The team and I just returned from Vintage Goodwood festival. There is much to show and tell, but right now am thrust willingly back in to modern world and have no time for protracted testimony. For now find creative inspiration via Christos, who tells vintage like it is. In his head at least.
OK. Some brief thoughts on Ponywood. The problem with a vintage festival is that it becomes a terrible mess. Idiots dressed up in all sorts of random stuff, united vaguely under a directionless retro-umbrella make for pretty pitiful viewing. The genre of vintage style has gone from niche specialist scene, to mass touchstone of naffness. It doesnt even mean anything other than old-ish now. The vintage vista actually disables good style too.
I wore my Edward Sexton bespoke three piece, created by the Prince of Suave himself. It possesses authentic Seventies styling, executed in a modern luxury manner. Its tantamount to couture. I might as well have hired a comedy Saturday Night Fever suit for £40 and donned an afro wig. I looked an idiot against this backdrop of snyde costume. I shouldn't have got involved. Inside the Soul Casino awful style reigned supreme. I had to go in as my hands were too cold to text at this point, but the poor dancing and worse styling was quite harrowing to witness. My comrades and I later settled in Torch; the sort of big bang swing, pseudo club. It was satisfactorily warm, and there was table service courtesy of our generous hosts, IWC.
I've just been sent these pictures too. So completely not indicative of the event, I am almost against putting them up. However, there just isn't enough Edward Sexton out there in the internet, so here they are. The Rover is mine by the way.
After my Sexton mis-fire, for the following day I went for civvies; a dark blue jean with a green bomber jacket and burgundy shoes, only to discover that I was now a tribute skinhead. One of many. Style gets totally derailed by the removal of modern rhetoric. The thing about old stuff is, its not just good 'cause its old. It has to function on merits that resonate today, (see Christos, who is resonating all over the shop). I was forced into tiny Orlebar Brown shorts by way of a get out clause, as could guarantee wouldn't link me with this sprawling disaster of style.
There were some good elements. The Wall of Death was one.
Walters and I were housed in a pod. It's more of a tiny shallet that a pod, don't cha think?
To be truthful I had a smashing time, mainly because we couldn't stop laughing at the parade of vintage parody before us. The sun came out, we saw Kid Creole and his Coconuts and drove back to London with the roof off.
and back in the modern day thank you.