The DNA of Double Denim

Denim. You know the drill.

Or do you?

This season, it's 'double yer pleasure' as fashion revisits what is oft-viewed as a style taboo: To do, or not to do, double denim . However, before we even consider the hazards of such a coupling, let us take the time and pay homage to those who wore it best (Steve McQueen; Brigitte Bardot (BB in DD, mais oui); Ali Macgraw; John Wayne; Paris Vogue in the '70's; AC/DC), the latter being the pinnacle of 'dirty denim done good' (and, quite possibly, to bastardise some of their lyrics, 'done dirt cheap'; always a plus for those seeking the look for less).

And yet, citing just a few iconic examples of those who 'wore it well' (namely, with purpose, panache and a pile of precociousness) can't quite eradicate the visions of the many, many multitudes who have tried - and failed - to conquer the fashion world's own Mt. Everest. In essence, the very discovery of double denim's elusive DNA, and how to make it work for you.

Let's call it jeanetics. I've got it, you've got, almost the entire world has it. They just don't know it. Yet. Consider the core evolution of denim. From humble beginnings as workwear in The States, it gained momentum in the '40s and '50s where it morphed into 'leisurewear' and gained screen-idol status, with stars such as Marlon Brando working it in On The Waterfront and The Wild One, only to relegate it to the back of the wardrobe for sharp tuxes in The Godfather and discarding it (even he knew his limits) for swimming muumuus in The Island Of Dr. Moreau.

With its ascent, the advent of denim shirts, jackets, caps, hats and even vests came to the fore. Everywhere you looked, jeanetics had people in its sturdy clutches. For better or for worse, fashion's most-enduring love affair has seen it all, continuing to morph even today into lusty guises so that we, the ever-insatiable style addicts, are driven by an omnipresent, fervent desire to 'have and to hold... 'til denim death to us part.'

Indeed, there are some who have died a double-denim death so unerringly awful, it's almost too much bear. If you can (and you really must), cast your mind back to a time of innocence and love; when underpant-less starlets emerging from limos hadn't yet reared their pert behinds to a howling pack of paparazzi, and when the only thing the traditional 'cougar' pounced on was a slab of freshly killed meat; not fresh meat of another kind.

And yet, in this world of innocence of which I speak, it was denim that brought it all profoundly undone. In a display of its own DNA code so horrific, two young stars-on-the-rise (and real-life loves), managed to divert the world's gaze from other global atrocities to bare witness to theirs: Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake, doing it together, in double denim.

Even now, it's pinpointed as being perhaps the moment when the mere thought of daring to wear such a combination ever again elicited parties that celebrated its mockery with their 'double denim' dress code. To be seen on the street in 'DD' garnered whispered giggles and cruel jibes, such was the tsunami effect of Britney and Justin's sartorial defectiveness.

So why are we turning back towards the 'DD' light, as it were? Who can say, except that perhaps in order to move forward in fashion, we need to look back to those stitches in time and learn from the mistakes of others (perhaps even our own) to embrace 'the old in the new'. In new shades; new cuts; no rules; new rules; it's a veritable denim delight out there in fashion land for those who dare to double-up and do it.

But before you don, do consider this. In the quest for jeanetic supremacy, it's wise to remember that double the wrong will never add up to a whole lot of right.

Hollywood wear that again... or will she?

Ah me, it's a time-old honour for those in the biz; a golden nod for a 'job well done', to be lauded and acknowledged by acting's elite. Yes siree, it could only mean one thing: 'Award Season' is upon us again.

For many, many years, the revered red carpet, in all its guises, has served as a stepping-stone to achieve off-screen fashion immortality. And yet for those less fortunate in stature and stylist, this stretch of pampered, preened and perfect rouge rug can see a star or starlet fall far from the fashion heavens in a flashbulb, landing back to earth with a resounding red-faced thud, both online and in the special-issue, first-thing-Monday glossies.

