Topical: Tropical

    We all know wool is versatile stuff, but ideal for the tropics?  So-called tropical cloths hover below the 10-ounce mark (positively stout by today's standards) but for many clothes enthusiasts remain the  benchmark for conservative warm-climate dress.  Of course not all tropicals are equal.  Many are tightly woven, slippery, lustrous… and about as breathable as a sandwich bag.  

    H Lesser's, pictured below, are rather different.  This edited collection is matte, breathable, traditional and dry.  For the true tropics?  Perhaps not.  But certainly ideal for summer throughout much of the US.  Which hints at the final point to be made about lighter cloth: despite the bone-chattering current weather, now is the time to see your tailor for those balmy months ahead.  

A Bone of Intention

   Despite the possibly limitless choice in checks, there are two types of men who might hope for something else.  The first is the man with two dozen checked odd jackets in varying scales from the demure to the frightening.  The world is his oyster, but he longs for still greater variety.  One can hardly commiserate.  The second and perhaps more interesting fellow has a tighter purse.  He has a modest collection of checked odd jackets--say three--in differing scales and colors.  He wears them often, and is confident only the pedant would take note of his rotation.  He is considering a fourth odd jacket, and while both louder and more subtle checks exist that would not go unworn, he resists in favor of versatility.  His choice?  The dark brown herringbone.

    The navy blazer of course is the classic useful jacket, and our fictitious gentleman may or may not already possess one, (although I’m not in the business of supplying the order in which someone ought to acquire what).  I have found though that the blazer, for all its famous utility, perches awkwardly between genres.  It’s often too formal for casual social activities, but usually when I wear mine to something where it would seem a sensible choice, I come away wishing I had worn a suit.  I suspect this has something to do with its collegiate and club associations, a sort of sub-genre where funny things happen to the rules of the masculine universe.

    By contrast, an odd jacket made of a dark brown herringbone seems capable of consistently striking the correct note.  It dresses up wonderfully with flannels and a woven tie, say in a deep burgundy, works more casually with corduroys and a knobbly navy knit tie, and, if you are into this sort of thing, will always seem at peace with little more than denim and a pale shirt.  The magic, I think, is that herringbone is one of those unique self-patterns that appears in both suiting and more casual cloth, seeming at once sporting and restrained.  

Brown with plenty of black, tan , grey, and possibly navy, olive, lavender…  

    Of course the key to this jacket must be the cloth.  If we assume a four-season climate, eliminating summer as an outlier, I find 12-14 ounce comfortable.  Texture is important too; it ought to have some, otherwise risk looking too suit-like.  Last, and perhaps most importantly, I think it should be quite dark.  Mine, pictured on a dummy below, is made from 14 ounce cheviot tweed.  It has a mottled, almost donegal effect, achieved by alternating flecked brown chevrons with black ones.  I’ll sidestep the classic debate as to whether black and brown can coexist by pointing to the resulting loveliness of the cloth.  The overall cast may be brown, but the black introduces a moody richness--the very quality that permits the jacket to be worn from day into the evening.  That’s important if practicality is the aim.  

    Finally, a word on just that.  Many would suggest the very premise of practicality is unsexy.  The line of thought might be that expensive clothing should be far removed from the ordinary, made from extravagant materials and in daring designs.  Practicality--that is, the idea that something is useful beyond its beauty--introduces a pedestrian quality at odds with glamour.   By contrast, I am suggesting practicality as the height of glamour.  Is the man who must check his bags for a three-day trip glamorous?  Indecisive, perhaps.  To return to our fictitious hero for a moment: a mid gray suit, three shirts, two ties, a pair of brown casual shoes, dark denim jeans and his new practical herringbone, makes three distinct outfits and fits easily into a carry-on.  There is swagger in packing light, and authority in confidently deploying items from that well-edited collection.

The brown herringbone jacket in question, photographed at the basted fitting stage.  The dummy nicely displays the jacket's shape.  The other dummy wishes he had a proper camera with him.  

Taking a Soft Line

The ready-wear market is shackled to notions of what will or won't sell--notions informed by trend, but never too far from the safety of so-called season-less plain weaves and insipid tonal patterns.  One might encounter fuzzy cashmeres and gossamer tropical worsteds on the racks but finding anything with real guts is a trial.  This is a pity as the nicest cloths embrace the season, and in doing so create delightful effects.  Form, if you will, very much born of function.  

