Ripped jeans.
These blood stains tell stories.
There’s this movement that’s been in style since the punk movement started to go mainstream, which is having slightly worn out clothes.
Which hardly surprises me at all, when I think about it with sober honesty, because many of the early proponents of the punk image were clothing driven. Literally, in some cases. The New York Dolls, who sort of bridged the gap from glam to punk, loved clothes, and they would not have been the same band at all if they had not been so interested in clothes. And the Sex Pistols were nine tenths of an advertising gimmick for a clothing store that missed its Cards Against Humanity reference by thirty years when it wasn’t called “A store that’s basically just sex.” Instead it was just called “Sex.” Which is a good compromise, I guess.
Punk had a definitive look. It still has one. It’s not unique in that way, of course. Every movement has its own look.
What is unique about the punk look is that the worn and torn, self-made, knatty and gritty look of punk is one of the several that has a particular place of affection for me. About half the time, when I pick an outfit, I ask myself, “How punk is this? On a scale of Johnny Ramone to Billy Idol? Or does it veer all the way into the Weezer/Elvis Costello flux matrix? Exactly how punk are we talking here?” And my answer will sometimes have a major impact on whether I go out that day or, indeed, wear clothes at all.
The thing is, we all want to look cool. We all want to express ourselves somehow, and we all want to look cool. And of course that means different things for different people, but for some people that means to associate themselves with the worn out look of the anti-establishment heroes of counterculture who so expertly swapped things like social grace and skill for, essentially, just noise.
God, I love them. The counterculture heroes, I mean. Not always the people who want to associate themselves with the counterculture heroes.
And because we are a lazy species, and because it’s attractive to profit by the laziness of our species, a kind of “style” has emerged which means that anybody can get already worn out clothing and pretend like they, too, wore out their favorite pair of jeans and they’re still wearing them out because “fuck society,” or some kind of grammatically non-sequitur but appropriately antisocial slogan like that. Whatever the cool kids are saying these days when they’re opposing “the man,” that’s what ripped-up jeans and old-looking tee shirts and scuffed boots want to say.
That is the real punk attitude. Or, if you ask your man in the street, it would seem to be the attitude. Looking like you belong to the group which feels strongly enough about opposing the mainstream that they’ll go so far as to dress the same as everyone else who shares their views. It’s just like every world-changing movement of history that ever had a meaningful impact on real social change before. You know that the managers of the Suffragettes sold shirts and patches at a fold-up table out at the back. That’s how you demonstrate things really do mean something important.
I know that there’s a term for these pre-worn-out clothes you can get, but I can never remember the term. It’s quite distressing.
Now, thing is, I don’t know about you, but I occasionally — very rarely — get new shoes. I get new shoes more often than I get new jeans or shirts or jackets, because frankly thrift store clothing comes with stories already written in the fabric, which appeals to me.
What I do, though, is whenever I do get clothes, I always get clothes that are as unworn and are as intact as I can find. I don’t do this out of some sense of tidiness. I do this because, for me, the idea of buying into second-hand wear-and-tear is just not on.
I am not so rude as to make fun of people who do get pre-ripped clothes.
And when I say that I don’t make fun of those people, it’s a complete lie.
That’s one of the few things I allow myself to be completely outspoken about.
I will make fun of your already worn out designer jeans. I will make fun of your carbon-copy, DIY looking tee shirt with the unfinished seams that you bought for sixty dollars at Hollister. I will make fun of your boots that come with the grease stains.
I will make fun of your brand new, second-hand “lived in” feel. You may argue that they’re expensive and designer and comfy and stylish, and I will honestly say to you that I don’t care. They’re ridiculous. They’re imaginary individuality, and they make no sense.
Rips need to be earned. Nobody needs to wear jeans that have the knees gone out of them, but if you do want to wear torn up jeans then those rips should have blood stains in them. There should be a story. These rips should be your rips, unlike anyone else’s rips, and achieved after the struggle of whatever relevant life event had you down on your knees, fighting in the gravel with bears or something.
I don’t care if you buy expensive jeans. I buy expensive jeans occasionally. I believe in the value of spending a little bit extra money on a good pair of boots. I believe in good clothes.
What I don’t believe in is purchasing imaginary battle scars. Because every little scuff in my boots is mine. The frayed ends of my jeans are earned. The holes in my tee shirts all have stories.
Rips need to be earned. Scuffs need to be bought with blood and blisters. Wear and tear needs to mean something.
Which many people might call a frivolous use of imagination. There are, after all, people with real struggle in the world. Why would I get so worked up about creating a unique pattern of wear in clothes?
Answer: because where I sit, people wearing out their own clothes, and everything implied by wearing out jeans and boots, is way more meaningful than displaying wealth with clothes that are worn out before you buy them.
That felt good to get out of my system.
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