Even today, with a heavily armed 'expert' team behind nearly every actress worth her $15 admission ticket, things can go dreadfully, dreadfully wrong. And, thank God! It only proves to us mere mortals that money, truly, can't buy everything, and that the ubiquitous 'mermaid' dress should be put out to watery pasture. Pronto. Indeed, this quest - this inane hunger the world seems to gorge on to see who's wearing what at awards time - is akin to a couture car crash: we know it's wrong, but we can't stop looking. Conversely, the sheer pressure of it all has had the numbing effect of end-of-film credits as, one by one, the young, the nubile and the revered raise a botoxed armpit to wave to the cheering crowds, give great sound bite to marauding journalists and pass by in gowns that, as exquisite as they might be, look near-identical, such is the length/colour/frilled nature of them all.

So let's give it up for those who have, in the past, defied convention and relied on their own skewed vision to go where no-one had gone before, or indeed, ever will again. These are the fearless, the fun-loving, the fantasy-turned-nightmare looks of several very lost leading ladies. In no particular order, may I present: Cher (designer Bob Mackie on crackie), Bjork (sartorial swansong), Demi Moore (bike shorts meets billowing skirt), Lara Flynn Boyle (tutu too-too much), Rita Wilson (doing time in chandelier-inspired crime) and Celine Dion (Dior gone roiD in major back-to-front meltdown).

What perverse joy these head-scratching ensembles brought to a weary worldwide audience. Here, at last, we were witness to such heavily misguided missiles of individualism that you could almost hear the collective gasp and giggle as each and every sartorial bomb went off. But now, such is the sheer control that the uncontrived barely gets a look in. Dark days indeed.

So, is there light at the end of the interminable red-carpet tunnel? I just don't know. And yet, perhaps if the reality 'cast' of MTV's Jersey Shore were to ever be nominated for 'best abdominal crunch' or 'perma tan', we could once again be privy to a cavalcade of delicious downfalls from Mike 'The Situation', l'il 'Snookie', et al.

But for the time being, my guess is that, sadly, it's more than just a l'il stretch of the heavily constrained red-carpet imagination.

Beach fashion: Far from the sureline...

The first blush of Spring is merely a week away and, naturally, thoughts turn to what's ahead - namely, months of warm sunshine and cool water; every Sydneysider's god-given right. And yet with this onset of sun comes a flurry of fleshy nervousness that hits both sexes beachside with equal angst: How to look good when almost naked?

The swimsuit or swimmers has always been a bone of sartorial contention. After a few cocoon-filled chilly seasons, we're suddenly summonsed into the light, inevitably forced to shed those protective layers and reveal what truly lies beneath. Laydeez, time to take your pick from the one-piece or bikini in new cuts that promise to strap you into shape without ending up looking like the string-bound Christmas ham. Gentz, the dickstickers or budgie smugglers form part of many a man's sunbathing ritual, however, for modesty's sake, the boardies offer a level of decency that society politely requests these days.

And yet there are those who have deemed, in a world much different to our own, that it is quite acceptable to bare the flesh in a fashion that's, well, never in fashion. Case in point, an episode during my teenage years when, en route to Bondi with a dear friend of mine, we encountered our very own version of the dicksticker come decidedly unstuck.

Can you imagine, a pair of innocents out for a day of 'fun in the sun', seated on the bus opposite a gentleman who, in a pair of shorts so tiny and tight, let his testicles out for an entirely unnecessary airing. Glancing down we saw them: a pair of sorry, scooped-out molluscs, unceremoniously evicted from their synthetic shell and placed, like some flaccid offering, on a well-worn seat, most certainly not sunny-side-up.

Clearly, he missed the memo. The last time I looked, public transport was still fervently clinging on to that all-important 'l'.

And yet it would appear that some things never change. A quick stroll around many of our beaches indicates that it ain't rood to be nearly nood. Truly, I'm no prood, but at some point, surely we must ask of ourselves and each other:

When it comes to beach fashion, where do we draw the line in the sand?