Flannels and twists demonstrate this nicely.  And perhaps there are few better examples than Harrison's Worsted and Woolen Flannels and Minnis' Fresco (II).  The Flannels have plenty of nap--a quality intended to insulate the wearer--but it's the resulting fuzziness of the patterns that is most charming.  The Frescos have a lovely mottled surface appearance too; this time, though, the high-twist yarn and plain weave (which wears cool) are the culprits.  Different objectives--similar happy results.  

Take a spin through the gallery--but don't be surprised if you have the urge to purge your wardrobe of all the wimpy "season-less" stuff.  

The Trouser Revelations

Even cling-prone flannel drapes well in this cut.

“I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock  - T.S. Elliot

A condensed overview of my personal history with trousers would look like this:  shorts in adolescence followed by khakis and flannels worn throughout elementary and prep school.  The first major change came in college, when low-rise, sagging jeans were not just acceptable, but expected.  Up to this point I had not given too much thought to my figure, particularly as it related to pants.  But once wrapped in course denim that had been riveted into an unlikely form I realized something: my legs were shortish and rather muscled, and my torso long.  This configuration did not pair well with low-rise hip-huggers.  I realized something else, too: stiff, low-rise pants were terribly uncomfortable.   

It mustn’t have been too much of a crisis as I went on wearing this type of pant right out of college and into my early working life.  One day though, and really I can’t say what spurred it, I must have decided I no longer wished to compromise my lower half, and so I looked into proper trousers.  As successful shifts in custom do, this happened incrementally, first adopting slightly higher rise khakis that had fuller thighs, followed by flannels with more of both.  At some stage pleats and cuffs appeared. 

I now have a tailor who understands trousers on a profound level.  My pattern calls for a cut that sits around the waist.  And by waist, I am referring to that indentation that occurs above the hips, somewhere in the vicinity of the navel.  The fabric drapes from that point over my hips and thighs, beginning a careful but definite taper from just above the knee to the ankle, were can be found a whisper of break.  Single pleat; good crease; modest cuffs.  They are thoroughly masculine, lengthening my leg, balancing my torso and emphasizing a trim waistline.  They are also remarkably comfortable.

Now ordinarily this would be a rather dull personal development, but for one very real fact: high-rise, fuller-cut trousers are anathema to men’s fashion, and have been for almost two decades.  Oh, I imagine there have been avant-guarde experiments with fuller trousers at the loftiest fashion houses, but at the consumer level the message couldn’t be clearer: trim, low-rise trousers are what men wear.  This is so ingrained today that discussion of things like pleats and cuffs and navels leave my fashionable friends in disbelief.  I literally must appear before them in my trousers as proof that such a garment may effectively be worn by someone under fifty. 

And so we arrive at the question of age and trouser proportions, and by extension, poor Mr. Prufrock.  If there is one article of clothing most associated with becoming a man it would be the trouser.  Schoolboys once wore shorts, and it was a mark of adulthood to adopt long pants.  But these days the reverse seems more desirable.  Many men hold tightly to fashionably trim and low-rise pants as a way of suggesting youth is still within reach.  And while the look may work for some time, particularly if we remain fit, eventually all men are better served by trousers with an elongated and more elegant line.  Do we associate the latter with maturity?  We certainly do.  And what is the matter with maturity?

Elliot continues the earlier image of Prufrock rolling his trouser bottoms thusly: “I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.”  While he might have meant the line as a sign of resignation, I like to imagine there is also a suggestion of pride that comes with forfeiting the anxieties of youth in favor of comfort and personality.  Which reminds me; I must ask my tailor if he can source just such a lightweight, cream flannel—perfect for contemplative walks on the beach.

Darwin agrees: a higher rise supported with side straps represents an evolution in trousers.

Tweed Teaser

I find it helpful to look at cloth swatches during the appropriate season.  It's certainly too late to have anything made up for immediate wear, but what looks smashing in July might be frightening in the stark winter light.  The same holds true of viewing lightweight cloths during the height of summer.  Here is an abbreviated gallery of Porter & Harding's refined Glenroyal book (14 Oz.) and John G. Hardy's brutish Alsport ((16-22 Oz).  

Cloth Between Brothers

The navy suit in question, made of Lesser 13 ounce hopsack. 

