Shirt Review: Cad & The Dandy

One of the best things about made to measure clothing is the wait one has to inevitably endure until the item is available for collection. The immediate satisfaction of ready-to-wear clothing is short lived; the anticipation, the stroll up to the cash desk, and the slideshow of potential uses running through the mind, are exciting moments. However, as soon as the plastic has been swiped, the thrill subsides. It’s the waiting that makes it worthwhile. Waiting, in today’s world, is rather a novelty. We fly to places our ancestors endured weeks to travel to; we no longer expect communication to take more than a second through email; we microwave; we broadband; diets and exercise routines are fast, fast, fast. And in the midst of all this speed, it is strangely satisfying indeed to know that craft does, and will always, take time.

Cad & The Dandy, who made my superb double-breasted suit, offer a mixture of the new and the old; the craft and the speed. Although it still takes time for items to be made, the system of ordering is remarkably easy and very quick. Once your measurements have been taken, they are stored on your online account – to order more takes a few simple clicks of the mouse. So to order a shirt, all that was needed was a little use of the ‘design’ tool, a few more clicks and the order was complete. When it came to the exciting day of ‘collection’, the anticipation that had been building – mixed with a little trepidation as the shirt design was unusual – reached a high point. When I saw the shirt, this gave way to a sense of relief and satisfaction. Not only had I received a shirt cut correctly to my juvenile, awkward shape but also a shirt of a design for which I had searched high and low; horizontal stripes.

Horizontally striped shirts are near unicorn; they are almost never seen. I once spoke to a rather aloof assistant on Jermyn Street of them, of how interesting and attractive I thought them, and of my vain search for one. “Well” he scoffed “that’s probably because vertical stripes look infinitely better.” When I asked him whether he had seen one he responded in the negative claiming that it was probably a fad, an illogical foray into “being different for the sake of it.” I suggested to him it was the shirting equivalent of unbuttoned suit cuffs as it is more expensive to use striped material horizontally. He laughed derisively and attempted to persuade me to purchase a butcher stripe. Fortunately, though you won’t find them on Jermyn Street (or any other street for that matter), it is possible to twist a tailors arm into making you one. And, from my experience of the quality and the aesthetic of the result, I am rather rueful that I haven’t taken up the opportunity of made-to-measure shirts before.

Apart from the fact that Cad & The Dandy have thousands of fabrics to choose from, and countless configurations – yokes, collar types, placket types etc – the enduring appeal of such shirts is that they fit so extraordinarily well. Though off the rack shirts are of a high quality, they often have folds of material that I need to squeeze into my trousers and hide behind my waistcoat. It’s a depressing feeling that my gigantic collection of Jermyn Street shirts, though wonderful, has been comprehensively outshined by the new arrival. The arms, although I have been satisfied with them until now, feel unnecessarily baggy; even the sides of my slim-fit shirts are inches away from my body. And yet it is very pleasing that the shirt that I received is exactly the shirt I envisaged in my time of anticipation. “If this is going to happen” I told myself “it’s going to be something special.” The pattern matching is of a very high standard – a covered placket means that the horizontal lines are not broken at all by the buttons. Even the shirttails are well finished with rounded edges, complementing the club collar and cuffs perfectly. A friend of mine, considerably well-heeled, switched to made-to-measure shirts after leaving school. I consulted him about my excitement and his experiences. “In many ways” he told me “I don’t regret it at all – I feel and look better because of them. If I should lose everything, I’ll rue the day I thought I was grand enough to start.” I asked him whether there was any turning back, once you had started. His response; “None. Frankly, you’re doomed.”

Style Icon: Michael Jackson

In the last few weeks, about one particular person, there have been written such headlines, obituaries, paragraphs, bloglines, Tweets and tributes that, if piled all together in some mausoleum of dedication, would surely be visible from space. Superlatives have been exhausted; the end of an era has been marked. Michael Jackson’s passing has dominated the thoughts of all from the breakfast to the boardroom table. Of his status as an entertainer, much has been said. Of his unconventional childhood, much has been lamented. He has been praised and pitied; scorned and celebrated. An awesome showman, he could write and produce his own music; he danced like no other, inspiring a generation of Jackson-lite dancers. He was equipped with a unique voice, a taste for fantasy and an enduring Peter Pan personality.