To me, it seems like the craziest thing - an invisible sphere where unrelated bits 'n' bobs get to hang out in unadulterated unison; a chorus of on-show butts 'n' boobs creating their very own siren call, one that I have yet to heed. And yet, just a few hundred metres away, the sphere dissolves and hey, presto! Those sand-groping parts, so acceptable a moment ago, are cause for wide-eyed stares and stern 'tutt tutts' from a wary public.

Ah me, it's all so tense-making - enough to scare a girl away from our sunny shores in search of less-frightening summer style, where the great Aussie thongs remain the sole domain of the feet, not a floss-like thread of butt-clenching swimwear.

The bottom line? For me, t'is a world in which beach and balls remain mutually exclusive. Of this, I am shore.

A/W11: Fashion's new hair apparent

People, you have been warned. A/W 2011 is, quite simply put, a jungle. Have you glanced online or skimmed through the international glossies recently? There is a veritable entanglement of all things furry that has quite got my hair standing on end.

I blame the giant, bona fide iceberg that Chanel's Kaiser Karl transported in especially from Scandinavia to take centre stage at the Fall '11 ready-to-wear collection. Amidst its hulking presence, and the subzero winds swirling in cahoots around Le Grand Palais, out trotted what appeared to be a collection of Caveman Chic; looks that suggested the Kaiser had been watching Harry And The Hendersons on prolonged repeat. Sure, the iceberg and the ensuing (faux) fur-covered foray were all an unmistakable nod to global warming, but in all things holy, is this the tip of the (ahem) iceberg for fashion's newest global norming?

When worn in moderation, fur can add a touch of luxurious glamour - a chance to keep it real in fake; perhaps the only time in fashion when this won't raise an attempted arched eyebrow of botoxed contempt. A snug jacket encourages late-night 'touchy-feely' conversations in some dimly-lit corner; a textured handbag becomes the tactile topic du jour.

But in the guise of some wayward homage to an extinct woolly mammoth? Let's. Get. Serious. This whole, ol' caveman look is dead and buried. Indeed, it's highly possible that the word 'ugh' came not from an utter lack of language, but rather from the inherent, overwhelming sadness at their overall attire; hardly 'date night' appropriate. So why attempt to bring it back? Why dress men as manimals in what appears to be a couture version of the 'Snuggie'; the all-in-one ensemble designed for those one step away from refusing to wear 'proper' clothing again, such is its purported comfort.

Truly, I search for answers, but have come up as empty-handed as the empty-headed who will doubtless buy into this pileous look. And like a sartorial soothsayer, I also forsee grave danger in embodying the 'wilder' side of fashion: one lit ash from an animated cigarette and it's bye-bye beastie. Is that how you want to be remembered?

Please, Karl, come back to us next season with some real fierce fashion. I'm sure that, by then, all will be fur-given.

Fashion's welcome booby trap

Breasts. What to do with 'em? In youth, united they stand; with age, divided they fall. So it's no wonder that in recent years designers haven't quite known how to deal with these upfront symbols of femininity, preferring the more androgynous approach, offering lines that give a 'leaner, more architectural' silhouette. Whilst this certainly has its place for those less-endowed laydeez, it has perhaps caused exclusion for a multitude of women worldwide who have quite rightly pondered, 'Where does this leave me?'

Enter the Fall 2010 ready-to-wear circus, or more pointedly, Marc Jacobs and his team of oft-unheralded designers at the helm of hallowed French fashion house, Louis Vuitton. They have decreed that the bust is back: Not-quite-so-much-the-bigger, but certainly the better-than-ever. Think a young, firm, Brigitte Bardot; a veritable coquette and timeless fashion plate, her golden locks and thrusting bosom raising temperatures and box-office bankability - bums on seats for boobs, as it were. In an era when the sex kitten ruled, her seductive French purrs positively roared across the globe.

But how to make this all relevant for today's world? In essence, how to make the bust boom once again? To understand it better, perhaps we need to examine the overall 'new' proportion. It calls for a seriously cinched-in waist (giving the illusion of a bigger bust), full knee-length skirt and a healthy dose of confidence to let the proverbial 'puppies' off the leash and allow them to command centre stage. And let's make one thing absolutely clear: this is a gracious, ladylike approach - more made-over, modern-day milkmaid, not a nod to the pneumonic Playboy bunnies of today.

