. You’re initially attracted by the adventure and inherent coolness of it all; so hip, so cultured; full of parties and romance and knowledge. When you first start this relationship all you see is the excitement and adventure and you willfully ignore any incongruence. You fight for your new love; defend it against naysayers and question the mental faculties of any who would cast aspersions. When you start coming home in anger or tears; when you’re a little shorter with the people you encounter, you refuse to believe it could stem from your new surroundings. After awhile your calls to friends and family to remind them of how great it all is in New York morph into exasperated rants about being broke and the goddamned cold and the goddamned trains and how amenities used to be a pool, storage, weight room, fire place, patio and in apartment laundry and have somehow now been redefined as an elevator and an in building communal laundry, They tell you to just leave; you’re miserable. Deep down though, the thought terrifies you. You can’t leave; leaving means giving up and more than that you know, you absolutely KNOW that nowhere else could be as great as New York. Besides, it will get better, eventually.

I guess that little bit of hope is really the key to lasting in this city. I’ve known people who’ve come to New York on their parent’s dime and were back home within a couple months. Jess and I showed up two years ago homeless and jobless with four bags and two dogs; somehow we’re still here. For how much longer we’re not sure, but for now those few perfect moments are enough to nullify, or at least dampen the noise. The best example of this I can share occurred one Monday night this past summer. We had gone to a late movie at Lincoln Square on the upper west side and after the cinema spilled its crowds out into a perfect eighty degree city night we skipped the closest subway for one nearer the park. We walked through the night down the streets lined with stately, quiet mansions and museums; laughing and talking and feeling like the sleeping city was new and vibrant and at that moment belonged only to the lovers and dreamers awake enough to see its silent beauty. We got to the train and leaned against the pole as it ferried us and our fellow passengers swiftl and unnoticed beneath the streets and buildings that still echo the horns and voices of Harlem’s golden age. We’re talking, and laughing and just over Jess’ shoulder I can see the man laying down; sleeping; blissfully unaware of where the train would take him, as in truth we all were on some level. He twitched. He stirred. He shuffled in his haze. He snorted and rolled to his side and as he unzipped and began covering himself, the bench and the floor of the car in piss I gave Jess a calm and resolute look and stated “you need to follow me this way; NOW”. I pulled her toward the far end of the car, near the other passengers huddled close to the implied safety of the exit. Amidst the disgusted exultations of the passengers the man nearest me looked at Jess and I and spoke the timeless mantra which succeeds in excusing all the city’s transgressions to those willing to accept the truth of it’s simple reasoning; “Goddamn Man! Only in New York!!”

To infinity and beyond....

The Mars rover Curiosity is scheduled to touch down around 1:30am this evening and for fourteen minutes we won’t know if it ended in nothing more than a cloud of red dust and a tangle of twisted metal and wire. The unfortunate truth is that even if the rover sticks a landing so improbable that the entire scenario seems more based in science fiction than science fact, it will in all likelihood count for little in swaying the current opinion of space exploration; that we are better off worrying about the problems on earth than dreaming about the stars. The justifiable concern is that a disastrous landing would lead to complete disillusionment in the Mars program and a moratorium on our efforts to explore further; that the aspirations of the great, golden space age of the last century will finally be snuffed out entirely in our retreat from adversity. The truth is that space exploration compensates for the millions invested not in rocks or soil samples, but in increased knowledge and new technologies for all mankind; in inspiring us to work together to solve greater problems and in renewed hope and optimism for the human race. It forces us to embrace our future; to not wallow in our apathy or resign ourselves to the dystopian world that some would say is all but inevitable. It fosters the belief that one day all the sacrifices made and “wasted” efforts will lead to a discovery of such importance that it will unite us against our shared problems to benefit mankind as a whole. With that in mind I say good luck and safe landings with the hope that it marks a new age of exploration rather than signaling an end to an adventure that has barely begun.

Hiatus...

After a half a year of no posts I arrived at a conclusion; while I love fashion, I inherently dislike fashion blogs. Fashion will continue to be a frequent topic, however I've decided to broaden the scope a bit and include the many other thoughts, obsessions and peculiarities that run through my mind on a daily basis. With that in mind I've chosen a more appropriate title, Tommyrot, which better describes the future writings to be found here (i.e. nonsense). I'll try to keep posts more frequent, though I make no promises.

Cheers,
The Dandy Gent (Still)

How to Avoid Being Mistaken for an Ice-Cream Cone and Other Helpful Tips...

