Blazers and specs seem less ‘hard rockin’ elite’, more ‘dusty librarian with a sinister hobby’ or ‘toxic-breathed geography teacher’. But the leader of ‘90s Britpop force Pulp made the dad blazer impossibly slick. The trick? Get spotted in it doing mildly rebellious things. Why not stubbornly refuse to say “Venti” instead of “Large” at Starbucks? Or cheekily sneak expensive office stationary into Sue from accounts’ handbag? Take that, The Man!
What’s that? A desire in your cold dead heart to burn a candle inside a skull? You’ve just goth levelled-up, mate! You’ve unlocked the ability to follow Nick Cave’s approach to gloom by dressing, naturally, in a classic black shirt, some leather boots and crooning lyrics so painfully dark they’d make Edgar Allan Poe stick a skeletal thumb up out of his grave.
Alright, he’s not a frontman in the traditional sense, but look at him. Tell us he’s not worthy of this list. He might not sing, but his sharp tongue tears through the foibles of life like the best of them. And this is how a proper rock star dresses. Clarke could teach those plinky plonky indie kids a lesson in smartening up skinny jeans with a paisley scarf.
The skinny-jeaned corpse of 2007 indie is risen and dragging its battered Converse to a venue near you
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