"Thank god for my Wallabee shoes"
-Ghostface Killah ("Stroke of Death")

During the car ride home from the mall yesterday, I thought of the new shoes I had just purchased—medium height, sand-suede Clarks Wallabees—but also of hip hop, and the now increasingly out of vogue Tommy Hilfiger.

I had it in my head that I wanted a pair of Wallabees before I even set foot in the mall. The first place I saw them was a Bostonian store and it ended up being the place where I tried them on in different colors and heights, modeled them for my friend Greg before and after he decisively purchased a pair of shoes for himself, and finally left the store empty handed, meekly asking the old man behind the counter to “put them on hold for me.”

There really wasn’t any fear that this might be the last pair and further, that it might be sold to someone else before I had a chance to return an hour or two later, after searching unsuccessfully for a lower price or slicker shoe. There never is. Putting shoes on hold, though, isn’t about insuring that they will still be there when you return. No—it’s about making sure you return. Somehow there is a thought that setting them aside—“just for you kid, special like”—will subconsciously compel you to return for a final few minutes of contemplation. Failing to put a shoe on hold is virtually giving up on the shoe right then and there.

After searching unsuccessfully for a better price or a slicker shoe, I settled on the Wallabees and headed back to the Bostonian store and the jittery, low-talking Willy Loman in charge of the place. By then the little store had a few other customers and I had to wait my turn to get Willy’s attention. When I finally alerted him to my intentions, he gave me a sort of lifeless nod and walked over to another customer. This was taking altogether too much time.

During the wait, I looked harder at the right shoe in my hand. Then I noticed something alarming—the right shoe was distinctly darker (I’ve got an eye for detail) than the left. Then it occurred to me: the right shoe had been the model in the storefront window. All the oils from the hands of would-be purchasers had grazed this shoe and darkened the outer edge. This simply wouldn’t do. I would be compelled to ask Willy for another pair.

Time passed, and I became convinced that Willy would not have another pair in my size. After all, he hadn’t had the shoe in my size in the higher model of the same color when I had asked to try it on an hour so earlier. Finally, I lost my patience. Knowing that another shoe store in the same mall—albeit a rather douchey hipster place—had the same pair, same price, I made the short trek over there and ripped a precious sale out from under the hands of our protagonist, Willy (yesterday, I had but a bit role in the play that I can only assume is his life). I felt bad for the old guy, but it would have been a pity sale anyway—the magic was gone by our second meeting.

Anyway, this is all just the set up for why it was that after purchasing these retro suede shoes, I ended up thinking of Russell Simmons (it is my preference, when possible, to think of the hip hop phenomenon as embodied by Simmons in a massive Phat Farm polo shirt) and that ridiculously unsubtle logo that was plastered on every piece of Tommy Hilfiger clothing in the 1990s. I couldn’t help but think about how the Clarks I had purchased—shoes originally designed in the 60s for, I can only imagine, pseudo-hippies or people who at the least enjoyed touching grass fairly regularly—had found their way into this store called Journeys alongside Vans and Nike Dunks and onto the feet of kids who—god forbid—might listen to DMX, or worse, the Vines. And this of course, was in way, the same story of Tommy Hilfiger, that Polo wannabee-cum-Wu-Wear antecedent that lost its identity.

Hilfiger won’t be alone. In the wake of the Jay-Z helmed boycott, one can’t help but wonder whether Cristal won’t be next. If I don’t seem too worried about my Clarks, however, it’s because, so far anyway, they’ve handled the co-option with loads of class. With the possible exception of the purposefully retro design on the “Clarks Originals” emblem, the company hasn’t changed its product—at all—to actively capitalize on the new market. That’s why as of now, Clarks are on pace cruise through the trend like Mercedes Benz (and like a Mercedes Benz)—smoothly and without harm to their reputation. That’s also why—his recent resurgence on Fishscale notwithstanding—I’m certain they’ll outlive Ghostface Killah’s rap career.

gone long, back strong...

