The tropics, as you may know, are places around the world that are tropical- hot, sticky, moist and really hot.
Why then do European hipsters, when traveling to the tropics, insist on dressing as though they were still in Manchester or Bratislava or Berlin or wherever it is they come from? Is this thing the kids are concerned about, this… ‘indie cred’, is it so very important?

Canada in the winter can be unpleasant. Vancouver in the winter can be down right Blade Runner. So when I get the opportunity to wear my banana-hammock and nothing more on a lovely, white-sand Caribbean beach I do. I do, till death do us part.

So I’m laying there, adjusting my banana in its hammock when I see, through the heat waves coming off the sand, what appears to be a mirage. Strutting down the beach towards me in tight black jeans, t-shirt with skinny tie, stingy-brim fedora (a.k.a. Pete Doherty’s hat), Chucks and, what I can only assume, is a perpetual cigarette in his mouth as though it were an appendage, is a hip young dude.
On a tropical Caribbean beach? I think to myself.

Sure you have a topless Argentinian teen model on your arm, young lad from Brighton, but come on, it’s 35 degrees with 90% humidity out here. For once in your life, it’s okay to wear some shorts. I promise, I won’t tell your friends.
Now I’m not about to lie, I went on my very own tight tapered jeans, PF Flyers and Pete Doherty hat trip. It went well with my lifestyle of constant touring a few years back. It was mandatory, in my contract even, that I dress the part of an indie rock drummer.
But not even in the bowels of Hell, that is to say, not even while playing the outdoor radio festivals in the hot-as-Satan’s-anus deep South in Jooleye or Awegust was I permitted to break free of my swaddling rock’n'roll attire. Put yourself in my place for just one verse or chorus-I’m soaking wet like I’ve been playing drums under a waterfall, it’s 120 fuck off degrees fahrenheit, I’m keeping steady time with my left leg on the hi-hat pedal, beating rhythms on the kick drum pedal with my right leg, while in between these tightly denim-wrapped legs is my “package”, that’s right, my cock and balls squished into camel-toe formation and melting like a box of crayons left out in the sun. Oh if only Sublime was still a touring band. How I wished, in times like those, I could throw on some sandals, board shorts and a Qucksilver T and drum for a So-Cal punk band instead. But I was not in a shorts-friendly band. I was drumming for Tegan and Sara, sharing the stage with other well-known rising indie darlings. If Hot Hot Heat or the Killers or Louis the XIV couldn’t wear cut-offs and sandals neither could we.

But would I wear these same rock’n'roll clothes, my work uniform essentially, to a tropical island? Would a bank manager or an astronaut?
Now, while musicians do not necessarily have specific work attire, I do believe there is some importance to dressing the part we play in life. That being said however, I’d hedge a bet that even Marlyn Manson dares to expose his lanky, vampire-toned flesh when on vacation in the Caymen Islands. Or, as we can see from the below photo, when pouting in court.

So what then is the deal with the Europeans?

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 12th, 2010 at 5:19 pm and is filed under Notes From The Caravan, Notes From The Jungle. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.