Brands before branding

Everyone remembers the male star of their high school orbit. Good hair, no acne, a flash car, languid athleticism and an easy way with girls. He was the envy of all; it wasn’t till later that it became evident his life maybe wasn’t so charmed. In my circle, it was Chuck – with the only difference being we felt envy and sorry for him in equal measure.

Today, of course, no one feels sorry; you feel sympathy or maybe even empathy. Then, we felt sorry for him. There was a reason that Chuck was even in my social circle. Yes, he drove the flash car – Celica Supra (hey, it was the early 80s); was tall and had the build of a volleyballer; long, blonde hair that flopped stylishly (again, it was the 80s); he had everything, on paper.

But we crossed paths as we both worked at Kentucky Fried Chicken – me because I much needed the money; him because he wanted much more than his allowance allowed.

The allowance was provided by a trust fund worth millions. This is where the feeling sorry part comes in. His mom was gone, his dad recently died. There was a large amount of money awaiting him when he turned a certain age. In the meantime, his trustee doled out a certain amount. Car, fine. Trainers, jeans and polos, okay.

Brand names, though, were a different story altogether. The trustee could not see the point of spending hundreds of dollars on a single piece of clothing. So if Chuck wanted brand names he worked. At KFC.

He and I didn’t share common backgrounds but did have common interests, including tennis. We also coveted the same polos – Lacoste, the big alligator was the symbol that everyone wanted stenciled on their chest for the world to see.

As a teen, it represented the symbol of success. Pop that collar and the strut magically appeared and chin jutted a little higher. And pastels ruled the day.

The chase for the croc exerted a strong enough pull on Chuck he was willing to risk a bad case of acne from all the grease that seeped into his pores from standing over the chicken pots. For me, the Croc was important but not as important as my Stan Smiths or Donnay racquet.

Not much seems to have changed – logos adorn the current generation’s garb, even bigger and bolder. But, thankfully, without the collars popped.

As I’ve aged, though, I’ve become reticent to act as a mobile billboard; to freely give away prime real estate. I almost want to offer a cheap rate, something akin to a click-thru for every person who looks at me and develop some retinal-esque scanner to collect.

This is not to say there are not shirts with a crocodile on it or a polo horse hanging in the closest. The logos, though, are not the super-sized ones which takeover one entire side of your body like someone has added water and the flora has grown out of control.

With age comes a reality: brands before branding. Don’t get captured by the marketing, the magazine advertising that poses as editorial content or that ‘everyone’ is wearing it this season. In that sense, males have it easier. Stay away from too trendy of purchases and a man’s closest has more flexibility and staying power.

So now I tend to stalk clothes and shoes. Do I like the colour and texture? That can take a couple of trips. Then the fit, some areas can be tailored, while others will always be ill-suited. Then will come the purchase, often a good one can be replicated in several shades.

Here in Victoria, it’s cool at night – a breeze always pushes the heat along out of the way – so sweaters are essential. (Digression: Having lived in places where it was so cold you measured it by how many sweaters you needed – it’s a three-layer day – I’ve been inordinately fond of them.)

All my favourites have no logos. I know what I’m wearing, I can feel what I’m wearing. That’s the power of brands over branding. Smedley is luxurious and only I need to know that’s what’s warming me up, alongside the whiskey while patio sitting.

It’s understandable for designers, especially newer ones, to splash names and logos in big bold ways as they cannonball into the market. But after a while, go subtle. My biggest pet peeve is when designers feel the need to stick their names on the buckle. No matter my affection for the belt or craftsman, that purchase will fail to materialize.

All of this was sparked by a friend who was talking about brands and how she adores her grandfather’s old Lacoste shirts. Maybe the colour has faded, but the sense of style and quality has stood test of time. And that is the power of brand quality over branding power.