Hip-hop stars are taking the shoe-music cultural alliance to another level. Anyone who has watched even 15 minutes of VH1's "Fabulous Life of..." programming should be at least vaguely aware of the how rap stars, and rap star hanger-ons have made kicks as much a status symbol as gold chains and diamond incrusted watches. If you haven’t seen the aforementioned programming, you might be skeptical; you might be asking yourself: unless one layers his shoes with expensive jewels or constructs them out of said objects, how bling bling can they get?

Answer: Bling bling enough to light up a dance floor; bling bling enough to make B.G. want to sue for royalties. No, LA Gears aren't back in style--not yet (their time is coming though -- mark my words). And no, Puma's limited edition "Nightlites” made of reflective fabric, haven't become a craze. Instead, the hip-hop community has taken a simple but maybe still slightly shocking step: it’s come to embrace color.

No longer confined to the black, white, and occasional red-tinged pairs that for a while constituted sleek for the tough-guy posturing crowd, beat makers and rhyme slingers are now indulging in exotic colors that would make European metrosexuals blush. Rappers such as Jadakiss and Missy Elliott pay a few hundred dollars a pop for custom painted, invariably brightly colored sneakers, and considering that they wear each pair once, the tab must add up quickly. Somewhat strangely, and also somewhat awesomely, one of the most blatantly and unapologetically homophobic industries in America has fallen hard for pastels. It's an interesting sociological phenomenon to say the least.

Yet perhaps even more interesting, however, is the aesthetic dichotomy that has arisen in rap music, and the way its emergence perfectly parallels the splitting of indie rock that has gradually occurred over the past two decades. Hip-hop, like indie-rock, began as a label that referred to a specific type of music; Hip-hop was the MCing phenomenon set to post-disco beats, indie-rock the sound of rebellion against major label commoditization (bastardization). But of course, as Frost aptly put it, “nothing gold can stay.” As these 80s children hit puberty in the early 90s, they fell hard for girls. And nothing ever impressed them quite like success.

Achievements came, here and there, and then our boys got ambitious.

There came a point in the late 90s—I’d say sometime between the arrival of Puff Daddy’s “Can’t Hold Me Down,” and Nelly’s “Ride With Me”—when hip-hop became so successful that it didn’t just find its niche in pop music, it took over pop music. Along with hip-hop’s reign (which, I believe, is still in tack, albeit in a lame-duck phase), came a gross-parasitic relationship wherein pop music cheapened itself by falling back on “tracks” instead of songs, “loops” instead of chord changes, and hip-hop watered itself down by resorting to saccharine hooks and purred pseudo-rapped vocals (I’m looking at you, late 90s LL Cool J—something like a phh phh phh…oh just forget it).

That phase came later for indie-rock; if I had to pin it down to a year, I’d pick 2001. The second year of the new millennium was without a doubt the year of the garage rock revivalists known as the Plurals. The Strokes, the Hives, the Vines, the White Stripes – it didn’t matter whether these groups were indie rock in the technical meaning of the term (which used to be “on an independent label”) – somehow they all got grouped together and that was that. And so indie rock the amorphous, disputed meaning term emerged. Soon, anything vaguely outside of the mainstream became “indie” to the outside looking in, even though the inside was looking outside at most of the relevant bands.

It was out of these great splits that the great aesthetic divides of hip-hop and indie-rock were born.

Nowadays, there are three kinds of hip-hop fans (excluding everyone who merely listens regularly to hip hop, without professing any fandom – prime example, women who claim to like Eminem): strictly commercial (those who tastes are confined to the G-Units and Rockafellas of the world); strictly underground (backpackers who gripe about how Mos Def sold out and still listen to Main Source); and straddles (the types who listen to Cam’ron but still claim It Takes A Nation of Millions… is the G.O.A.T.). The easy to see gap, though, is between the strictly commercials and the strictly undergrounds—it’s the difference between huge white T-shirts and gold chains and form fitting clothes and bulky headphones.

