Boutonnièred

   It felt like time for an actual tiny slice of nature in my jacket buttonhole. And for good measure, a map of Delaware (of all places) in my breast pocket

Worn Out

   The recent loss of my various autumn/winter dress trousers and jackets from Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche, Gucci (vintage) and Loewe (vintage) has impelled something of a re-evaluation. No, I have not become that fellow who burnt all of his worldly goods to rid the taste of liberal guilt he felt over living in a branded world from his mouth; neither am I about to lose my Barimanastic (copyright: Maxminimus) sense of presentation and start purchasing my looks wholesale from whatever is dictated by Topman, The Guardians's Petridis column or The Daily Mail's style section this week

   But I did dump around three recycling bags' worth of clothes at an undisclosed charity shop in an undisclosed borough of South London at an undisclosed point in time, rather recently

   Wardrobe purges require a ruthless, confident style of self-editing to make a dent in the overabundance of styles and clothes that comprise one's clothing collection. I, by contrast, threw a great many things in a plastic bag and swore off the chemical cocktails I'd been consuming at the time of purchase. It's a rehabilitative experience all round

   One of the dominant aspects of my wardrobe was a fondness for a particular vintage brand: Father's Hand-Me Downs. Certainly, the sentimental sway of his 1980s and 1990s suiting and accessories was assiduous, but there was a key to the pleasure they gave me: I was matching them with my own finds and when the pieces that form the real cornerstone of my ensembles are lost, much of the cohesion goes with it

   So, out have gone formerly loved garments crafted by the likes of Turnbull & Asser, Hawes & Curtis, Hermes, Jaeger, Haines & Bonner, Savoy Tailors Guild and myriad others, even including a very well made but very well dated suit by the venerable Italian tailoring house, Angelo Roma. So, who are my replacement names? I am pleased to say that a mental list was drawn up in mental crayon over the past year; this was subtly threaded through various Mode Parade entries as I wrote about those whose wares I desired to wear. So, in step the likes of Mr. Fish, Holliday & Brown, Tom Ford-era Gucci/Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche, Hedi Slimane-era YSL RG, Prada and Etro to mingle with my remaining perennials from Junya Watanabe, Miu Miu, Hilditch & Key, Maison Martin Margiela, Aquascutum, H&M, Turnbull, Dries Van Noten, Paul Smith and Liberty. If my intended return to full-time London life succeeds, there may even be tailoring - perhaps Pokit, possibly Cad and the Dandy; maybe the budget might even stretch to Edward Sexton, Chittleborough & Morgan or one of the Lamb's Conduit Street houses

   Oh, and the fondness for 1950s - 1970s vintage is not going away. There's nothing like seeing a pair of lapels stretched right across my chest like a hang-glider; the pleasure increases when it's double breasted

  

   To reward all of you that have willingly read (or hastily scrolled down) this far, here is a photograph of me playing with some lizards:

   More as it develops

Pilati Vox

   Not consistently my favourite menswear designer - but damn close at times - or even necessarily a favourite dresser - though rather skilled indeed - Stefano Pilati possesses two traits I greatly admire: thought and insight, which he expresses in this excerpt from a David Bradshaw-written feature:

I'm a man and I want to dress well, and I don't necessarily mean fashionably. I want to look my age. I'm not going to wear a f------ skirt when I'm 50, and when I have to go to a board meeting I'm not going to wear Bermudas and flip-flops or an astronaut suit with white shirt and tie! I don't consider myself privileged to dress up in a certain way because I'm a fashion designer - I just feel that I know myself enough to wear clothes that make me feel good, feel my age and somehow represent me, my history and youth, and, in a sense, the man I've become

Of course you can play with fashion, of course you can be less boring, of course you can be attractive, even seductive, and maintain your power and masculinity. Challenge yourself

-- Stefano Pilati, 2008

Plum Ken

Image by SAO! via I Lost I Found

   Prior to recent time spent with The Diaries of Kenneth Tynan (edited by John Lahr), I knew precisely four things about this inspiration: that he was a slightly louche but defiantly stylish dandy; that he was an outspoken critic of some legendary standing; that he'd a fine line in sadomasochism - hardly unusual in an Oxford man, I know - and that he was the first person to "F-Bomb" the BBC, albeit by way of a stammer. It probably - in an aural manner of speaking - resembled this modern internet icon of desolate, frustrated displeasure:

   Oh, and the title Oh! Calcutta! seemed to resonate a great deal, for some reason. School plays, maybe

   I cannot easily resist the outspoken, so it's an utter pleasure to read of the lacerating effect Tynan's words could inflict on all and sundry. I suspect that those who called for him to be hanged after his 1965 expletive spree on the BBC were probably comprised of fellow masochists seeking a thrill they could experience in public (so naturally, these complainants included Members of Parliament) and their better known counterparts, Daily Mail readers. And with unknowing and perfect irony, Mary Whitehouse informed the Queen in a letter that she felt Tynan deserved nothing less than a punitive spanking; he must have rung her number for days

