A daft punk style revival.
I’m having a bit of a punk style revival. There’s something cool about that ‘don’t give a fuck’ attitude that I feel I could totally ride on in 2011. I refuse to dress like a younger version of my grandma any longer. I’m throwing in the towel on kooky prints, delicate vintage floral prints and brogues. I’m putting aside the cameo necklace charms, chiffon blouses and scarves. I’m being ordained instead into the priesthood of Dr. Martens, leather biker jackets, hard-ass jewellery and underwear as outerwear (mesh vests, lots of mesh +skin). It’s time to find clothes in abandoned skips, in the street and then reconstruct. The good thing about this style epiphany, apart from its obvious economic benefits, is that it means I can also ditch the waif-stick insect look and get to some serious work on my pork traits and ass-ets.
Everyone knows a punk woman is a real woman. I can wear real, fuck-me-now make up in lieu of inoffensive pastels. I don’t yet know how much of a winner this look will be, or whether it will actually get me laid or just send guys backing slowly away from me, or openly running and screaming. The real warp and weft of the thing though, the gist of it is that I’m doing it for myself. Sid Vicious summarises the whole vibe – ‘ I’ve only been in love with a beer bottle and a mirror’. Here we go then…a brief laywoman’s induction into what you need to join me in the punk revival a la 2011.
Your crowning glory will be the biker jacket. Leather, naturally. Well worn in, ideally. Not necessarily black, but it helps your bad girl front. All the traps, straps, zips, buckles, padding, studs, rips and trappings are required, as is the prerequisite that you now wear it everywhere, with everything…or nothing.
I also started by getting myself some chunk shoes. Doc Martens or Brothel Creepers are preferable, but heavy boots or anything with a hench sole will do because the floors at your new punk haunts are going to be covered in needles and broken glass. Joke. But you need to look like you could go to those sorts of places. You know, concrete dens of vice, 48 hour raves in abandoned fields, protests and occupations. The revolution against the system is ongoing, you need to look prepared, you need to lose the fairy-wear. Platforms and stripper heels are also acceptable.
Pair your boots of choice with ‘drainpipes’, (a.k.a skinny jeans idiot) or tights to emphasise their ultimate heft. Punk girls are also notoriously adorned in fishnets and laddered tights, relishing a chance to bare their legs. Frankly anything vaguely slutty is good including garters and thigh high stockings. The contrast with your shoes offsets tough stuff with unabashed, skin flaunting ultra-femininity. The idea is to attract a string strumming, music making he-man, who is not afraid of this toxic mix.
Expose yourself to your best advantage. Wear your shorts short, skirts tight and possibly in leather or PVC, black or denim. They can be high-waisted, baring the midriff or riding low on the hips to showcase a cheeky belly ring. I’m finding I’m increasingly earning tuts at the Sainsbury’s local and get kids pulled out of my path by their disapproving mothers. Equally the whole point of punk is that you have too much atti-fucking-tude to feel any vestiges of cold, decency or embarrassment. Think Viv Albertine from the Slits ‘dressed half in bondage fetish gear, half in doc Martens…hair all out there scowling at everybody’. A scarf, tied round your breasts could suffice as a top. Slighty more busty? You can work a bra top, essentially a glorified bra that it is currently acceptable to wear in public. If it’s a dress, it’s bodycon, clinging to your ample endowments. T-shirts, if you wear them, should make a decisive statement that is political, artistic or just plain offensive. Accessorise with slashes, rips, panels of exposed skin. Hunt out the mesh and sheerest fabric, leopard print, tartan, primary colours and neon. Burst indecently out of your old school uniform or brownies jumper.
It’s also less about jewellery now and more about armour. Think an orgy of silver studs, knuckle duster style rings, plated bracelets that pack weight and look like they could do some damage. Vaguely sacrilegious crosses, razors or safety pins hanging pirate like from ear lobes, or nestled between breasts. Pendants made from the bones and teeth of your enemies perhaps. Piercings too; follow the example of the Edwardian women who put rings in their nipples to make their breasts stand up more pertly. Get your ears double, even triple pierced. Braver girls get their bellies, noses, tongues and eyebrows pierced, you only live once. Consider a tattoo, not a prissy line of an indie hymn but something a Hell’s Angel would be proud of, even if it’s small.
Grow your hair out, and dye it like mine, a patently unnatural colour. You can wear it loose, tumbling everywhere. You want it wavy, as unruly as you, so you can peek out from underneath it, moodily seductive. Or get it barbed at the sides in any variation on Mohican . Overstate your make up; give yourself heavy bedroom eyes that scream come hither and arching porn star eyebrows. Wear lipsticks in black, purple, plum, siren red and hot pink hues, lip gloss is not an option. Neither is looking any way overdone, or like you made a serious attempt at make-up. Ditch the foundation and gain some raw, party skin because real punks are native to city squats and band entourages. Their look remains intrinsically ungrooomed because they are burning the midnight, the 1am and the 2am oil right on into morning.
And everyone is feeling the lifestyle punk fashion represents. Piercings and shavings of various sorts are becoming more mainstream. A woman such as Rooney Mara can now entertain the possibility of being on the cover of a magazine like Vanity Fair (she didn’t make it but check out her shoot for W magazine).Punk style embodies the zeitgeist of really living life. We’re young, we’re poor, and we’re some of us students, making the freshest music, writing the most original material, making the most shocking art. Viva drugs, sex and rock ‘n’ roll then.
words Kay Atulomah