I was a
terrible Mod. Like most teenagers in the south coast UK town where I lived,
signing up for the Mod Revival in the autumn of 1978 meant sleuthing out the
approximately right stuff—trim polo shirts, a 1960s suit, bad loafers—from
charity shops for pennies. There was little in the way of rigor. With real
fish-tailed US Army Surplus parkas already in short supply and with prices
rocketing, I found an ex-German army version for £9 that was not at all right.
But in Mod-dom, wearing the wrong shoes was an egregious error. The Clarks
Desert Boots I got right. I bought them new. They were a dark brown and, if I
remember, cost £19. I wore them into the ground that autumn.
Just about
any fashion that mattered to British teens in those years came from music—from
the fleeting and fast-paced turnover of tribes linked to bands or collectives
of bands who were into a specific sound and a specific look. Getting dressed
was an act of rebellion, even in comfortable shoes. And as any teen knows,
nothing quite telegraphs your rebellious, independent streak like dressing the
same as a whole bunch of other people.
Until fashion
and culture magazines covering the styles of these music subcultures came along
in 1980 to bring this confusing, constantly-mutating world sharply into focus,
style cues came either from word of mouth, music shows, or music papers. My
short Mod phase began at the end of August ’78, during the rise of new wave and
post-punk. I liked punk music, but I wasn’t into wearing the look. The sharp,
tailored look donned by new wave acts was more appealing to me.
My Mod career would eventually end in November 1979, once the subculture had seeped into the mainstream. What’s the point of a rebellion if everyone is into it? But two things have remained with me ever since: A lasting love of style as a kind of uniform, and, of course, those chocolate suede Desert Boots.
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