Likewise, there are three kinds of indie rock fans…and I don’t even really need to do the parallel name-dropping (Just for fun though, a possible sample: the Death Cabbie; the GBVster; and the listens-to-the-Killers-but-can’t-get-enough-of-Slanted Enchanted guy or gal, respectively). The easily-to-see divide, here, is between the latte-sipping, Diesel jeans wearers and the tight fitting flannel types who may or may not have purposely cut those holes in their disheveled Chuck Taylors.

……

You know what though? These are some pretty pedestrian observations. You know what else? You missed it; I just got away with using pedestrian because I used it self-deprecatingly.

The only (semi) interesting thing I can actually say about this, though, is that ironically, the aforementioned “aesthetic rifts” really just serve to point out how false music culture actually is. Feel secure in this: whether it’s the obviously put-on hyperbole of the big money rapper or the just-got-out-of-bed hairdos of lo-fi purists, it’s all just a sign of insecurity.

I still have the infamous Abbey Road poster on the wall across from my bed and I still consider, from time to time, the mystery behind Sir Paul’s conspicuous lack of footwear. Those who think that McCartney just wanted to feel pavement on his skin the day of the photo shoot are evidently unaware that his bare feet are just two of hundreds of clues put forth by the “Paul is Dead” rock-snob conspiracy theorists.

The “Paul is Dead” mythology is not just the concoction of some cracked-out baby boomer. It is, to be frank, the concoction of a whole bunch of cracked-out baby boomers—cracked-out baby boomers with a lot of free time. Books—or maybe just a book I once flipped through at a Barnes and Noble—have documented the hoards of evidence that accumulated over the Beatles tenure as pop music deities.

The seemingly simple graphic that grazes the Beatles’ last-to-be-recorded, and second-last-to-be-released record, for example, tells a story available only to those willing to recognize its language. Paul’s bare feet begin by calling attention to his image. A closer examination of Paul’s figure reveals another twist: he’s holding a cigarette in his RIGHT hand. And everyone who knows anything about the Beatles knows that Sir Paul is perhaps the best-known lefty guitarist ever!?! Granted, there is no valid empirical evidence for the contention that smokers invariably hold a cig in their dominant hand, but bear with me, because there’s much more to this puzzle.

According to certified PiDs, the cover that every four-person group of London tourists attempts to mimic on a digital camera isn’t just a celebratory departure from the rock’s most infamous studios but something darker, sinister even. The Fab Four are leading a funeral procession: John, dressed in white, represents the clergyman (maybe God even, who knows, Lennon wasn’t exactly a modest fellow); Ringo, dressed in black, is the funeral director, mourner and pallbearer all-in-one; Paul, shoeless and dressed in a dark blue suit, is the corpse—even his pale skin fits the bill; and George, denim clad and pulling up the rear, is the blue-collar grave digger.

This is just the story on page one; meticulous PiDs have uncovered dozens of other “clues” in the Abbey Road artwork and elsewhere. While there can be little doubt that the PiD contention is nothing but an urban legend, a more intriguing hypothesis—for which there exists evidence of real merit—is that the Beatles started the rumor themselves or at the least encouraged it once they got wind of its almost hilarious premise. They were the greatest pop group in history. How could they not have relished in the humor of a little self-aggrandizing mythology?

For more information on the Paul is Dead phenomenon consult this informative Wikipedia article: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paul_Is_Dead

The (Roughly) Weekly Stomp-Down: Round 3 (Novelty Edition)

(1) Red Foley “Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy”
v.
(2) The Gaylords “The Little Shoemaker”

(1) You think this is an obscure pick. You are wrong. Though you may not be familiar with the oeuvre of Red Foley, he was actually one of America’s biggest stars during the post-WWII era (I’m really not making this up – AMG that). Not only was Foley a big-name honky-tonk singer, “Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy” was his signature song and a number one hit for 13 straight weeks.