What has received less mention is Jackson’s very evident, somewhat controversial, taste in clothing. By some he is cited as the last example of extrovert dandyism; in whatever theme of clothing he currently favoured whether it be creamy fedoras, glittering socks, diamante gloves, Napoleonic tunics, wing collars or sequinned blazers. Jackson dressed like no one else. In many ways his extravagance was a renaissance of fashion showmanship unseen in centuries. For while it was undoubtedly idiosyncratic, it was actually well conceived. To some it was predictably vulgar, but to many it was an appealing extension of the Jackson aesthetic; a taste that embraced antiques, classic cinema, exotic animal pets, theme parks and history. He was evidently a curious and eager materialist who found delight in the sort of bauble and bangle that the most outrageous fop would question. But it was not only a willingness to wear what others might not wear; Jackson’s wardrobe was a premier example of personal couture. If Mr Jackson had the taste for a suit of armour, Mr Jackson would get a suit of armour. Indeed, when interviewed, Jackson’s costume designers, in acknowledging that Jackson never wore the same thing twice, indicated that Jackson was always the final arbiter on his clothing choices. But he was not simply an isolated fantasist. Jackson even had method to his adoption of faux-regimental clothing, considering that they ‘demanded attention’ had ‘clean lines’ and ‘fit…almost like dance clothes.’

It was not only that Jackson created his own unique wardrobe. He also, due to his magnificent fame, manipulated the mindset of a generation. I remember adopting some of Jackson’s milder clothing curiosities, a small trilby or penny loafer, and receiving my fair share of the humdrum commentary; “Look, it’s Jacko”, “Hey, MJ!”, “Ow!” For as much as penny loafers belong to a generation of Ivy Leaguers, for many younger people they are the stage-shoe of the King of Pop, and try as contemporary celebrities might to consistently adopt fedoras into their everyday headgear, they cannot shake off the glitter of mid-career Michael.

Some outfits of his in particular stand strong in the memory. The Billie Jean outfit, throughout the years of stage performance, remained roughly the same; a simple white t-shirt, skinny black trousers, a black trilby, black loafers and importantly, white diamante socks and a black sequinned jacket. A stage look, no doubt but wonderfully effective; the eye followed the gleaming socks in the moonwalk, the trilby was a clever prop. And as stagey as it appears, Jackson actually adopted more outrageous ensembles.

On a visit to the Reagan White House, Jackson was auspiciously centre stage. With a white wing collar shirt, black trousers, trademark white socks and opera pumps Jackson wore a museum-worthy creation half cartoon, half regimental elegance; a glittering blue mess jacket with light blue-edged lapels, dazzling gold epaulettes, gold sash and gold buttons – on his right hand he wore the legendary white sequinned glove. Such brazen pomp had probably never before been seen at the White House. As bizarre as the costume sounds, Jackson cut a marvellous, and extraordinarily gilded, figure; striding out onto the lawn between Reagan and his wife. For others, it would be impossible to imitate – for Jackson it was natural.

The one outfit that I remember, as a child, I ached to imitate was the creamy, faintly pin-striped suit from ‘Smooth Criminal.’ With a blue satin silk shirt, cream knit tie, spats and white fedora it was practically a parody of the gangster element which Jackson’s video highlighted. And yet it was simply the most wonderful thing I had seen. It wasn’t the white knight poetry of it, the obsession with Jackson himself or even the fact that I adored the song; Jackson simply dazzled.

Sartorial Love/Hate: Denim Shirts

The introduction of denim into our wardrobes was, make no mistake, a revolution. What was once an unremarkable fabric for the working class became a sought after fashion fabric that conquered the globe; denim was to the late twentieth century what Huddersfield cotton was to the 19th. Tough, hard-wearing and distinctively American, jeans particularly are the greatest reason for this material’s success. They were an American teenage trend in the mid 20th century, and by the end of that century, everyone was wearing them.

Indeed, it’s difficult to imagine life without denim jeans. They are such practical inventions of fashion – easily washed, tough and durable – that it seems our current mode of life, far more active and requiring ever more resilient clothing of the ‘wash-and-go’ variety, might not exist without them. Cotton and wool trousers are often too smart, and often too easily spoiled; I remember spilling cream on a pair of virgin wool trousers and making the mistake of rubbing away at the material vigorously, as I would on my jeans. The difference is that the jeans can take it.

Of course, there are scattered detractors of denim. Dandy ‘evangelists’ for example tend to hold denim in contempt writing that “…this age of stonewashed blue jeans and practicality through the T-shirt is not the age in which a Dandy can come to aristocratic fruition.” They maintain a genuine refusal to acknowledge “…anyone who wears…jeans to be a dandy of any stripe.” Lapo Elkann admirers will probably disagree. The workaday value of denim is doubtless the problem for such critics. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is the very value – something Yves Saint Laurent applauded – that explains their extraordinary success.

