THE CORDED HORDE


Last Sunday evening was the annual meeting of The Corduroy Appreciation Club, held in Brooklyn's Montauk Club. We had a fully packed house, and the corduroy concoctions on display easily outshone my own rather drab ensemble. Miles Rohan is the perfect emcee for such an event. He has the air of someone who would be an ideal Elks treasurer: reserved, credible, bookish, but with a wry grin playing about the corners of his mouth. There was an expulsion of an "infidel" (someone wearing only one article of corduroy) at the beginning of the evening, who shouted "Dont cord me, bro!" as he was dragged off by two of the corduroy-caped enforcers. Clearly, this was serious business.

After giving a quick interview to a young man from Men's Vogue and exchanging wisecracks with fellow attendees, I made my way to the podium.







I was surprised that my silly speech was met with a standing ovation, but I was most grateful. First in the history of the Club, I was told.



NOTES ON CORDUROY

I.



People have always enjoyed lively textures in their clothing. I remember reading once about a practice that was briefly fashionable in certain 19th century circles: young men would rub broken shards of glass against their jackets, which frayed the material to such a degree that ultimately the wearer would be found swanning about the parlors and clubs in a scribbly cloud of twill. Corduroy, with its marvelous ridges, is but a surviving example of this age-old craving.

I realize that Corduroy’s history has been well covered in previous meetings, so I will make my corrections brief:

Conventional wisdom maintains that Corduroy’s origins lay in either France or Britain. But through my independent research, I’ve discovered that the actual origin lies in 14th-Century Italy, where desperate warring city-states would often resort to fashioning armor from their emergency caches of pasta.



(Shown here is a tracing from an ancient fresco found on 18th Avenue in Bensonhurst).



In the eighteenth century, young, well-heeled British gentlemen who took to Italian cuisine and fashions during their European tours returned to London society and became what is known as The Macaroni Club. When the members eventually found their brittle vermicelli breeches too much to bear, they sent for their tailors, and the rest is Corduroy History.

When Miles introduced himself to me in his email as the President of the Corduroy Appreciation Club, I immediately knew his was a just cause. But it wasn’t just his jpeg attachment that won me over—oh no.





With its unassuming reputation, its delightfully homely drape, and its sensible, hobbit-worthy palette of russets, navy blues, buffs, chocolate browns and moss greens, I can't think of another fabric that would have invoked an equally inviting impression upon mere mention. As the red-headed stepchild of fashion, it cultivates a certain quirkiness—some might say too self-consciously so, but clearly those people need to take a laxative. Corduroy holds such wonderfully naff, underdog associations that one can’t help but to embrace it, or at least cheer it on from the sidelines.

Being the keynote speaker for this meeting has forced me to embark upon a perilous interior journey to the center of my closet; and as someone who owns bespoke suits and enjoys crisp lines and rigorous detail in clothing, I was surprised at how much corduroy I discovered. Judging by the amount of linen and corduroy in my wardrobe, I must confess myself a heretic of the first water. It turns out that I am a rumplemonger!

With Corduroy, the fit is rarely if ever dead-on, but that very quality lends a certain awkward charm that more exacting fabrics can sometimes lack. Corduroy is the only textile that comes with its own drop shadow, resulting in distinctly dimensional duds. Corduroy lovers are a gregarious bunch; they have an appetite for living that demands a larger-than-life cloth. Corduroy lovers not only want to dress up, they also want to dress out.



Indeed, I think a case can be made for this disheveled sensibility; upon closer consideration, there are countless ways to be artfully rumpled without becoming a corrugated cloth-toad. One might even be compelled to say that Corduroy has in part become emblematic of a distinctly American way of wearing clothes—which, at its worst, is boxy, baggy and juvenile, but at its best is casual, generous in spirit, and tinged with a trace of gentility--a yeoman’s sensibility rather than an aristocrat’s.



If worn carelessly, Corduroy’s hangdog aspects can make someone look like a lump of mashed potatoes, but if worn well can give one a laid-back, friendly, and approachable air. What immediately comes to mind is the unexpected elegance one finds among early American photographs--the baggy, flared trousers worn by riverboat deck hands, blacksmiths, street toughs, sailors, and even poets. If I was compiling a great scrapbook of American textures, these images would certainly be in it.

