Vintage at Goodwood with the gang
by Tom Stubbs30 August 2010
(NB. Vintage Goodwood took place about two weeks ago, but in the spirit of the event, this is a vintage blog.)
Festivals have become such frequent and marginalised events they now command similar social cache to a car boot sale with a sound system. Simultaneously, the genre of vintage style has gone from niche scene accessed by an obsessive few, to mass part-time hobby for anyone who can lay hands on a feather boa, a pill box hat or some old duffer’s tweed suit. It therefore makes perfect sense that a festival devoted to all things non-specifically old should be staged to celebrate this convergence of mediocrity.
It’s not often I get out at the weekends, and a close pal of mine had a window free while his girlfriend was out dancing with a pole, so off to Goodwood we went. My companion, Jake Walters, and I were guests of watch brand IWC, who got involved with the festival in quite a major way. Their specific immersion in retrospective culture is due to producing an extremely handsome range inspired by vintage watch styles. Thank goodness (Vintage phrase) they were there, as they leant a certain elevated relevance to the mix, and a certain luxury to some of the facilities. Not all however. They quartered us (kindly) in the ‘Glamping’ section in what was billed as a ‘pod’. Pod suggests modern. Having stayed in one, I would call it a ‘tiny gay shack’. They also looked after my client and fellow IWC wearer Mr. Dermot O’Leary and his delightful missus, whom they housed in a ‘Hotel’. Although we share a taste in watches, our status marks us apart it seems. O’Leary had gone for Gieves double breasted Glen check, rising about the pedestrians (despite his Hunters), had something of the vintage aristocrat about him.
The theme of the weekend solicited everyone to dress ‘up’. Apparently anything from the 1980’s to the 1940’s can be categorised as vintage style now. The problem was the open brief. Just plane unfettered ‘Vintage’. Something that free becomes a terrible mess. Idiots dressed up in all sorts of random tat, united vaguely under a directionless retro-umbrella make for pitiful viewing. Vintage is the new touchstone of naffness. It doesn’t even mean anything other than old-ish now. I discovered a vintage vista actually disables perfectly 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 manner. Frankly it’s tantamount to couture. I might as well have hired a comedy Saturday Night Fever suit for £60 and donned an afro wig. Against this backdrop of costume, I looked a proper pillock.
A pretend vintage village has been constructed with various music venues and food stalls to cover off the eras. I shan’t go in to them all in detail or in spirit, but you can guess the pick ‘n’ mix scene. I frequented the Soul Casino (to warm up my hands so as to text) where the Northern Soul themed music was intermittently good and the dancing consistently awful. One dancer however stood out. Christos Tolera, Eighties style icon, had attended, dressed in his own interpretation of the Fifties. (See video explanation). We joined in a vanguard of disgruntled mismatch. Note Walters steadfastly refusing to play any part in the era lottery.
After harrowing scenes at the Rave enclosure, my comrades and I settled in Torch; the sort of big bang swing, pseudo nightclub. It was satisfactorily warm, and there was table service courtesy of our generous hosts, The IWC massive. The night progressed swingingly, and I danced in a vintage manner with a big girl from St.Albans who thought I was part of some scene or other, until I explained I didn’t believe in vintage. This blasphemy left me partnerless, but modern.
After my Sexton miss-fire, 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 it’s old. It has to function on merits that still resonate today, (see Christos, who was resonating all over the shop). I was forced into pert red Orlebar Brown shorts by way of a get out clause. This would allow a bypass to this motorway pile up of style, leaving me free to jump over the central reservation and back to the Travel Tavern without anyone noticing.
Aside the style crisis, there were some very good elements. The Wall of Death was one. This is what entertainment was all about in the 1930’s. Wood, loud noise, a muscled Dynamo Dave (real name) and a teen-hotty called Bam Bam (again, real name).
In truthful I had a smashing time. Mainly because we couldn’t stop laughing at the parade of vintage parody before us. Our hosts IWC were marvelous and entertaining too. The sun came out, we saw Kid Creole and his Coconuts and drove back to London, roof off, listening to Exile On Main Street. What’s not vintage about that?
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