Aesthetically, they can be simple, even elegantly so. The material itself, no silk or velvet, is perhaps not the most lustrous or gorgeous of fabrics but pants rarely ever were the most glorious part of an ensemble. It is because of, and not in spite of, their supposedly ‘crude’ adaptability and relative simplicity that jeans, whether the detractors like it or not, are wildly popular and it seems, here to stay.

Other items of the denim family will look on in jealousy at the meteoric rise of the prodigal ‘denim jeans’; dungarees, though practical, are the old pretenders; the denim jacket is like a distant relative who uses the shine of the family name, so lacking in aesthetic and practical value is the product itself. The denim shirt, for some, is even worse. A friend once told me that while he adored denim jeans, he abhorred denim shirts; “They’re so ‘Me too!’ – what is the point in a denim shirt?” Not armed with a reason except the predictable and natural explanation that perhaps some people rather like them, I have often pondered the sartorial love/hate reception that meets the denim shirt. I myself rather like denim shirts.

Usually manufactured from a softer denim than jeans, they have a character and comfort all of their own. However, they are often very badly done in a manner that doesn’t suggest Fifties teenagers, milkshakes and Chevy-packed parking lots but beer guts, Stetsons and all-you-can-eat steakhouses. Denim should not be worn with denim – everything that ‘matches’ isn’t always a perfect ‘fit.’ Just ask Liza Minnelli and David Gest.

And while it is certainly true that the denim shirt is principally a casual item of clothing, it should not be treated in a slovenly manner. Denim shirts are boyish and as such, should be worn in a more fitted style. Baggy denim shirts, with clownishly voluminous arms, however comfortable they are, will make you look like a prisoner.

It is best to avoid overly ‘washed’ denim shirts. For one thing, indigo is a wonderful colour that should be displayed proudly and be allowed to age steadily. Secondly, there is something indescribably nasty about a denim shirt that seems to masquerade as an ordinary mid-blue cotton.

The context in which denim shirts are worn is rather unfortunate too. In their most popular habitat - the line-dancin’, country music luvin’ bone suckin’ states of the US of A – they seem to be predictably paired with denim, boots, and other items of rugged practicality. They could be better worn, as an item of intriguing colour and texture, with a club stripe tie, sports jacket, casual trousers and loafers to a booth at the 21 Club.

Why Jermyn Trumps The High Street

It has been said, among my friends, that I have become a rather unctuous high-street drum-beater. Even I myself fear that my initial ravings about how good the overlooked menswear departments of high street retailers actually are has turned into a sanctimonious and rather dull eulogy. Shaking my head at the ‘fools’ spending their week’s wages at the perplexingly popular Abercombie & Fitch, tut-tutting at the gross overspend at Bond Street boutiques and generally exhibiting a nauseating, self-satisfied air of aloofness. For this walk of pride always deserves a fall; as good value as the stores I profess to admire are, they are far from perfect and should I be in a position to purchase greater numbers of higher quality garments, I will surely take advantage.

And, testament to the imperfection of the stores which I have so heartily recommended, there are certain items sold in these establishments which are, to put it bluntly, not good enough. I could never again purchase a smart shirt from a ‘true’ high street shop. Zara and H&M are good at what they do – but they are really quite bad indeed at manufacturing proper shirts. Especially when you consider what can be obtained locally for the same price, or even less.

TM Lewin, a favourite shirt shop of mine, does not qualify as a high street shop in my mind, even though the name familiar once only to ‘shirties’ is now a household one. It has a long established history and considerable expertise in manufacturing shirts. It knows cloths, it knows collars, cuffs, plackets, buttons and yokes. The brand might be rather ubiquitous now, especially as it continues to trade on it’s grand, Jermyn Street origins, but the fact of the matter is TM Lewin shirts, for the money, are very good value. £30 doesn’t buy you a lot these days in clothing terms. Many high street manufacturers charge at least £35 for a shirt and Banana Republic has been known to charge a mind-boggling £75. Lewin’s shirts, invariably ‘on sale’, are currently priced at £25 for current season and £19 for end of range shirts. In my mind, if you are a gentleman who is the proud recipient of a new and exciting job and require advice on an inexpensive but reliable shirt manufacturer, I would direct you here first.