I’ve heard that if you ask for what you need the universe will eventually deliver, in its own way. For some time I had been on the hunt for a heavy coat as an alternative to my Spiewak pea coat. I was beginning to grow search weary when I happened upon a perfect piece by Schott Bros. NYC. The red and black plaid heavy wool coat has faux sherpa lining, a western cut yoke and leather buttons. Truthfully, I had my initial reservations about the piece given that my personal style is inclined more toward urban gentleman than rural rancher. However, rather than the traditional boxy, ill-fitting jackets that typify this particular style I found an impeccably tailored coat that fits better than most blazer’s I’ve tried on. This highlights one of the most important qualities of any garment; the fit. This simple three letter word should carry more weight than any designer name as even the most expensive suit will look abysmal if the tailoring isn’t correct for the body beneath it.

There is an unfortunate discrepancy between the ways clothes are marketed to men versus how they are marketed to women. Dispersed between the shots of models with their unrealistic physiques, one generally finds in women’s magazines helpful pointers on what styles work best with different bodies and what a woman who is “pear shaped” should avoid. These are not rules, but rather advice on how to dress the figure you’ve been given in the most flattering way, highlighting the assets and downplaying the imperfections, regardless what fruit your body is akin to. It is something almost wholly lacking in men’s magazines, which is unfortunate since highlighting whatever assets we’ve been bestowed with should be as important to men as it is to women. If they must daily live with unreal expectations of perfect hair, flawless make-up and stylish clothes then a man can certainly dress himself in clothes that fit.

The incorrect assumption is that one must be in peak physical condition in order to look good in their clothes. The “ideal” body shapes; a broad shouldered small waisted triangle for men and a curvy hourglass for women, would seem to exclude about 80% of the people on the planet. The truth is that these body types have, for better or worse, been considered attractive for at least the last four hundred years and well before we were counting calories and attempting to keep up with our gym regimen. In the absence of healthy diets, trips to the gym or exceptionally generous genes, clothes were tasked with creating the silhouettes deemed most appealing to those we wished to appeal to. This is as true today as it was then. There is not much difference in shape between the universally flattering A-Line skirt sold at J-Crew every year and the tight-bodice, full-skirt gowns of the 18^th century. Each is intended to highlight or give the illusion of a narrow waist while downplaying hips. It is a fine example of combining form and function with the added bonus that women today have been liberated from suffocating, corseted bodices.

So how do the technicalities of fit and proportion work with men’s styles? Unless you wear a kilt or have embraced the man-skirt along with Marc Jacobs, all that talk about A-lines must seem quite superfluous. However, men’s clothing is supposed to be as flattering to our shapes as a woman’s blouse is to her figure. Blazers, for example, should fit close to the body without being tight and nip in at the waist to help create the illusion of broad shoulders, even in instances where they are lacking (the excessive shoulder padding of the 1980’s also attempted to make up for this, however this is the poorer option as when you actually increase the shoulder size your head appears smaller by comparison; a look flattering to no one). Pants should be slim (not tight) and straight legged, or with at most the subtlest taper below the knee. This uniformity of line creates the illusion of height (the illusion is ruined, however if your pants are too long and pool at the cuff) and helps avoid the ice-cream cone shape one achieves by wearing pants which start out pleated and baggy at the waist and taper through the whole leg (a look solidified when one wears a too-large white button-up billowing out over a belt like some giant scoop of vanilla). Thin gentlemen should avoid wider lapels and ties as they will look like a child in their father’s work clothes; while larger gentlemen shouldn’t attempt skinny lapels and ties that will only highlight the expanse of shirt on either side. It seems a bit daunting at first, and again these are by no means steadfast rules, but taking these and other techniques of fit and proportion into consideration will help you achieve a look that is most flattering to your body. The way a garment fits entirely affects the outcome of the look. The aforementioned Schott jacket, regardless of its warmth, the great discount on price or its maker, would not have been a good purchase if I looked more like a lumberjack in it than someone who appreciates heritage brands. Fit is the too-seldom considered trait that makes all the difference.

The Curated Closet and Chasing Cary Grant down the "Middle of the Road"

Given my obsession with gentlemen’s fashion and my perpetual quest to achieve the same level of sophisticated cool as Cary Grant, my wife recently presented me the perfect gift. While researching issues of GQ from the 60’s for a project, she stumbled upon a couple interviews with the style icon and thoughtfully copied them for me. The three articles were each about a year apart from one another, yet there was a common theme that highlights why Grant is widely considered the archetype of the modern gentleman; an approach which should be the cornerstone of any stylish man’s philosophy.

When asked about perpetually being included on best dressed lists throughout his long career, Grant attributed this success to a style he refers to as “middle of the road”. This in no way implies that his clothes were overly conservative in style, as those that are tend to look outdated as rapidly as those that are overly trendy. Rather, it means he chose items that were timeless and would withstand the subtle changes in taste that transform every wardrobe over time. Today the best term I’ve heard for describing this philosophy is the “curated closet”.

