Do you remember that really in depth interview with Prancehall the enigma we did a while back? No? Good, neither do I. Anywho, Yep is fully up and running and ruining everything out there. Bastard. Below is a lovely write up on top chumps.
Fashion Metal
In the past year there has been a greasy tsunami of leather jacket-clad 20-something-year-old men in east London dressing like they’ve just come of age in mid-80s LA and heavy metal has suddenly exploded. Read below to find out how to get the look while it’s hot.
Hair: Short, unkempt, “don’t give a fuck” look for the posers. Long hair with shaved sides for the poserettes.
Hat: Supreme baseball cap with “metal” phrases such as “MOSH” or “SATAN” or “DOOM” scribbled on the underside of the peak.
Tattoos: Has discussed getting an upside-down Crucifix on his chest in vivid detail but obviously will never go ahead with it. Most likely has a Black Flag tattoo on their arm from the days when they were into hardcore.
Jacket: Vintage broad-shouldered leather jacket littered with patches of genuinely awful metal and thrash bands.
Top: Well-known, easily recognisable metal band T-shirt with an American Apparel hoody on top (a hangover from the nu-rave days).
Trousers: Meticulously ripped-around-the knee-area stonewash skinny jeans.
Favourite phrases: “The new Slayer record is AMAZING, dude. OMG. I ride my fixie every day to that shit.”
Footwear: Retro Nike “sneakers” (as they call them) such as the horrendous Air Jordan Spizikes, or Vans (the least “metal” shoe known to man).
Accessories: Sewn-on patches and pin badges emblazoned with logos of bands like Municipal Waste, Pentagram, Slayer and Sleep. A hoop earring left over from the days when their favourite band was The Libertines.
Girlfriend: Fashion goth in a matching black outfit.
Plaid shirt? Yes.
Fixed-gear bike? Optional.
The art collective look
You’re nobody in east London these days unless you’re in an art collective. These gaggles of “artists” – who have names that make absolutely no sense, like Golden Mirage or Neon Futurism – skulk around like twee Malcolm McLarens, thinking they’re part of a decade-defining movement, when all they’re doing is putting on exhibitions with grown men who draw pictures of stuff like an alien playing a guitar. Although their look is quite understated, they are very easy to spot since they all have the appearance of someone who has been dressed by their parents for a day trip to see their grandfather in the countryside in the spring. Read below to find out how to get the look while it’s hot.
Hair: Short, cropped and very neat – like a child on their first day at school. Some of the more adventurous/posher devotees have shaved sides and a quiff.
Hat: Rolled-up beanie that sits on the crown on the head, almost like a yarmulke. Must be worn at all times, all year round.
Tattoos: A big no – these guys were never into hardcore, since it doesn’t have a funky enough bassline and has no discernible connection to Africa.
Jacket: The waxed Barbour used to be a defining feature of practitioners of the art collective look, but since this garment wriggled into the mainstream it has been dropped in favour of stonewash vintage denim jackets and sand-coloured American hunting jackets.
Top: T-shirt with one of their own illustrations on the front or a denim shirt buttoned all the way up. In the winter, expect to see them wearing a cast-off from Bill Cosby’s jumper collection or one of your dead gran’s cardigans.
Trousers: Beige Uniqlo jeans or chinos rolled up above the ankle to show off their quirky choice of socks.
Favourite phrases: “Come to the launch of our new T-shirt range at the opening of our secret pop-up gallery in Dalston. Free (warm) booze all around!” “Have you read my new blog post on the unappreciated electronic mood artist Jironechi Sushimunchi?”
Footwear: Lace-up Vans (any colour), (black or white) Reebok Classics or Clark’s desert boots.
Accessories: A tote bag filled with CD-Rs of their latest favourite genre: African chip-disco. Vintage thick-rimmed glasses they bought off a convicted paedophile on eBay.
Girlfriend: A fellow “artist” – often a Scandinavian – who claims to be an illustrator but is unable to draw anything without tracing.
Plaid shirt? Used to be almost essential but they are slowly being phased out in favour of the more quirky and creative Aztec-print shirt.
Fixed-gear bike? Very likely. As long as it’s retro it will do, though.
London Fields
The two-week English summer is upon us and what better place to spend it than London’s hippest scorched-grass catwalk, London Fields (especially the section nearest Broadway Market, affectionately know as cunt’s corner)? Stroll through the park any time after midday on the weekend and you’ll find yourself in what looks like the opening scene from Apocalypse Now, with the napalm (unfortunately) substituted for the smoke coming from the myriad disposable BBQs plopped on the grass. Through the grey haze you’ll see packs of top-drawer cretins in Ray-Bans splayed out on the grass like horny peacocks, trying to catch the eye of a potential mate as they scorch their leathery faces. No matter how sunny it is, most of the men (who all claim to be either band managers or video directors) will be dressed in tight dark jeans and smart shoes – the exact opposite of what’s comfortable for a day in the park. Elsewhere, you’ll find fashion bloggers snapping pictures of young girls who look like they had a nervous breakdown midway through a shopping trip at a vintage clothing shop. The park starts the day looking like the Monday after Glastonbury and goes downhill as the hours pass. Forget the crack squirrels of Brixton, here you’ll find smug, obnoxious pigeons flapping around with their heads stuck in the cocaine wraps left behind by the park’s visitors. Read below for a breakdown of the typical look.
Hair: Side-parted 20-inch high WW2 fighter pilot-esque quiff held in place by a tub of lard. A moustache that wouldn’t look out of place in certain Vauxhall nightclubs is also essential. The acoustic guitar player of the gang usually favours free-flowing Devendra locks.
Hat: You’re not allowed through the park gate without one. Usually it’ll be a wide-rim straw number or something you might expect an elderly man in the Amish community to wear in winter.
Tattoos: A couple of classic sailor tats or a bomber babe to match the haircut.
Jacket: A Burberry mac their mate stole from a fashion shoot or a pea coat that they picked up in a Brooklyn thrift store.
Top: Deep-V-neck T-shirt to show off some Buddhist beads, which they wear to summon the spirit of Animal Collective.
Trousers: Skinny black or navy jeans that are ever so slightly too short, perfect for a day of basking in the scorching sun.
Favourite phrases: “Got any blow?” “I love your look, can I take a photo for my blog?” “Barney’s new ska-folk band are fucking wicked, mate.”
Footwear: Brogues with no socks.
Accessories: Gross man jewellery and bangly shit that they picked up in Goa as a teenager. A couple of grams of shit coke for an afternoon down the Cat & Mutton. A bratty little dog (“the minge magnet”) that runs about pooing everywhere and nipping at the heels of passers by. A tote bag from an organic food shop filled with pear cider and organic chewing gum. Coloured Ray-Bans to take the edge off the lurid clothes on the people all around them.
Girlfriend: Some annoying cokehead. Pale skin and dyed ginger hair essential.
Plaid shirt? Naturally. With the sleeves rolled up at all times to show off the tats.
Fixed-gear bike? Stupid fucking question. It’s stacked with the rest of their group’s rides in a temporary ultra-lightweight sculpture on the grass.