Gentlemen are certainly in need of a good selection of shirts. Other Jermyn street oldies, like Turnbull & Asser, Harvie & Hudson, New & Lingwood and Hilditch & Key do sell excellent shirts in their remarkably silent, antiquated berths on ‘The street of shirtmakers’ but though the quality is high, the price is equally so. For a shirt collection of five or more you will have to part with a significant sum. It’s no wonder the doorbell is the most audible sound in Turnbull’s when the economically minded man who requires shirts only for his City career can get 4 for £100 a few minutes down the road. A gentleman would have to be rather serious about shirts, or perhaps merely seriously wealthy, to purchase from these hallowed emporiums.

The sad fact of the matter is that most gentlemen are hardly serious about shirts at all. This is perhaps why the pile-‘em-high merchants on Jermyn are doing so well in comparison to their quieter, perfectionist neighbours. Both Hawes & Curtis and TM Lewin, and to an extent the slightly dearer Thomas Pink, have colonised ground beyond SW1 and though their shirts are produced at far greater volumes, the overall quality has only slipped a little in the past 10 years that I have been wearing them. While they are rather sneered at as being ‘commercial’, ‘common’ and ‘crass’ by their financially overshadowed companions on Jermyn Street, they are without a doubt among the best on offer elsewhere. The collars retain strength wash after wash, the fabric is of a very good quality for the price range and they last for years and years – models I have purchased from Marks & Spencer, Zara and Next have crumpled and faded within a year. I still wear a Lewin’s shirt bought in 1998.

Surviving Summer

I was once asked my favourite season and responded promptly that although a rather predictable fan of summer, I adored the fact that I could wear more clothes in the colder seasons. As much as I moan about the weather in Blighty, there is invariably a time of year too warm for waistcoats, too sweaty for sweaters and even too toasty for ties; this is the time of year at which even great arbiters of elegance loosen their damp collars, at which trussed up dandies seem to vanish and, in the haze of the boozy weekend afternoons, we all seem to let ourselves go. Ella was right; “It’s too darn hot.”

In the midst of all the shedding, the cacophony of flip-flopping and the positively gruesome slime of sweat that drips onto the summer streets, there is still room for regal rebellion. It all seems rather hopeless on what one might call a ‘belter’ of a day; when the sky, irrepressibly blue, suggests temperatures that make the maximalist wince in premonition of discomfort. Stiff upper lips be damned – no one in their right mind would dress in more than they need on such a day. And why would they? Dressing well is noble, but dressing appropriately is always preferred. Anyone crass enough to brave the beating heat in a woollen suit needs an extraordinary excuse. I myself can feel rather uneasy in seeing a more than adequately clothed gentleman on a blisteringly hot afternoon.

Style, then, makes no attempt on such days? Well, for many, it certainly takes a back seat. However, to depart from style considerations entirely, to beat a complete retreat at such flimsy adversity, is rather disappointing. Real style always finds a way around minor inconveniences like temperature. Simplicity is Style’s aide-de-camp when Summer begins to singe. Material needs very careful consideration; linen and light cotton are lightweight and heat friendly, wool should be avoided. Also, thickly lined jackets and trousers should be set aside – summer scorchers are ideal days to wear unlined jackets (if jackets are desired or necessary).

How to cover the torso (for the torso should always be covered) is a quandary for many men; is a t-shirt enough? Is a polo shirt acceptable? Is a shirt too much? Generally, it depends on personal taste, and the occasion, but I do not believe shirts are any ‘warmer’ than cotton polo shirts. Particularly if the polo shirt is ‘fitted.’ T-shirts are at least more dignified than ghetto ‘tank tops’ but they are hardly fitting for anything other than sports/casual wear at the beach. Polo shirts are much more appropriate for those who seek casual elegance, but shirts – with a maximum of a two buttons undone – are still the best choice for those wishing to retain some sort of style distinction.

I have written on summer shoes before, frequently advocating espadrilles above the irritating and rather revolting flip flop. If foot-ventilation is required, there are some interesting brown and black leather sandals, some of the ‘Jesus’ type, some of the rather Gallic looking basket-weave fashion, that are far better for the man of style. At no point would any man of style wear the horrible Velcro, sports ‘technical’ sandals.

Shorts should not be of the excessively pockety ‘cargo’ variety, as seemingly useful as those pockets may be; they should be above the knee, of the tailored (i.e. smart) style and made of cotton or linen.

To conquer the flair-killing nature of summer heat, gentlemen should adopt colour in place of layering as the style mantra. Bright colours, like banana yellow, fire engine red and apple green, with complementary accessories such as belts, are brave but sophisticated choices when the weather forbids over-layering and trussing.