The idea of curating your closet implies that, with a few exceptions, only items that coincide with your style and aesthetic are allowed into your wardrobe. Furthermore, these should be items that are not overtly trendy, but also not too conservative as to ensure their longevity. It is a disciplined approach as it means denying yourself something that you somewhat like in favor of the piece that perfectly fits the aesthetic you are trying to achieve. For my own style, the first step was omitting, or at least minimizing logos. This was not unlike a sea-change from the style choices of my early twenties and took some getting used to. After time, however, I realized that my goal was to dress in a way that the clothes spoke for themselves rather than a label speaking for them. It is, however, an ongoing discipline; I’ve forced myself to pass on really great G-Star or Diesel jackets, something at which each brand excels, because of their aggressive use of labels, at which they also both excel. Choices such as the ever-enduring two-button jacket rather than the more transitory one or three-button, the slim straight-leg trouser/jean as opposed to the baggy or skin-tight, or the round toe shoe instead of something mimicking a duck’s foot; all work seamlessly into any wardrobe. They are pieces that will remain viable for years to come (in one article; Cary Grant claimed that one suit he was routinely photographed in was nearly fifteen years old).

It’s not to say that one should cling desperately to every piece, or that one should shun every fashion trend as if it were the plague; the key is editing. Get rid of items that no longer work with your style or that are showing all the wrong signs of age (there is a difference between leather brogues with a fine patina and ones which are scratched and stained with age).  Work current trends into your base wardrobe subtly; a piece here and there rather than drowning in a fad entirely and only those which work with your already established style. This approach will help you achieve and maintain a lasting wardrobe rather than throwing money at fleeting fads year after year.

Most importantly, this approach is unique in that it both requires confidence and fosters confidence. In choosing the “middle of the road” and curating a closet, the onus of maintaining style is entirely upon the wearer. No longer can a brand name or homogenous graphic carry you. The success of the outfit depends solely on your choice of fit, texture, color and the myriad subtleties that make up true personal style; style that, as I’ve heard said, translates the way you see yourself to those around you. It reciprocates this initial offering of confidence by allowing you to feel more confident in your own individuality; that you are presenting yourself rather than a conglomeration of logos. It has the added bonus of inspiring comments like “I like your style” from those whom we welcome such comments.

An Unfortunate but Necessary Retraction...

View Angry Rants of Jean Snobs Like Me

     About a year and a half ago I purchased my first pair of Gap 1969 dark, raw, selvage jeans. I had my initial reservations given Gap's penchant for cutting corners with fit and construction, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that for a more than reasonable $80.00 or so I received a pair of selvage jeans in a perfectly rich dark wash that were neither too baggy, nor too tight. Assuming that a couple wearings would reveal some well hidden flaw, especially given the custom of all jean aficionados to forgo washing until absolutely necessary, I braced myself for what I thought was the inevitable loss of fit or crackling in the even indigo finish; neither occurred, even after repeated wearings. I was immediately hooked, so much that only a few months later my wife was kind enough to placate my new obsession with a second pair. I began extolling the virtues of these jeans to anyone that would listen in person and in one of my initial blog postings, and was pleased everytime I was asked whether the Gap jeans I had one were A.P.C. (which happened on several occasions).

     Last week for Christmas my wife presented me with what should have been my third pair, neither of us realizing that Gap had altered their construction (though they retained the original image online). This pair was dark, but definitely pre-washed which ruined the fit and the raw denim look. The denim gauge was also much lighter. Overall they were not the jean either of us were expecting and she immediately felt bad thinking she had bought the wrong ones. After returning to the website and reading through a string of angry product reviews, I found it was Gap's fault entirely. It seems that sometime in August (as this was the time the almost entirely positive reviews changed to almost entirely negative ones) Gap made changes to the jeans but did not mention this in their description online. Rather than the heavier gauge, deep, raw indigo denim used previously, they have switched to a lighter, pre-washed jean and altered the fit. In doing so they ruined not only what was likely the best product they offered, but also one of the best selvage jeans on the market, especially considering the price. If construction cost was an issue, a small price increase would undoubtedly have been a better option than putting out a poor product. It is this sort of sacrifice of quality that most people have come to expect from Gap clothing and it accounts for their dwindling customer base and revenue. So, if you want a decent pair of selvage Jeans I encourage you to try Uniqlo or Levis, either of which could compete with the new Gap selvage and cost less, and if you want an excellent pair of selvage jeans then indulge in a pair of A.P.C., the current best selvage jean for your money.