There's something about pre-re-appreciation that gets me; the calm before the eminent bullshittery that is marketing and repackaging.
There were men once. The greatest of casual men. They were post-"90s what is now being called norm-core" and pre-"skinny ties, Interpol, and resold authenticity". They wore the greatest of casual sneakers.
Like crap you got at Pay-Less and cost $25 because, "who is this tasteless, even?" Which is great that they got those shoes so cheap they could shell out for the latest Nokia and cell-phone holster; the real testament to virtue, wealth, and social standing.
*stands over gas grill, not charcoal like the Baptists next door, and proclaims the day won*
"YEP GOT THIS NOKIA HERE, SEE HERE TELLS THE TIME HERE. AND WHEN YOU PRESS THIS BUTTON IT TELLS YOU ALL THE NUMBERS YOU SAVED. Y'KNOW WHAT ELSE IT DOES?
TAKES PITCHERS. TOOK A PITCHER OF WHEN SOMEONE BUMPED INTO MY REAR BUMPER AND SENT IT TO MY INSURANCE AGENT AND I MADE SURE I GOT REIMBURSED. FUCKING KID DIDN'T KNOW HOW TO DRIVE DAMN STICK TOOK MY CAR FIVE DAYS TO GET THE DENT POUNDING OUT BY THE BODY SHOP.
YEAH, I GOT A NINETY-NINE MUSTANG QUITE THE CAR BUT INSURANCE RATES ARE HIGH. STILL LOOKS PRETTY GOOD EVEN WITH THE BUMPER PAINT A LITTLE OFF. THE BODY SHOP DID A PRETTY GOOD JOB HERE BUT THE PAINT TEXTURE AINT QUITE ON BUT IT'S PRETTY CLOSE DUNCHA THINK?"
*drinks Bud. NASCAR, a well followed and interesting sport at the time (this would've been in proximity to Earnhardt's death) zips and buzzes in the background*
They were casual ubermenschen. Their likes will never be seen again.
Well, that's not entirely true. We'll see their corrupted spirits in hip-bars, manifested as young men.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
If you're here, I assume you’ve taken a break from the rightful rabble at the door of Mr. Freedom — reminding the owner that you cannot be a designer first and historian second. You cannot be an amateur in cultural awareness and sell clothes. Or, you can, you’ll just piss a lot of people off with your bumbling.
If you’re here, you also managed to keep GTBT in your RSS feed.
With that, I bring up a bit of classic melodrama that I’ve taken a bit of time on.
Bill Evans is just one of many jazz tragedies. So if you’ve been here before, you can continue on.
His story could be told as a family story — as his brother Harry's story is intertwined — but Harry never played with Miles Davis so it’s not.
Heroin ended up getting the best of Bill Evans.
After Harry’s tragedy (schizophrenia and suicide), Bill recorded We Will Meet Again and I Will Say Goodbye. Those two albums, in my opinion, are his best works*.
Either way, this is a clothes blog and I should probably talk about Bill Evan’s style and subsequent decent into the 1970s and final days. While he recorded We Will Meet Again and I Will Say Goodbye in the 70s, many of his laudable sartorial days are in years prior — indicating the fallibility of man just through his sartorial decisions.
He’s got a couple classic looks.
Y’know, dark shirt/dark jacket.
JCrew skinny tie clone.
Are there lessons to take away from this? Sartorially, none that you don’t already know.
Maybe it’s that you shouldn’t abuse heroin. Maybe it’s that you should get so cut up inside when you go through a family tragedy. Maybe it’s that if you never beat yourself up, you won’t be remembered as a jazz great or just great in general. Maybe it’s that if you never beat yourself up, you’ll never go down a path of heroin, depression, and a decade long suicide.
Maybe it’s that the impulsive jazz of life is up, down, happy, sad, and that man isn’t consistent. You could be remembered for great things. They’ll remember your “fuck ups” too, though.
Heck, maybe it’ll be that your “fuck ups” are what help you craft great things. Maybe you’ll be dressed terribly while doing it.
*Of course this is a subjective opinion. There are a lot of Jazz Heads who would disagree and be able to formulate a more cohesive argument than I ever could.