   Outspokenness and daring were two of his most immediate characteristics - these facets certainly spurred a number of things in his life, from his positioning as a high priest of filmic and theatrical criticism to his battles against censorship, his taste in plum coloured suiting, a yen for spanking and caning his sexual partners, and his staging of a nude revue. Ironically, despite his long pursuit and achievement of public note, he felt that he had created a less diverse body of work than one with his passion for the worlds created on the stage and in the studio ought to; his notoriety was achieved by his opting to be more of an onlooker than a participant. I  realise that he is not as well remembered as he could be - for a myriad of factors, I'm sure - but I nevertheless think he denigrated himself a little too finely on this point - the critical world of his day gained much from his way of thinking, his almost overly keen awareness of cultural movements and his archly beautiful prose, all of which saturated his writing

   Because this is Mode Parade, I will point out that these behaviours seemed to inform his dressing. One would be maybe a little surprised to learn that not all men named Peacock live up to the sobriquet, but even if they did, I doubt many could strut with Tynan's determined pleasure in his own individuality. The Tynan of the 1940s and '50s shows something of the studied languor of the Bright Young Things he shared an alma mater with and his tastes were rooted in simple, clean tailoring, give or take an extravagant waistcoat or a gold coloured shirt. But come the Peacock Revolution and the 1970s, his wardrobe juxtaposed a classicist's awareness of his age - the sober cardigans in which he relaxed and the stately fur coat I'd like for myself - with his natural flamboyance, boasting a resplendent collection of op art-like print shirts that he was able to blend with wide neckties and suits of off white and dove grey cloth in a way only gifted individuals and master stylists are wired to do. There's a reason that such looks - when done well - are described as fun; it's a game of achieving harmony and balance, and should be approached as such. And I've always believed that such success takes a particular physical and mental refinement, which is possibly why Corin Redgrave's Tynan look has the edge on that of Rob Brydon when they played the critic in separate productions over the past decade

   I think my favourite impulse of his is the daring, but mainly for puerile reasons, I admit. Such a ribald, filthy-minded adventurer, really; not just the smacking of girls' bottoms, but the very public reading of the Spanking Times on train journeys and the bloody comedy of errors that was his experience of consuming vodka rectally, having read a recommendation of it in Alan Watts's autobiography. I suspect that Tynan's biggest mistake was going out for an Indian right before having the enema tube inserted

   For all of that he was a dysfunctional scamp, he was also a magnetic personality with a laudable mastery of the language and what I admire about him the most is rather simple - he was the consummate individual and nothing if not self-aware. And so, I end this in my customary manner: a round of photographs and a final word from the subject himself. That's one to grow on

All of the preceding: Tynan and his second wife Kathleen during the 1970s, seen in the last with Roman Polanski

Rob Brydon and Catherine McCormack as Kenneth and Kathleen Tynan in the BBC production, Kenneth Tynan: In Praise of Hardcore

Corin Redgrave in the Royal Shakespeare Company's one man show Tynan, adapted for the stage from Lahr's book of the diaries by Richard Nelson with Colin Chambers, in 2004

Without self-approval, there is no self-confidence, without self-confidence one has no secure identity; and without a secure identity one has no style

Just Fit

   I am far from a fan of the three button jacket - the 3-roll-2 aside - and yet this normally unflattering, pedestrian aesthetic comes alive when invigorated by the best possible fit:

   After observing such cutting in practice, it's more than clear to me that the idyllic three button imputes a no-nonsense sturdy broadness to the chest. In tandem with well tailored shoulders and a lengthy body, the coat practically confers instant dignity on even the swarthiest urban playboy

   This ensemble also shows a trenchant use of a pale pink tie and pocket square with a white shirt, playing their soft contrast against their wearer's complexion and also making for a gentle visual when juxtaposed with the starkly coloured and styled suit. A stronger pink tie might have been, at best, brash; at worst, wide boy-harsh. And not every look should be a geezer-approval winner

   The photograph dates from 1970 and is part of Sator's stash. I believe it's Germanic in origin

It's Greatcoat Weather

   Outside the perennials such as Burberry Prorsum, Crombie, Aquascutum, Davies & Son and Belstaff, I've not seen much in the way of compelling outerwear for this frigid season. Of course, cursory scans of this column show that I'm rather fond of ye olde classic inspirations:

   This is Edward, Duke of Windsor's greatcoat, decorated with Royal Yacht Squadron buttons, circa 1930. Through my best friend, I recently had the pleasure of reading all three catalogues concerning Sotheby's 1997 auction of the wardrobes, knick knacks, servant's uniforms, furniture and other effects that belonged to him and Wallis Simpson, whose striking, if overly figural, Cartier jewellery and accessories recently set new records at another Sotheby's sale. Despite what the uncharitable might say about the couple, never let it be said that the Windsor collection lacked depth; I know a few women who would kill for a solid gold necessaire de soir. One or two men, also. Purseforum has male members, no?