Now I’m not one to take pot shots at early pop music – hell, I’m into the cylinder restoration project – but to me, “Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy” feels like an archetypical “novelty” recording of its era, and I don’t mean that as a compliment to the song or the period of time during which it was written. It’s a catchy little number but the incessant galloping rhythm is a bit grating. If I’m in the mood for a top 30 hit from 1950, I’ll take Sammy Kaye’s “Harbor Lights” over this little ditty any day (if anyone reading this has ever heard the song, I encourage said person to post a comment indicating that I am correct in thinking that the song would have fit perfectly with the Hawaii scene in Punch-Drunk Love).

Most honky-tonk line: “He pops a boogie woogie rag, the Chattanoogie shoe shine boy.”

(2) This one is a bit more obscure, but not as obscure as you might think. The Gaylords were a vocal trio that peaked in the mid 50s but somehow managed to parlay the success of a few novelty tunes into a career spanning several decades. “The Little Shoemaker” was a big hit in 1954.

If “Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy” sounds cloying, “The Little Shoemaker” is just plain annoying. There are some ridiculously cartoonish noises here and silly harmonies sung in Italian. The ubiquitous “That’s Amore,” also a big hit that year, actually sounds less annoying than this song.

Most honky-tonk line: “At his bench there was he, just as busy as a bee—no time to lose, for the boots and shoes.”

The Steel Toe: “Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy”
The Kicks: Close competition here – both of these songs are pretty tiresome. In the end, Red Foley comes out ahead for being more rock & roll (not that it means much to be more rock & roll than the Gaylords). Notice that although both songs are about shoes, neither picks up on the inherit link between shoes and music. Both songs discuss a pair of shoes as an entity that is separate from and uninformed by music. This is no coincidence. Both songs predate rock & roll, the musical revolution that permanently linked footwear with carefully choreographed waves of sound. “The Chattanoogie Shoe Shine Boy” is more rock & roll than “The Little Shoemaker” because shoeshine boys have the potential to grow up and start punk rock groups. Little shoemakers have the potential to grow up and sing songs like “The Little Shoemaker”—to entertain themselves while they make shoes.

Today Rubber Sole initiates another (ir)regular feature: Stop Starring At Your Shoes. The column will explore the artists of shoegaze, a late 80s, early 90s phenomenon in British rock. For those unfamiliar with the term, it is derived from the joke (reality) of these artists' live shows--basically, these hipsters got paid to stand still with their heads down for 90 minutes. Shoegaze was characterized by thick walls of guitar distortion and feedback that overwhelmed slow-moving melodies and vocals.

The first installment of this column takes a look at the Jesus and Mary Chain, a group that technically predates the craze but was highly influential in the development of its sound. Formed in Scotland in 1984, the group centered on vocalists and guitarists William and Jim Reid, who were by all accounts enamored of walls of sound. From Phil Spector's orchestral arrangements of the same name, to the squealing soundscapes of the early Velvet Underground, the brothers Reid took in rock’s major influences and spit out their own sonic facade: a veritable shield of white noise. I use the protection metaphor because, underneath it all, the Jesus and Mary Chain often played simple pop tunes straight out of the early 60s. They layers of distortion they piled on, however, secured the group's status as at least (mildly) badass, and made it more difficult to wear out the melodies.

The Jesus and Mary Chain’s masterpiece is its debut, Psychocandy, and if you don't have it--or have it but "don't get it"--I suggest you track it down and play it straight through three or four times. And play it LOUD. Play it loud enough so that the hairs on your skin start to tingle and you can hear are those little piercing noises loud and clear. There's no other way to get the true experience. The climax of Lost in Translation does not count, touching though it may be.

A few additional notes about the group:

My personal favorite track from Psychocandy is "Sowing Seeds." Also, I mentioned my interest in the group in a college application essay to a school (not Brown) that shall remain nameless. I was not accepted to the aforementioned school.

Shopping for footwear is in many ways a lot like shopping for music. This is especially true for those who collect shoes the way most people collect records.