But back to LV's winning collection, universally applauded as the season's breast in show. Wheeling out a variety of past and present supes (Elle Macpherson, Laetitia Casta, Alessandra Ambrosio, et al) giving body and boob, parading serenely in front of an appreciative audience who, more than likely, let out a collective cigarette-scented sigh of relief that the afro wigs and gimmicks of the previous LV season were returned to whence they came from, replaced by welcome ponytails, bows and breasts. Can you say 'Ooh la la'?

Fashion's gone broke for the bust, and for women worldwide, I'm guessing that it couldn't come sooner.

The under is still totally over...

As per 2 posts ago, it would appear that the 'ass end' of fashion is alive and well in NYC. I found this photo today on 'The Sartorialist' blog.

To use jive parlance, Going crack is totally whack.

'Nuff said.

In the hirsute of happiness

Hair. If you haven't noticed, it's nigh on everywhere, none more so prevalent perhaps than with the youff (youth) of today; more specifically, the young male tweens and teens aged between 13 and 19 years old. In carving out what can often be a particularly difficult few years, it appears that hair has taken over as the great protective mantle, forming a flat-to-the-forehead style that suggests a desire to hide from the world (call it a youthful form of 'Witness Protection Chic'), and yet, rather perversely, this very look is currently sporting the domes of the majority of the world's most famous male entertainers - young icons whose every cut, care and conundrum is pored over and analysed by the most up-to-the-millisecond generation we've ever known.

Case in point, a 16-year-old Canadian crooner you may have heard of: Justin 'Fever' Bieber. His do is nothing short of a global crowning glory - the veritable hair apparent du jour. With nairy an immaculate strand out of place, his cut would appear to be an almost obsessive mastery of the 'trim'; a human bonsai who is painstakingly scissored to perfection every week, carefully concealing the ears to drown out the incessant, high-octane, high-pitched squeals of fervent pubescent fans. He is, as I write, possibly the most high profile of young men to take to the mic on the international stage, and, like every l'il step he takes, his hair never puts a proverbial foot wrong.

Is there a name for this particular hairstyle? If there is, I'm not aware of it, quite possibly because I am, ahem, a woman of much older years, and back in my day, The Bowl, The Village Idiot and The Caesar, with its lobotomy-inspired fringe, were de rigueur. But I digress and inevitably must suggest:

If Michael Jackson was The King Of Pop, could Justin Bieber be The King Of The Crop?

Call it the ultimate 'brush with fame'. In an age where the most shocking gets the most airplay, perhaps the most shocking of all is that the male youff, with an enduring case of Bieber Fever, are turning away from a predilection for unwashed locks and embracing what mother always told 'em: Girls like boys with clean hair. And it must give them a sense of confidence too, unknowingly putting them in good stead for when the manscaping years come into play.

But you know what pleases me most? It's that these angsty, where-do-I-fit-in male teens have formed a global solidarity with loving their locks and hopefully, in turn, loving themselves.

At last it would appear that today's young men, with their penchant for 'The Bieber', are no longer backward in combing forward. And that's the kindest cut of all.

Wise-cracking fashion? The cheek of it all.

There's an undying trend that seems to have too many of the world's males in its evil clench, one that shows no signs of letting go. Let us now speak of the all-too-revealing sartorial horror: The all-too-low-slung jeans.

I blame it on Calvin Klein, circa 1993. I blame it on Mark ('Marky Mark') Wahlberg, the campaign's model-of-choice, and his rippled torso, jeans suggestively lurking low around the crotch, the multi-billion dollar wink of his crisp Calvin Klein Y-fronts, ahem, fronting up.

