As the Fashion Week Madness Settles, We Break Down the Street Style Tribes Ruling the Game
As much as we love to complain about the stresses of fashion month, it feels quite alien to be sat back at our desks pretending to do actual work. The fashions on offer this season took a quick exodus from the utilitarian streetwear that has swallowed the menswear world in recent years. Tender pastel hues were of plenty, as were boyish cuts and intricate craftsmanship. The tides inside the show spaces weren’t the only ones changing however, those parading in front of them also had a rejig. Gone was the influx of Supreme and Palace, the groups lingering outside were there to put on a spectacle – here are the gangs who caught our eye across London, Florence, Milan and Pitti.
Who are they: It’s a wild, wild world out there – with Pret queues stretching out the door and a pack of rabid fashion folk desperate for their evening glass of champers, men’s fashion week can feel like a rodeo at times. Thankfully, a new slew of sheriffs are in town to keep things in check. Picture John Wayne, but now he wears a cross earring and has a big bum slapped on his back courtesy of that Mowalola coat. It’s a battle of the bulge – catch front row flaunting of shiny belt buckles and hairy chests. They’re hot, slick-talking and have zero experience in gathering cattle. What they are good at however is trawling through Relik for rusty cowboy boots left at the bottom of the sale bin. Catch them next summer barn-dancing across the Brick Lane cobbles in Sterling Ruby’s technicolored denim, lassoing street style photographers to snap their fit.
What are they likely to say: “Why would I want to ride a horse? I’d scuff my silver Margiela cowboy boots.”
Starbucks order: Classic Espresso with a dash of soya milk (tastes a little bitter without).
Fashion week prop: Rhinestoned cowboy hat and untamed chest hair.
THE SUITED AND BOOTED
Pfft, dressing up for fashion week? These lads are dressed to the nines 365. God, they probably even sleep in a flared pant suit. Do they ever wear trackies? Definitely not. You’ll catch them cracking a smile before they ever throw on a pair of Kappa button-ups. They love that new generation of tailoring. Y’know Bianca Saunders, Edward Crutchley and Wales Bonner. But y’know what they love more? Hating fashion week. Oh god it’s such a chore to sit on a bench for super short intervals and get a load of free stuff in the process – it’s practically manual labour.
What are they likely to say: “Oh god, look at all these kids dressed in Supreme, they’re blocking people taking pictures of Gucci blazer.”
Their Starbucks order: Iced Caramel Macchiato (they’d go for Latte Macchiato but the foam gets in their moustache).
Fashion week prop: A pocket-sized lint roller.
You’ve gotta give it to them – it takes a lot of money to be this extra. There’s a select rat pack of fashion fiends at everything and anything fashion week related. It’s always a pleasure seeing someone taking up two seats on the central line in some archive Comme, or a timid frame clad in sequin leopard print courtesy of MSGM during the morning commute. Virgil Abloh is their Messiah and in the church of Off-White they trust. They’ve graduated from the yellow belt trailing along the floor and are skipping a cap and gown for one of those Lenny McGurr-graffitied suits. If they’re not sat frow, they’re frantically pacing up and down the street waiting for people to take their picture. We wonder if their thumbs hurt from all the pretend texting they tend to do.
What are they likely to say? “Which fashion week shows should I try to blag my way into today?”
What’s their Starbucks order? Nothing, they spent their allowance this week on the Doublet plastic shirt on their back.
Fashion week prop? Portable phone charger, you’re not at fashion week unless you Instagram it, right?
Growing up sucks. Council tax bills alone are enough to fear adulthood, never mind Brexit looming and a political climate in peril. Fashion has always been an escapism from the mundanities which leave a dark cloud over our everyday lives. Whilst the women in Paris have had the elaborate couture fashions to add a little luxury to their lives, the boys have been left to their own devices. Now things have took a detour. It’s boys to men, flipped and reversed – think Peter Pan but he’s clad in a pair of Robyn Lynch double-waist-banded shorts. Entering the Truman Brewery, this season felt like an audition room for Benjamin Button: the sequel. And with most Insta influencers nowadays still doing their GCSEs, do you blame the old guard channeling the days their knees never used to ache? Next summer expect to see them in new season Liam Hodges and of course those massive Jamiroquai-esque Marni hats – gotta hide what the botox couldn’t fix.
What are they likely to say? “What does bredren mean?”
What’s their Starbucks order? Caramel Frappuccino with a shit tonne of whipped cream.
Fashion Week Prop? Urban Dictionary.
They’re a little goth, but love RTing political content. In their utilitarian garms they look like they’re ready for battle – prepped and ready from all the arguing they’re used to doing in their Depop DMs. They love A-Cold-Wall and defiantly have thought one or twice about getting a Raf Simons tattoo. They get angry when their parents won’t splash out on a Craig Green distorted vest as their Christmas present and love to chain smoke in their bedrooms (Sterling Fresh Bursts not Malboro, they hurt their throat.) They were quite unamused at all the colour on offer at the SS20 shows, but practically got a boner from seeing those paria/ Farzaneh masks.
What are they likely to say? “I hope people don’t actually think I’m a road man just because I’m wearing trackies.”
What’s their Starbucks order? Mango Passion Fruit Frappuccino. Coffee ages you.
Fashion Week Prop? A regular lighter they payed £20 for because it has a brand’s name on it.
All backstage photography by Jason Lloyd-Evans.