   The greatcoat has a certain potent quality amongst other coats and the fact that they have not seen a resuscitation in their fortunes since John Barrowman first imputed his roguish Captain Jack Harkness character with Quentin Crisp-force camp in Doctor Who and Torchwood makes them a delectable attraction. Of course, this is a military coat I am talking about - it practically imbues the wearer with bearing through its shoulder structure alone. It also has a deft adaptability; deployable as it is with precise, formal ensembles, it also works with less dressy presentations like the slacks with shirts or knitwear that Burberry's stylists are adepts of. Wear it open with the collar turned up and dramatically framing an elegant turtleneck for that casual loucheness. And the drama can only deepen if one is partial to wearing them with stylish millinery like a fedora or a dressy Western hat:
 

   As for other styles of coat, I think that fur will be my next step-up. And this, the Duke's 1934 A Simpson & London Ltd formal overcoat, is strictly for the astrakhan lovers:

Scans from The London Lounge and The Cutter and Tailor

Wan Chai/At the Races

   I schlepped to the Hong Kong Expo at Wan Chai on a Wednesday, which was perhaps too deeply commercial to be of any worth to tourists. The guest speakers, there to expound on matters of Asian investment and infrastructure, would probably have been interesting for those concerned with the scale of such things

   That night, I joined the weekly pilgrimage to the racetrack at Happy Valley. I'm not much of a gambling man in this sense (primarily because I bring others greater fortune than I do myself), but food, beverages and camaraderie are in abundance, and horse riding is better viewed live. The photographs do not clearly connote the scale of the track, but I think they still capture some of its expansiveness

   Besides, it is certainly a setting in which wearing Junya Watanabe Man S/S07 can be considered fitting

"Terry"

   Semi-regular viewers of this column are aware that I occasionally champion the dressing of men who don't resemble tryouts for the next Willy Wonka remake. Today, I'd like to host a pictorial of the mostly modest (but resolutely talented) Terence Stamp:

 Top two: in Modesty Blaise, as dressed by Douglas Hayward and Mr. Fish. This caper also stars Monica Vitti and Dirk Bogarde, boasts a memorable Gorillaz-sampled themesong and was high on my To-Do List, as are Stamp's memoirs

In Divina Creatura (aka The Divine Nymph, 1975), which I've also yet to see

With former lover and 1960s Face, Jean Shrimpton

   I am not up to date on Mr. Stamp's oeuvre - his smaller roles in recent comedy vehicle fare notwithstanding - but every facet of his fairly protean persona regularly makes an impact. Watching him toying exasperatedly, pathetically and yet thoroughly evilly with Samantha Eggar in The Collector is always a touch uncomfortable - his character's actions are the height of confused, tortured desire yet never less than unpleasant, not unlike the emotionally beset protagonist of Michael Powell's Peeping Tom. Elsewhere, his cold, forceful turns in Oliver Stone's Wall Street and Steven Soderbergh's The Limey juxtapose with the likes of his camp antics in drag classic Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and the curious, iconic mixture of both modes that is Superman and Superman II's General Zod (only a Swinging Sixties survivor and sex symbol could order others to kneel before him as if it was his birthright)

   But on and offscreen, when it is necessary, the man can surely dress. He has a natural sort of ease in his clothing whilst suggesting little concern at all with staying fashionable. Certainly, he adapts to the prevailing winds of his eras with aplomb, but usually in the most unfussy and almost stripped down manner. Relatively speaking, that is

   Even in the modern age, he remains a hat person:

   Sometimes beguilingly elegant and often louchely casual, I will take one Terence Stamp over a myriad of today's on and offline men's style idols. Attitude counts

Local Sampling

   In this outfit, I'm wearing a custom-made jacket and shirt combination that originates from here in Hong Kong. The jacket is a vintage late 1970s number; the shirt is far more recent and actually a light shade of orange linen. A number of the other pieces were probably manufactured here, also

   Something of a "When in Rome" ensemble, then

Birds/New Friend

   I recently paid a visit to the State-Of-The-Arts Gallery in Central, Hong Kong, where I met this fellow. He was encouraging visitors to unleash their inner animal, rather like the Power Penguin meditation sequence of my favourite film, Fight Club