It was an incredible advertising tour de force, one that left countless men and women hot under the collar, if not the trouser. However, in its lingering wake, it has left millions of today's teenage and adult men under the illusion that it is entirely acceptable to wander the earth in what they consider to be a state of buttock-bearing brilliance. Did they not get the memo? Let us consider its provenance: Underwear. In this filtered-down version of CK mastery, the saggy, off-white jocks atop a half-hearted jean has become a prominent embarassment on the street. How low can fashion go? Belts sigh, "I tried"; jeans shrug, "Why do I bother"?; the wearer boasts, "I'm kickin' ass!" Er, not quite.

And yet, let's be honest, this abhorrence isn't the sole domain of the male. Lest we forget that women have fallen prey to the lure of low jean and its partner-in-crime, the g-string. Whilst seated or bending over, the proverbial lower cups runneth over and, by proxy, so does the underwear. There should be some sort of 'how-to' to accompany the wearing of this popular garment. We have washing instructions, why not how to wear the under so it doesn't awkwardly become the outer?

Of course there was, for a very brief time, a celebrated retour de force of the derriere in the upper echelons of the fashion world. Do you remember the brouhaha that the brilliant Alexander McQueen caused with his 'bumster' jeans? Cut so low, underwear was verboten and the buttocks became the fleshy focus; a veritable 'bottoms up' that only the very brave, the very perky, and, perhaps, the very stupid cottoned on to. But in lowering the cut, McQueen raised headlines, and the brand forged a singular swathe into the world's media and, in turn, formed a part of his masterful legacy.

So where does this leave us? Do we pull up the pants and leave the rear behind, as it were? I'd like to think so. The amount of below-the-belt revealing has left me reeling, and I'm certainly no prude. For in this case, it's most certainly not what lies beneath that counts.

If things don't change soon, I, for one, will be seriously bummed out.

Shoulders: The edge of reason?

Fashion's a whimsical beast. Every season, designers reclaim and celebrate a body part that 'defines' the essence of what it means to be a woman. The navel (Tone it! Show it!); the spine (Lean! Leaner!); the ankle (Wrap it! Strap it!), and so on. Elbows? Currently being revisited. Wrists? Yet to make a comeback. Buttocks? Alaia, je t'aime. And yet for several years, it would appear that the humble (albeit, anatomically necessary) shoulder has remained de rigueur - the first and last bastion of statement style.

From whence did this come, one may ask? All signs point to the hallowed house of Balmain, or rather, its brilliant rock 'n roll estheticien, Christophe Decarnin. Sure, the shoulder has done its tour of puffed-up duty in the past (Dynasty, anyone?), and yet it took a Frenchman to revisit this '80's relic, rescue it from the dress-up box, sharpen the scissors and get to work on some serious reinvention for the 21st century. Teamed with distressed t-shirts (at an equally distressing price), lean trousers and even leaner supermodels, and lo and behold, the shoulder shook up the fashion world once again.

Problem? None, whatsover. My issue (as I'm sure it is with many) is that this elegant reinterpretation has filtered its way down the echelons of fashion to the global footpath, losing its tailored edge and shows no signs of waning to become, well, pedestrian. Firstly, let it be known right now that I wholeheartedly embrace the availability of trends to the masses - I, for one, could certainly never afford the super-luxe prices. For me, the issue lies in the all-too-numerous sightings of mantis-like fashionistas tottering their way along streets with shadow-casting shoulders, many often poorly tailored so that the overall effect is one of dulled impetus; the little shoulder that 'thinks it can' but which, sadly, very often can't.

There aren't too many looks that I'm sorry to see in the public domain (except, for humane reasons, the crack-loving g-string over the jean, the 'invisible' elastic bra straps beneath an evening dress, etc) and I have to admit being super-fond of the great Aussie 'trackie dack' (re-cut for '10) on a chilly day, but how I wish this obsession with the shoulder would give one almighty shrug and disappear into the back of the closet, perhaps only to be drawn out of sartorial retirement to take on the White Queen of Narnia in a battle of well-worn weaponry.

Now THAT would be something to see. Forget The Lion: This is The Witch and Her Wardrobe vs. an army of seriously shouldered jackets. My money's on the Balmain.