An Intro to Overcoats

This is a topic I've been meaning to discuss for some time now.  It's fitting that I post this piece on the day the Midwest is receiving not just a winter storm but a blizzard.

Perfect timing.

Overcoats.  What does that word do to you?  What pops into your mind when you first hear it?  Do you picture an overcoat as being heavy, bulky, stiff and itchy or soft, warm, sleek and comfortable?

The category that is represented by the word 'overcoat' is vast and full of many different styles of coats.  So whether you pictured the big, bulky overcoat or the stylish, sleek coat your idea was probably correct, if limited.

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Comparison: the overcoat of the 1940s and a 'modern' one of the late 1950s.

The overcoat is an old garment with one simple goal in mind: keep the wearer warm.  Now, that doesn't mean it can't be jazzed up a bit to look stylish, just that the main goal is warmth and that style is secondary.  If it succeeds at the latter but fails at the former, well, it makes a poor coat of any kind.  The overcoat has its roots in the military with the Greatcoat, hence its utilitarian purpose.  But the overcoat would not have survived so long had it not grown to be stylish.  From the dull military garment made of rough, thick wool with brass buttons to the stylish and gentlemanly garment of the 1930s, the overcoat has gone through many different rebirths.  

Yesteryear the overcoat was a staple of the wardrobe.  It provided, obviously, warmth on a cold day and most often looked quite snappy.  There were many different and unique styles of overcoats back then, especially during the Golden Era.  The late 1920s to the early 1940s was the apogee of overcoat design.  The materials, construction, styles, price, and availability of overcoats were all outstanding.  Even department stores like J.C. Penney's and Younkers carried interesting and well constructed overcoats back then.  The overcoat was a necessity, and a stylish one at that.  Every man had one, whether he was a wealthy businessman or politician right down to the homeless man on the street.

No more.

The overcoat of today is not only rare to see in its natural habitat (being worn), it's also boring, rather poorly made, and usually very high priced for what you get.  Maybe that's why so few men wear them.  When was the last time you saw a modern overcoat with a belted back?  A loud yet attractive plaid fabric pattern?  Pleating and an impeccable fit?  Not today unless you spend $600+ for a made-to-measure or bespoke overcoat.  But not many of us can afford something like that.

Yawn.  Wake me when it at least grows some peaked lapels.

In the next few posts of this series we'll take an in-depth look at different styles and examples of vintage overcoats and see just what the overcoat was really meant to be: not only warm but also classically stylish.

WIW: Plaid

I felt sporty today so I went with an ascot.

It's also Autumn, therefore I decided to wear my red plaid jacket for the first time.

I've been contemplating what to wear with this jacket for quite some time. It's a mid-1960s wool jacket that was most likely half of a suit at one point in time. It's very well made and fits me like a glove but the wild plaid pattern to it doesn't lend itself to coordinating very easily with other pieces. For that reason it's been in my possession for at least a year now and hadn't been worn until today.

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Paired with gray flannel trousers, brown suede shoes, a pale green shirt, vintage blue and yellow ascot and vintage Hollywood-style fedora, I'm pretty happy with the results.











In the past loud plaid patterns have routinely fallen in and out of favor through the years. The Duke of Windsor, for example, often enjoyed a loud plaid suit as his tartan lounge suit below illustrates (in America tartan is one form of plaid).



And to further emphasize plaid's waxing and waning popularity throughout recent sartorial history, the Duke's tartan lounge suit was originally made in 1897 for his father, George V and then slightly altered for the Duke, who wore it with such success that is helped create a plaid craze in America during the 1950s.



There's nothing wrong with wearing loud plaids as long as the accoutrements compliment without adding to the loudness. At times this can be difficult but if done well it is very rewarding.

WIW: Houndstooth and Pastel

A peacock is bright and memorable. But we remember the peacock for his feathers and nothing else. We don't think of his legs, beak or head as the source of his beauty, only his feathers.

The peacock can teach us a valuable lesson: one of restraint. The peacock has one feature that stands above the rest: his feathers. The same should apply to the stylish man.

If a man is to wear an outfit with a single garment that is wild and perhaps gaudy, he should show restraint with the rest of the outfit. One crazy garment will draw the eye while two or more crazy garments will poke it out. Pairing together too many gaudy articles of clothing and creating too many focus points will give the wearer an appearance of trying too hard. Keep it simple and you will go far.




For example, today I wore a rather crazy 1940s lounge jacket. No doubt I could have paired it with trousers that are just as wild and looked like a clown as a result.

However, I used pastel colors and toned down garments to counterbalance the crazy monochrome jacket while adding some color.

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Note that the jacket has a fairly large houndstooth fabric pattern. Not only that, it is in black and white.



The simple pastel colors found in the hat, shirt and socks help counteract that wild pattern and monochrome color scheme, turning the sensational into something more pleasing to the eye.

Throw in a pair of vintage Florsheim shoes and you get a very nice casual outfit.