   Like this man and Fight Club's unnamed Narrator, I suspect that my own animal is avian themed - apposite and appropriate - although a peacock might be a tad obvious. Our sartorial fandom does make us - dare I say - birds of a feather

Roll It

Not bad for a man named Lewis

   Posthumously speaking, Brian Jones is my favourite Stone; the butterfly to Charlie Watts' beetle (and this also takes into account Keef's splendid purple suit); never a grown-up, always a child. Where Watts today is precise, sharp and structured in his appearance to the point that he may as well be armoured, Jones' flamboyance at its peak suggested that a mere brush with his chimerical finery would result in a psychotropic trip

   And those caught up in his personal whirlwind must have suspected the come downs would be as debilitating as they were scandalous

   Brian is perhaps the quintessential Rock Polymath of Doom, since, as it is sometimes seen, with great ability comes great disaster. He was charismatic, popular, sexually overactive and indulged in a great many interests; one could see the self-destructive predisposition a mile off. He was a rebel within a band of rebels and a quintessential outside-insider, a feeling to which I can sometimes relate

   He was also a Peacock sans pareil, with a mid-to-late 1960s wardrobe  practically custom built to outrage the sensibilities of the most conservative echelons of sartorialism and stir the loins of the girls and women who flocked to the itinerant father of five and his bandmates.  With finery to source from the likes of Mr. Fish, Hung On You, I Was Lord Kitchener's Valet, and Granny Takes A Trip, Brian had little difficulty in establishing himself as a leader of the psychedelic plumage set

   Bandmate Bill Wyman later summed him up as thus:

There were two Brians... one was introverted, shy, sensitive, deep-thinking... the other was a preening peacock, gregarious, artistic, desperately needing assurance from his peers... he pushed every friendship to the limit and way beyond

   Of course, even without the motivation of court appearances to moderate his excesses, he was perfectly capable of affecting a more reputable presentation when the occasion arose; indeed, the earlier days of The Rolling Stones - interesting enough to serve as a reference for Stefano Pilati's Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche collection in Fall 2008 - feature a more relatively sober Brian, with he and his bandmates more attuned to the calmer attire of the earlier 1960s. I like to think that he was good at that, also:

   But don't think that I cannot appreciate the contrast; the immediacy of Brian's psyched out latter period may attract more attention, but these different modes instantly resonate with me, used as I am to modifying my appearance when social engagements call for it. That, by the by, is a choice I make - it's rather an interesting exercise in adaptability where I'm concerned

   Nevertheless, the Dandy In The Sky look that Brian made his own has such a compelling F-U grace to it that it rarely fails to inspire.After all, peacocks rarely exist to be 100% replicated; it is their ideas that are to be admired or reviled, absorbed or discarded. For all the white men who can be found fretting about their suitability for a wider palette of clothing colours, there's Brian's blithe mixing and matching; a riotous visual patchwork of glee for dressing up that doesn't occur to most fellows even once in a lifetime. Where concerns persist over the use of odd striped trousers, Brian went to tour sporting a dark jacket and corresponding tie (3rd photograph from the top), confidently displaying the desaturated version of his own adventurous glamour. When I need an interesting guide or 5 to donning neckscarves and other silken accoutrements, I have over a dozen pictures of Brian to show me how it's done

   Certainly, he looked like the sort of fellow one might proffer to a hippy at a Dead concert to lick, but I enjoy that. I draw the line at his blazer suit and the fondness for python skin boots he shared with Keith Richards (though I suppose that he had to share a few tastes at least with The Glimmer Twins), but with such a bombast, there's usually a line that must be drawn somewhere

   Let us put it this way - he is not the Lapo Elkann of the 1960s - for a start, Lapo's binges seem to have had a more all-encompassing deleterious effect on his own creativity than Brian's did his. At least Brian had the good grace to keep it consistent

   Mick Jagger, appropriately, wore one of Mr. Fish's shirt dresses when performing at The Rolling Stones' free concert in Hyde Park, two days after Brian joined The 27 Club upon his death on 3rd July 1969. Having dedicated the performances to the founder who eventually became isolated from his peers, the band's frontman took a moment to play orator in memory of his one-time friend:

   Brian, as it is famously known, was ultimately discovered dead at the bottom of his own swimming pool at his Cotchford Farm home in West Sussex. It bears noting that in later years, the tiles from the pool were individually sold for around $210 per 6-inch tiles, courtesy of his own Fan Club

   Such as it was, Brian earned a place in checkered history. And popular culture and rock 'n' roll were certainly the more interesting for having had him there to develop their milieus in a most uncommon manner

   Roll with it

Further reading:

http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/r/jeremy-reed/brian-jones.htm


http://www.amazon.com/Brian-Jones-Untold-Mysterious-Legend/dp/0749941537/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1284753677&sr=8-3

And a pictorial to close out proceedings: