Sweater: What was the worst year in music and why was in 1998? I’m kidding. Maybe. Meaning no disrespect to bands/artists I admire who put records out in 1998 (there were a few of you, definitely not enough of you), the year was (broadly) a post-grunge, pants metal, techno for jocks, swing/ska revival hellscape.
I think maybe we’d all started to accept that rock and roll wasn’t dead exactly, but probably not the best genre to bank if you were looking for either widespread international relevance or real deal musical innovation over the next few decades. We didn’t know what poptimism was yet, because no one covered it in the ‘zines and many of the most musically obsessed were still too busy trying to hash out whether buying a record on a major label made us a collaborator, even if, it was a record by, like, Imperial Teen,[1] a band deeply beloved by exactly 25 of us and I will see at least 23 of you at Merge 35. And while I’m pretty sure hip hop’s incipient global dominance was already a foregone conclusion by then, the year prior had not been pretty and a bunch of its new key players were only just starting to come into view
When I think back on 1998 now, I’m struck by how many shows I went to mainly populated by guys that looked like Alex Jones in bowling shirts and those weird square toed pilgrim shoes, who’d try to sell me on both libertarianism and Infinite Jest, whilst periodically attempting to polish their feminist credentials by telling me they’d listened to that Sleater-Kinney[2] record, and it was “pretty good.” There was a whole golf argyle sweater vests and polo shirts thing which may have started with the Beastie Boys or maybe that Dinosaur Jr. video (so, Spike Jonze, basically) but was soon adopted entirely by the spiky blonde tips “my pop punk band’s horn section is going to be killer” set. I already had enough golf-based generation trauma having been raised by an obsessive golfer, himself the scion of multiple generations of WASP golfers likely dating all the way back to first obstinate lowland Scot that swung a stick at a rock and thought, this seems like an excellent excuse to day drink. It wasn’t for me any more than, say, “Swingers” was. It was, however, a wildly appropriate time to have recently turned 21, because the only way you’re going to make it through another party where the only album getting played is by Ani DiFranco is to byo. My preference was for gin with a bottle of tonic kept in a mustard yellow train case (nicknamed “lil’ box of love”) with a paring knife, a lime, and a travel-sized cutting board, perfect for standing outside and getting into fights with boys in thrifted short sleeved button ups about how math rock is just prog rock with less interesting costumes.
It was not my intention to invoke 1998 when I bought this sweater, on a lark, off Amazon. Maybe 1938? The idea was another pass at the some Katherine Hepburn preppy tomboy chic situation that I believe we have now established I cannot pull off. Though let me be 100% honest and tell you that if the universe had gifted me with better cheekbones and the slim, gamine glam-rock meets haute couture physique I clearly deserved instead of the fleshy, pear-shaped “I guess these were meant to be childbearing?” hips body that can only inspire a Rubens or maybe Sir-Mix-A-Lot on an off day, I would incorporate gorgeous menswear inspired pieces and impeccably tailored separates into my daily life as if I was trying to live my life in a Tom Ford campaign. Alas, here we are. So bows and ruffles, I guess?
Digression aside, I never have quite figured out how to make this sweater work. Also, it sort of fails as a sweater vest; it’s really become more of a short sleeve sweater. And in an effort to actually wear everything in my closet, I threw this together thinking “this might be charmingly maximalist.” See below for more on that.
Skirt: It is an absolute mystery why people are so weird about skirts. In warm weather they are the most comfortable, breezy, cute and many have commodious pockets.
This one came from Boden, a shop I both like and also sometimes worry makes me look like I should the only human on a puppet-lousy show for preschoolers. The colors are too bright to be fully twee, but the prints and cuts have a bit of a coloring book aesthetic. In the middle of the 2010s I went through a pretty intense Boden period, mostly because their sale section was commodious and kind of difficult to navigate so great for browsing when you’re stuck on one of those endless conference calls you’re not sure if you even need to be on, Cheryl, and discussing how Mercury being in retrograde is affecting the printer in the workroom at length is definitely not on the agenda.
I’ve bought less recently. Maybe because I’m getting older and sometimes doing drop waist jersey dresses in primary colored ditsy prints makes me feel like I’m auditioning for the red hat club (all due respect, but I’m not ready yet). This skirt, however, called to me, because I have a perverse love of whatever the color that operates in the headache zone between chartreuse and mustard, and when the world needed back up again back in 2021, I was sure I needed something bright to let people know I was on the way.
Outfit: I’m not sold on this outfit, although I had fun wearing it. Hardly anyone saw me, save chest up because I spent the day in endless Zoom meetings, so no one could confirm I looked like I was a Mormon extra in a Smashmouth video.
The heart, however, knows what it knows.
Sweater: Amazon, 2022
Skirt: Boden, 2021
Earrings: Peel Gallery, Carrboro, 2021
Sneakers: Vans, 2018
[1] This is where I tell you/remind you that Seasick (1996)is one of the greatest records from the 1990s that most people did not listen to and mostly is not listened to because it’s not available on streaming and has never been reissued. That record also includes a song, “Balloon,” that features one of my desert-island, all-time favorite lyrics (to wit: “we’re living in the cloisters where our subtext is our plot”), that’s in the running for my personal Roman Empire given how often I think about it.
[2] There was a good while when Sleater-Kinney became the Joan Didion of music. Like, you know how dudes are like, I don’t read a lot of books by women, but I love Joan Didion. It was like that but with woman-fronted bands (before Sleater-Kinney it was PJ Harvey and before PJ Harvey it was Liz Phair, but only “Guyville” Liz Phair, etc). This is no shade on Sleater-Kinney. I loved a bunch of their records. I also love Joan Didion by the way.
Tiny Commotions 