Like the peacock, show some restraint when putting an outfit together.

Intentionally Wrinkled

Having traveled a short distance to hang out with a friend this morning, it came to me that linen would make a very good travel fabric.

Here's why.

It wrinkles. It's supposed to wrinkle. A linen suit or jacket without wrinkles is like a car without wheels: they just have to be there for it to work. And since we sit for long periods of time when we travel, our clothes tend to wrinkle even if they aren't supposed to.

So next time you want to travel wearing a suit or jacket, be like Cary Grant and try linen. That way when you arrive wrinkled, it looks natural. It looks right.


Of course your suit or jacket can't just be wrinkled, but it has to be wrinkled in the right areas: arms, back of the jacket (from sitting), at the back of the knees, etc. You want wrinkles, but you don't want to look like you just pulled the suit out of an overstuffed closet. The wrinkles must be specific.


I took a cue from Mr. Grant today and went all linen, since it was absurdly hot outside. I paired a jacket and trousers of slightly different colors as well as different types of linen to help contrast the look. Throw in a pink 1930s "Fruit of the Loom" tie, spectators and a Stetson and we've got a great summer kit.

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The jacket is made of smooth, finely woven linen while the trousers are a little more course and loosely woven. Both are lightweight and drape very well.


Give linen a try if you're travelling this summer.

You Don't Have to be Boating...

...to wear canvas boat shoes. These casual summer shoes are a classic and perfect for bumming around your place, making a quick trip in-town or exploring the countryside on a hot summer day. Go sockless to avoid that hapless old man look.



Wear with pretty much whatever you want that's casual, especially a lightweight button-down shirt, linen trousers and a Panama hat.

For those of you looking for a pair, the best deal I've found are (surprisingly) Faded Glory shoes from Walmart. They're $12-$14 depending upon your area and come in two canvas colors: blue (pictured above) and light gray. My (blue) pair from Wally World have been comfortable and durable so far this Spring and required no breaking in.

Enjoy the warm weather and check out these classic shoes.

Style: Comfortable in Your Own Skin

Read the following article and know that style, while it has much to do with knowing the rules and how to break them tastefully, also has much ado about being comfortable with yourself.



Who's ever seen a stiff and uncomfortable stylish guy?

Article: The Importance of Being Oscar

“Fashion is about dressing according to what’s fashionable. Style is more about being yourself.”

The New York Hats

The New York Times recently published an article about hats and hat shops in New York. Reading the article, you will find both the hip hop influence (pink homburg) as well as the classic fedora influence ("we can do better"). The two, while still very much at odds, are bringing about another resurgence of the fedora much like that found after the "Raiders of the Lost Ark" though today's comeback seems to be staying longer over numerous demographics and involves more people, both male and female. Frankly, I am very wary of the hip hop culture but for once I think it is doing something good even if the fedoras it sells are cheap and, in my personal view, ugly beyond belief. One day (we hope) those kids and young adults will acquire grown up tastes and will find something better than the Wal-Mart fedoras.


Here's the article.


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From Harlem to Midtown for That Item to Top Off a Look

By HARRY HURT III
Published: September 22, 2007

I TAXIED up to Harlem in executive pursuit of a stylish lid with my buddy Michael Holman. The morning was cool because a rain front had blown through the night before. Litter swirled around like fall leaves on the wide concrete sidewalks. Holman, balding and bareheaded, was styling Malcolm X glasses, a green leather jacket and a two-day growth of beard.
“It all starts at the top,” he said, staring out the window and grinning.

The cab dropped us off at 146th Street and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Boulevard, a k a Seventh Avenue, next to a narrow storefront called Harlem’s Heaven. Holman groaned. The wares in the window were ornate, what he called “Sunday-go-to-meeting hats for ladies.” I knocked anyway, and a saleswoman named Danielle, with dreadlocks and a flashing smile, let us in.
“We do have some men’s hats,” Danielle said. “They’re in the back.”

That seemingly innocent remark set the tone for the rest of our quest. Before World War II, hats were an essential part of a man’s wardrobe. Look at photographs of Wall Street crowds in the 1920s and 1930s and you’ll see virtually every male wearing some type of hat, even if he was about to lose his shirt. In recent decades, however, men’s hats, other than baseball caps, have been all but forgotten in fashion.

From August 2006 to July 2007, sales of men’s headwear in the United States were slightly over $1.1 billion, according to the NPD Group, a market research firm. But more than 75 percent of those sales were caps as opposed to fedoras, homburgs and the like. By comparison, sales of women’s headwear, slightly over $1.2 billion, were split roughly 47 percent to 53 percent between caps and hats.

There are almost as many theories about the demise of men’s hats as there are full sizes and quarter sizes. Some hatters say that veterans of World War II and the Korean conflict were weary of military uniformity and shunned hats when they returned to civilian life. Some blame President John F. Kennedy, who wore a top hat to his inauguration but delivered his Inaugural Address bareheaded. Others cite automobiles, whose roofs made hats uncomfortable and unnecessary. My buddy Holman pinned it on the anti-establishment sentiment of the 1960s.
“Men’s hats symbolized the conformity of the 1950s, and the nonconformism of the 60s was a reaction against all that,” he observed as we browsed the back room at Harlem’s Heaven. “You also had men growing their hair long, and hats didn’t fit well with that. When you took off your hat, you got this rumpled ring around your head called ‘hat hair.’ ”

At 48, Holman exudes the kind of hipness I couldn’t affect in my wildest dreams. A filmmaker who teaches at Howard University in Washington, he is also a writer, a musician and a sartorial trendsetter. In 1979, he formed a rock band called Gray with the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat; later, he was a co-author of a screenplay about Basquiate, filmed by Miramax. When performing on stage, Holman and his bandmates wore gray sharkskin suits and porkpie hats.

Despite statistical evidence to the contrary, Holman insists that men’s hats are coming back in style. I trusted his cultural judgment on its own merits and because we share an ancestral connection to Texas. His great-great-great-grandfather, William Holman, fought in the Texas war for independence from Mexico in 1836. A street in Houston, my hometown, is named for William Holman. “You and I are brothers from another mother,” Michael Holman joked.
Not surprisingly, the selection of men’s hats at Harlem’s Heaven was pretty slim. I tried on a wide-brimmed black homburg called the Godfather after the hat Al Pacino wore in the movie. Danielle said it made my face look fat. Holman recommended a blue fedora with a narrower brim. I liked it, too, but it was a Habig, imported from Vienna, and it cost $199, which was quite a bit more than I had planned to spend.

Holman insisted that we check out a store called Porta Bella on 125th Street a few doors down from the Apollo Theater. Its walls were decked with yellow, red and powder-blue zoot suits priced as low as $119. The equally colorful if rather meager stock of men’s hats was stashed in plastic bags in the back of the store. At Holman’s urging, I tried on a $10 pink fedora.
“Oh, man, that’s dope!” he exclaimed.
“Is that good?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Holman replied. “You’ve got to have that hat.”

Immediately upon striding back out onto 125th Street, I began to have second thoughts about the pink homburg. A tall, muscular fellow with a New York Yankees cap looked back over his shoulder at me and shook his head and chortled like I was some kind of circus clown. A woman in ragged clothes begged me to give her a dollar.

“This hat may be dope, but I feel like one,” I told Holman as we hailed another cab.
We taxied down to Worth & Worth at 45 West 57th Street. The firm, established in 1922, has provided hats for clients like William S. Burroughs and David Bowie. We were greeted in the sixth-floor showroom by the resident designer Orlando Palacios, 43, who was wearing a sleeveless shirt and a Stetson festooned with a black stenciled badge that read “Sex Pistols.” Like Holman, Orlando said that men’s hats were making a comeback.

“People want to step away from that cookie-cutter image,” he said. “A hat will change your whole look. It says you’re daring. It pulls people in.”
In addition to Stetsons, Worth & Worth features classic fedoras and homburgs with names like Fellini and Venezia. Orlando also makes custom hats, starting at $450. Holman fancied a vintage-style Donegal tweed cap known as an Applejack or a newsboy, priced at $65. I bought it for him in thanks for his shopping assistance, complimenting him with one of the few hipster terms in my vocabulary.
“You look fly,” I said.

Orlando suggested that I try on a butterscotch Prima Vera fedora made of rabbit and beaver fur. I appreciated the quality of the hand stitching but balked at the $375 price. “That hat’s just got way too much drama,” Holman whispered when Orlando was out of earshot. “And the brim is too wide for your face.”

A few minutes later, Holman and I arrived at Arnold Hatters at 535 Eighth Avenue. The proprietor, Arnold Rubin, 72, welcomed me with a knowing wink. The last time I had visited his store, I was about to have surgery to correct a hammertoe. With Arnold’s guidance, I picked out a chestnut cane to use after the operation as I recovered. This time, I donned my new pink homburg just to see how he would react.

“Looks like you’re walking pretty good,” Arnold said. “We can do better hat-wise.”
Arnold Hatters boasts an inventory of over 160 styles, some of them in as many as 24 colors. Among its celebrity customers are the actor Jimmy Smits, the rapper Ice T and the singer Janet Jackson, who bought a hat the previous Saturday. Arnold fitted me with a $120 navy blue felt fedora with a relatively narrow 2-inch brim, by Bailey of Hollywood.

I reached into the pocket of my blazer and pulled out a 3 1/2-inch steel pin tipped with a pearly white bulb. Arnold helped me stick it into the grosgrain band of the fedora. He asked where on earth I had found such an elegant hatpin. I told him the surgeon had inserted it into my foot to repair the hammertoe. Holman whistled softly.

“Now that is really dope,” he said.

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