Perhaps because I am a native of Alabama, I am not an expert on haute couture (French for “expensive clothes.”) But this week I was invited to be a style critic at the men’s fashion shows being held in Manhattan.
Generally, people in Alabama don’t speak much about the garment- design business. After all, the pinnacle of men’s fashion in the Heart of Dixie is an outfit consisting of a striped tie, khaki pants, and a seer-sucker sportscoat. The Avant guard among us sometimes will wear this ensemble without socks.
But New York designers are on a mission to make men more style conscious. It’s a mission of doom. As if I have to tell you this, most men are oblivious to the waxing and waning of the fashion-plate moon. Ever since the late 1700s when American men asked, “Hey, what the #@*% are we doing wearing pantyhose?” we have confined our fashion urges to the one element of our wardrobe that can change: the tie.
The male tie, you see, really only has one variable: fat or thin? About once a decade, we reverse what’s “in.” In the sixties, ties were thin. The seventies: fat. The eighties: thin. The nineties: fat. It’s a good system, in that if you keep a tie long enough, it will eventually be stylish again. Note: this rule does not apply, gentlemen, to any other article of clothing. So throw out that Naugahyde Nehru jacket. It ain’t ever coming back.
Any given article of women’s clothing, by contrast, stays in style for exactly three nanoseconds, at which time it becomes passé (which is French for “uglier than Charlton Heston’s nose hairs”).
As a result of having to buy entirely new wardrobes on a daily basis added to the fact that women need twice as much underwear as men, fashion designers make buckets of Contributing cash off the feminine market. Total retail dollar sales for women’s apparel for 1996 were, in fact, $85.1 billion.
With that kind of money, you would think fashion designers could, without going broke, sell undershorts for less than $14. But no.
Even worse, designers aren’t content to enslave just half the population to women’s clothing. Now they want men too, in women’s clothing (publicly).
This week Jean-Paul Gaultier put guys in ladies’ overskirts. Yohi Yamamoto put women in men’s clothing. And Francesco Smalto’s glossy velvet iridescent violet evening suits had a certain Je ne sais quoi about them.
So as your New York City foreign correspondent, I had to go see this menswear phenomenon for myself.
Amid much double cheek-kissing in the basement of the New York Public Library, I took my seat at the Sandy Dalal show. Tom Jones’ “What’s New Pussycat?” oo-ho-ho-ho-ooohed over the loudspeakers. BAZOOKA bubble gum (with car-toon!) was distributed. I noted a distinct air of disdain emanating from everyone in the room. The air of disdain. incidentally, smells just like Chanel.
“Redneck!” he screamed,
I went for the jugular. “Discount-outlet shopper!”
With that low blow, the chinchilla man recoiled, sobbing into the lapel of his suit, getting mascara everywhere, as one of the staff members separated us with a bottle of Evian.
Then the show started. The room went black. The whir and flash of cameras began as the first male model appeared on the stark white runway.
With rolled-out-of-bed hair and weighing in at 90 pounds, the model (of what, I know not) began to walk – which had the unfortunate effect of nearly toppling our man of the moment. His caved-in torso was evidently slowed by the drag coefficient, resulting in his feet getting ahead of his body, causing his spine and hips to jut out in a super-human display of flexibility. He looked so unhappy – sorta like he needed a hug but not from me.
His shirt was a see-through button-down. His plastic pants made his legs look like victims of a Dupont chemical spill. But I was glad he had on pants, really, because he also sported a paisley jacket and the raincoat of a flasher. He later appeared in a gold velvet suit that looked like a sofa slipcover from Graceland.
A man wearing a chinchilla coat and a pink shirt the color of Mary Kay’s Cadillac looked at the dark suit I was sporting, tossed back his pompadour, sucked in his cheeks, pouted his lips, and blurted “banker!” “Bouffant!” I yelled back.
Total retail dollar sales for women’s apparel for 1996 were, in fact, $85.1 billion, and if you’ve seen Mr. Heston recently, you know why. With that kind of money, one would think designers would be happy and content.
But no.
Now they want men too, in women’s clothing (publicly).
This week I heard Jean-Paul Gaultier put guys in ladies’ overskirts. Yohji Yamamoto put women in men’s clothing. And Francesco Smalto’s glossy velvet iridescent violet evening suits had a certain je ne sais Pat about them.
So as your New York City foreign correspondent, I went to see this menswear phenomenon for myself.
Amid much double cheek-kissing in the basement of the New York Public Library, I took my seat at the Sandy Dalal show. Tom Jones, What’s New Pussycat? oo-ho-ho-ho-ooohed over the loudspeakers. I noted a distinct air of disdain emanating from everyone in the room. The air of disdain, incidentally, smells just like Chanel No. 5.
A man wearing a chinchilla coat and pink shirt the color of Mary Kay’s Cadillac looked at the dark suit I was sporting, tossed back his pompadour, sucked in his cheeks, pouted his lips, and blurted “banker!”
“Bouffant!” I yelled back.
“Redneck!” he screamed.
I went for the jugular, “Discount-outlet shopper!”
With that low blow, the chinchilla man recoiled, sobbing into the lapel of his suit and getting mascara everywhere, as one of the staff members separated us with a bottle of Evian.
Then the show started. The room went black. The whir and flash of cameras began as the first male model appeared on the stark white runway.
With rolled-out-of-bed hair and weighing in at 90 pounds, the model began to walk–which had the unfortunate effect of nearly toppling our man of the moment. His caved-in torso was evidently slowed by the drag coefficient, resulting in his feet getting ahead of his body, causing his spine and hips to jut out in a super-human display of flexibility.
His shirt was a sheer button-down. His pants were made out of what looked like plastic. Plastic. They had the unfortunate effect of making him look like a giant Lego creation. But I was glad he had on pants, really. I like pants. I think they look better on men than say, miniskirts.
Not that I’m being critical, mind you.
On Wednesday, the designer Cynthia Rowley tried a hand at men’s fashions. Again, I was presented with a bottle of Evian, but this time I was also given a pink martini, which I found helpful for evaluating the clothing on the runway.
Model 28, who was named (I kid you not) “Elvis,” appeared wearing a “conch zip sweater with moss wool paper bag pants”.
No doubt Billy Bob would be the envy of all his Alabama friends if he had a pair of paper pants to wear down at the BBQ pit. Or better yet, he could go with the *out of sequins shirt with gunmetal slacks,” which had a vague resemblance to a slot machine.
My personal favorite, which would have complemented any hickory smoked event, was a tee shirt that appeared to have been the victim of arson. It was called the “burnout tee,” and as the name would suggest, seemed to have been on fire at one point in the manufacturing process.
Perhaps my biggest lesson of the week, however, struck me at the Dalal show when a “model” appeared in an incandescent-green shirt, corduroy suit, plaid tie, combat boots, and wool-tweed fishing hat. He was wearing the exact outfit of my late Uncle Nesbit who had discovered fashion from “On Golden Pond’s” Norman, the old poop.
It brought back memories. It was touching.
There was the likeness of Uncle Nesbit, albeit without a fishing pole and walking with what could only be described as a sashay in his gate, but Uncle Nesbit nonetheless.
So maybe, just maybe, Andalusia, the New York fashion industry is onto something – if only a lonely old bass fisherman from Wetumpka.
—Morgan Murphy