a hoot and a half

I've been tidying up and clearing out my room and came across a piece of old newspaper that cracked me right up. It was the first 'fashion' article I wrote for my college newspaper entitled 'The Checkered Shirt' and so here it is. Something that manages to range itself from Kate Moss to a rant of, of, of I'm not sure what exactly

We are, we are the mods! We are, we are the mods! We are, we are modelling ourselves on models and the rockers are all rocked out. Because didn't you know? Alternative is so mainstream right now.

Kate Moss first created a storm back in 1988. Emerging from Croydon, her tousled, rough and tough street attitude, waif-like frame and ethereal beauty emanated a fresh sort of glamour through the lens of the camera. She was the sort of girl you wanted to both band and be best friends with. The fashion industry was swept up in the whirlwind of heroin chic she created with her emaciated physique. She became the walking, talking epitome of the word cool; living a life that really was glamorous, indie rock and roll. As she moved through relationships with the likes of Italian photographer Mario Sorrenti (famed for shooting nude models for Vogue), to Hollywood enigma Johnny Depp, to English musician Pete Doherty, she set a trend for liking bad boys and liking them bad.
All the while she made endeavours intot he world of music where she appeared in videos for the likes of Primal Scream, the White Stripes and Elton John, before contributing lyrics and vocals for Babyshambles. It was on stage at a Babyshambles gig in London that poor old Pete announced their engagement. But that was all to be blown away...

Kate's living ideal appears to have surreptitiously entered the consciousness of contemporary culture and in a society too fastidious to aspire to live like her, we make do to dress like her. Idolized by a sepctrum of adolescents she stands as the almost exhausted catalyst between retro and Topshop. And there she stands indeed; kitted out in a checkered shirt. Wow. Remaining relatively faitful to the old school, she wears hers boy-style with a tailored jacket and battered boots. But in her shadow flock the 'fashionistas' and the wanna be hip-ers (note: not hipsters) jumping on the wagon. Just take a look at today's crop of popular British indie bands endorsing the look. And the glossy magazines giving advice on how to wear yours "to avoid looking like a lumberjack, pair with killer heels or cute girly ballet flats and flam up with heavy weight accessories". Cue the sorts of Mary Kate and/or Ashley Olsen taking such words a little too much to heart; drowning in theirs with a giant Fendi bag and ridiculously oversized shades, these girls really are out of their depth.
Where are all the Holden Caulfields gone? Where are the artists who wrote their own material? Where are the kids who dream of being strung out all day with lovers and songs?

Starting its days as a clothing staple for manual labourers in the nineteenth century, the checkered flannel shirt stole the limelight each year in Sears Roebuck's Fall line. Far from haute couture it wasn't until dynamic Donegal man Rory Gallagher came on the scene in the early 70's did it begin to connote cool in any way. Its brief appearance in punk and grunge in the eighties passed practically unnoticed and without ever totally fading into obscurity it lurked at the back of our uncle's must old wardrobes only to find itself being dug out of late. The ressurection was initiated by Dolce and Gabbana's Autumn/Winter collection '08, where checkered Anything walked the runway. So now in this time of impending recession, the need for a new 'alternative' is emerging. Because Indie is in. Heck, even the jocks are wearing cardigans. So perhaps one or two of the intrepid young ones might forage through a closet or two in the hope of archaic redemption, but most will opt for brand spanking new vintage... Thrift stores? Purlease, I don't want to get "eau-de-mothball" on my fringe.

So when town gets too small for the agglomeration of boys in girl's jeans and the juke box gets ignored by all the skinny blonde girls dubbed Cassie, take a moment to look retrospectively at what times were like before the indie spirit became commodified and re-envisioned as a highly marketable lifestyle. A time when boys had love affiars with their Fenders and their days held a creative, rebellious aesthetic. When idyll hours were spent in little shops hunting for obscure collections of things to add to the beloved piles of records, scrapbooks, Polaroids and cigarette boxes waiting at home. When there were whores and music whores. When there were long bus journeys to dilapidated venues for intimate gigs, and lots of waiting and shuffling down cold alleyways in the hope of attaining a post-performance autograph. When the diehard fans were dedicated to their relatively unknown cause. When it was a sort of underground, back-room Beatle ania. When it was only for the boys in the band. The sex, the drugs, the rock, the roll; it was real horrorshow all round.
So try to look outside the mainstream, past the pretentious, and ignoring the phoneys try to remember the founding virtues of what the checkered shirt really embodies.