Clothes Can Make The Man

I've always found it hard to get rid of old clothes.  The ones that are too faded and too worn to wear respectably.  This is an old habit born out of necessity for having something to wear to certain shows.  Never wear nice jeans or a new shirt or clean white sneakers to one of those shows, and you won't have that morning after comment wondering what the hell happened the night before.

When you first started going to punk or hardcore shows back in the 80's you quickly learned that your "look" could bring grief.  Sure, no one said a word about that Dead Kennedys t-shirt once you got to where you were going, but to wear it in the other places you had to stop at before and after the show or record store could be a hassle that you either learned to accept or avoid.

I've had people give me real grief in fast food places, the convenience store, or just getting gas.  I might have simply been going to a show, but when you stop off to get a pack of smokes on your way and the guy behind the counter starts yelling at you, refuses to sell you the smokes, and then comes out from behind the counter to physically remove you from the premises; it's a good time to address the issue at hand.  It was the one issue that some folks didn't want to hear what you have to say. "Dead Kennedys"?  The name said it all to them.

So you learned.  Wear it uncovered and spoil for a fight, or wear a long sleeved shirt over it until you get to the venue.  No reason to wear a perfectly good shirt to these places.  For the most part you'd just take it off and tie the sleeves around your waist.  No reason to even wash it or worry about how wrinkled it got.  It was going to get tied off at the waist in the end.

Same with jeans.  New jeans worn at a punk club meant new jeans ruined with grubby knees and a filthy backside.  It's not like you were break dancing on the floor.  Sometimes you'd take a shot from the guys down in front of the stage and down to the floor you'd go.  That was the last place you wanted to be, because you'd get kicked and stomped.  Partly by accident, partly on purpose.  But it did happen from time to time and there was also spilled drinks and an occasional bit of blood smeared on them.

Shoes and boots got the same treatment.  All night long you were on this sticky, glue like floor, picking up the gunk on your soles.  This was a stickiness that you could never get off.  Everyone around you would be stomping along, picking up that same grime, stepping on the heels and instep and toes of your shoes. 

Steel toe boots or Red Wing work shoes were great because you didn't get those tender little bones in your feet smashed under the weight of some big ox who was hopping around like a maniac.  I swear, sometimes I wondered if cats dug stepping on feet so much, that maybe they got some kind of criminal thrill out of doing it.

I'd go to these shows looking like crap.  I had black flight deck boots that I'd tuck the pants leg of my jeans into.  Two pair of socks too because with all the sweating it was a good chance you'd rub up a blister on the heel.  Grubby old jeans that may or may not have the knees worn out, or a torn open back pocket.  Any old shirt would do.  Over time I stopped wearing band t-shirts and just wore a plain white v-neck tee or an old sweatshirt.  Usually the neck would have a hole in it.

Anyone who saw me getting a burger before the show, or getting a tank of gas, or a pack of smokes with a bottle of beer would have thought I was just some dirt poor loser.  Probably bought those crap clothes at Goodwill.  That was good.  It gave me anomynity among the masses. 

No alarming slogans or band names.  The only thing to rile their attention may have been a wrist full of crazy bracelets, or my jumble of hair, or a bandana wrapped around the top of a boot to keep it together because I broke a bootlace earlier and hadn't gotten around to replacing it.

I just can't get rid of old shirts and pants.  I always feel like I may need them again some day.