Several years ago, in the intimate ballroom of Manhattan’s Carlyle Hotel, I stood and delivered a best’s man’s speech to the guests of my older brother’s wedding reception.  It was a mixed crowd; a younger set expected the groom to be well roasted; the aristocratic forehead of the Bride’s father, prominent and frightening even from a distance, reminded me, however, that his friends filled a majority of the seats and they expected banal brevity lest the consommé cool.

 I found my solution in my inbox.  For the better part of the previous year my brother and I had exchanged dozens of emails concerning the commissioning of a dinner jacket for the occasion. This had not been an ordinary exchange.  My brother is rather particular, and as even a casual reader here may gather, I too have my opinions.  Among other preferences, my brother does not tolerate any cloth that even remotely itches.  He wishes to be swathed in gossamer, and though I do not understand the compulsion, and tried mightily to sway him toward stouter stuff, it was his wedding, not mine.  

 And so what developed was a semi-technical exchange concerning microns and mohair, barathea and grosgrain, peaks and shawls--the sort of discussion to which anybody who doesn’t count themselves as a clothing enthusiast might raise an eyebrow.  My brother’s illustrative written style made my job easy when it came time to deliver the speech; why tell jokes when direct quotations, delivered in a controlled deadpan, prove far funnier?  

 At the heart of this light-hearted moment though is a debate about cloth.  The opposing camps could not be clearer: the majority seeks the finest, lightest and most ethereal cloths, whatever the cost, whereas a small but vocal minority rejects the modern efforts in favor of heavier, drier and more durable suit-stuff.  In many ways, it is the familiar “new” versus “old” debate in which one side (from behind German, rimless glasses) suggests technological innovation and the other (briar clenched between teeth) bloviates about longevity and tradition.  In short, I love my brother but he has despicable taste in cloth.  I imagine he would say the same of me.

I suppose wool itself must shoulder some of the blame.  It really is too versatile for it’s own good.  Italian firms in particular can make worsted suiting of such fineness one might easily confuse it for sheer linen.  Conversely, I have held 18 ounce semi-milled worsteds that might prove useful should one suddenly need to refinish a wooden skiff.  Confusing things is price.  Fine super cloths can be very expensive; the ready-wear market pushes suits in these cloths as luxury items and charges accordingly.  Of course a suit made of quality heavy British worsted is also an expensive item, albeit not one adopted by the ready-wear market.  There is another layer of complexity too: proponents on either side have launched propaganda campaigns.   One side suggests anything heavier than eight ounces is obsolete since the advent of central heating; the other responds with tales of split trousers and sleeves being ripped clean off by a determined enough breeze.  

The first suit Chris Despos made for me began life as a navy blazer.  I had wanted something sturdy for travel and weekly wear and had considered cloths from twists to serges.  I settled eventually upon a 13 ounce hopsack from Lesser’s 303 book.  The swatch seemed magical, rebounding from however I crumpled it in my hand and had a deceptive sort of weight at once greater and less than what the book’s cover indicated.  I’m not  sure we made it to a second fitting before we decided to add trousers.

 I realize opinion on a 13 ounce, densely woven hopsack suit might be divided.  It would positively send my brother to the funny farm.  But I must admit an obsession with the garment.  The depth of color is remarkable, managing to be unmistakably navy and not black or blue, a fate many a “navy” suit suffers.  The subtle weave is dead-matte in daylight, with enough surface interest to seem at home with madder, knit or woolen neckties.  It transforms at night, though, when that surface awakens with lustrous depth and richness enough to set off the sheen of foulard and satin.  Most importantly though it feels to me like a suit of clothes rather than a set of pajamas, a quality that should not be dismissed considering this suit has become my favored choice for more serious affairs where one might appreciate not feeling so exposed.  

Speaking of pajamas, a few months after his own wedding my brother was invited to an old friend's own nuptials, another Brit living in New York.  He was looking forward to the event until he learned the bride wished the groomsmen to wear morning suits.  My brother has lived in the States too long to necessitate morning clothes and so was compelled, along with five other saddened individuals, to rent.  On the day, the itch from the burlap-like cloth became so severe he felt he had no choice but to stop at a mid-town discount mall and purchase flannel pajamas which, despite a high in the mid-80s, he wore beneath for the duration.  

 Oh how I wish I had that gem the night of my speech.

Texture and depth: just two of the benefits of heavier cloth.