What Linen is to summer, Corduroy is to winter: It enhances the creature comforts of its native season. Like an old friend, Corduroy awaits us as the light and heat fades from the land.



And as that charming rascal Linen makes off with our mint juleps, faithful Corduroy, with the smile of the gods playing about his lips, takes us gently by the hand.



The fellow you see here has long been a personal emblem of mine. You see, this gentleman not only represents a divine state for which I strive each day, he also sums up what I love about Corduroy. He may not actually be wearing corduroy, but that doesn’t matter because he is corduroy incarnate! He’s both rustic and urbane, very much at ease with his slightly crumpled silhouette and dusty, natural colors. He’s humorous and humble, but also poised and—dare I say this about another male--sumptuous. His ensemble is anything but pinched or stiff. Like this fellow, Corduroy’s grace comes less from its physical qualities than from its breezy refusal to take itself too seriously. After all, most of us would rather have a drink with Phil Corduroy than that insufferable prisspot Terry Tweed, or that loutish pissabed Dick Denim.



And so, I’m here tonight to make a humble proposal: I believe Corduroy is more than mere weft and warp.: It is a state of mind. Corduroy is an outlook both frumpy and groovy, town and turf, wifty and thrifty, lumpy and laid back. When someone allows you to get in line first, that’s corduroy. When you are relaxing in front of a fire with friends over a hot cider or mulled wine, that’s corduroy. If you like looking at the flaming orange canopy of a maple tree against a deep blue autumn sky, that too is corduroy.

Likewise, we can all probably agree that yelling into a cell phone while barging into Nobu is definitely NOT corduroy. That’s Brioni.



Corduroy has been called the poor man’s velvet, but perhaps it’s more fitting to regard it as the thinking man’s denim—velour with verve! Gabardine with gusto! Moleskin with moxie! It’s not chic, it’s not slick, and it’s not sharky; Corduroy is out to charm, not impress. It can’t be bothered with keeping score, and so rightfully leaves that sorry pastime to the pricks. It’s the fabric of choice for tramp aesthetes and thrift store connoisseurs, who relish its wrinkled refinement. It may be a common sight, but its qualities are unique—no other fabric is quite like it.

Imagine if we lived in a world that had—incredibly--forgotten about corduroy, and an historian described such a cloth to you. A sturdy material that clothed the Continental Army during the American Revolution? A ribbed, fleshy cloth that made a strange sound when you moved in it? Wouldn’t you be curious? Intrigued? In such a world, I’m sure that boutiques would soon rediscover Corduroy and sell it at Cashmere Corduroy prices. Luckily for us, steadfast Corduroy has never truly left us—it’s a living legacy whose rich provenance is often overlooked. Occasionally declared extinct only to be rediscovered elsewhere, it is nothing less than the coelocanth of textiles.



Corduroy represents a new way of looking at luxury, which is not about an exuberance of the wallet, but an exuberance of the mind. After all, what is more luxurious and civilized: a loud, garish red carpet event, or a day spent getting quietly buzzed while lolling around in a friend’s garden? Corduroy, with its oddball textures and lively panoply of colors, is an apt expression of this more humane way of understanding what it means to live well. It is modest, democratic, and available to anyone who has enough good sense to appreciate simple pleasures. Even if we are not actually wearing corduroy, we should all strive to have hearts of corduroy--the friction of our heartbeats emitting a muffled, rhythmic hum and a warm, soft glow.

END


For the second segment of our keynote address, Miles Rohan and I presented a brief exploration of the sonic phenomenology of corduroy and a demonstration of the uncanny ability of cordvouyance. We played a series of acoustic field recordings of corduroy worn by people hailing from all walks of life. Just as the sounds of animals in the wild tend to settle into a kind of syncopated pattern among all the different species, so it is with corduroy, which when left to its own devices, forms an ecosystem of its own. For the very first time we had a window into the invisible ecosystem of corduroy that is all around us.

Here is a link to far better photos of the event. Many thanks to JBAphoto!

My trusty agent Peter gave us a ride to the Gershwin Hotel to meet with my fairy clothmother Seyta (of Duchess fame) to retrieve my new suit. Can't wait to share it with you, which I shall in good time.

My sincerest thanks to Miles for having us. So many lovely people!

~W