Finding the next piece for either wardrobe can be a grueling process; I’ve agonized over Reeboks and pieces of Dylan’s back catalogue alike for hours at a time. The ultimate questions are at their roots the same. Are these kicks worth their price tag, and will they still be “in” two months from now? Will I play this CD more than twice, and how will those hipper acquaintances I wish were friends react when I pop this on the stereo? Do I need another Harry Nilsson reissue if I’ll always prefer listening to Nilsson Schmilsson, anyway? If my blue sneakers don’t quite match my occasional black jeans, do I need another pair of Nikes just for off days?

Making these crucial determinations on the spot is no stress-free task. The advent of the Internet has made sampling tunes before a purchase painless and even doable from the home, but if your interests are obscure enough, sometimes you still have to go on gut alone. Even All Music Guide doesn’t have audio clips of Brigitte Bardot’s late 50s and early 60s LPs! Likewise, you can try on any shoe in the store, but how will you really know what those dunks will look like…with shorts on? Or with khakis?

This afternoon I spent the better part of half an hour obsessing over whether to expand my already burgeoning shoe closet with a new pair of mid-height Nikes with a nice beige and gray blend. They would have made a perfect match with my dark blue Levi 514s but after considerable face-to-mirror-to-shoe time, I decided against springing for them. They looked better on the shelf than on my feet, kind of like the way that DC hardcore sounds riveting in theory, but really just annoying when actually coming out of my speakers.

Shoes, like music, are all about attitude, aura, chutzpa—that elusive sense of “cool” that every insecure young person hopes to buy for fifteen or fifty dollars. The feeling that came over you when you bought that Death Cab album two years, or even two months too late, is the same one that you tried to ignore when you bought those brand new checkerboard Vans only to find out they’d become passé on the way to store. Everybody’s talking about Sauconys again, didn’t you get the memo, kid?

But shoes, like music, are also all about comfort and individual feel. Vans, Converse and all the other narrow-fit shoemakers out there make a great product for tall skinny folk, but other buyers beware. There’s no sadder sight in a suburban shopping center than a plus-size dude pushing 40 and still trying to squeeze his big toe into a pair of bowling alley shaped Pumas. It’s kind of like seeing someone’s father crowd surf at a Weezer show—that is to say, awkward enough to stand out, even in a place where gawk-worthy scenes abound.

None of this explains why I didn’t but the shoes I wanted today, but perhaps it might have, if the puzzle didn’t have a much simpler explanation: I’m cheap.

The (Roughly) Weekly Stomp-Down: Round 2 (Indie Rock Edition #1)

(1) The Arctic Monkeys “Dancing Shoes”
v.
(2) The Zephyrs “Dancing Shoes”


(1) The Arctic Monkeys “Dancing Shoes”

The Arctic Monkeys are yet another bunch of indie rockers who are neither as good nor as bad as everyone seems to think. Consider “Dancing Shoes,” the fourth track from their faddish debut, Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not, the title of which I’m certain is a poor misappropriation of the line “I am whatever you say I am” from Eminem’s “The Way I Am.” The music is a passable, if awkward slice of danceable post post-punk but when lead singer Alex Turner goes on about shy lads too self-conscious to do what they came to do on the dance floor – i.e., dance – I can’t help but think that Turner himself is probably a terrible dancer. He’s probably that guy no one wants to be upfront with and honestly tell that he’s embarrassing himself. He’s no Alexis Kapranos, that’s for Fffffing sure. Turner does his best impression, but without any swagger, tongue-in-cheek humor, or gender-bending sexual allusions, “Dancing Shoes” sounds as awkward as those same stiffs it purports to exhort to STOP BEING SO LAME.

Most embarrassing line(s): “Get on your dancing shoes, you sexy little swine.”


(2) The Zephyrs “Dancing Shoes”

To start with, The Zephyrs’ “Dancing Shoes” will make no one dance. Nor is it about dancing. The lyrics are rather cryptic for this gentle ballad of cosmic country twang. The only actual mention of shoes, however, is in the first line: “She danced in her black shoes.” Points for describing the actual shoes – just saying that they are black makes me think heels, and also DEATH, as in BLACK DEATH. On second thought, maybe it’s just that this song sounds like death. It could be achingly beautiful on another day, but today it sounds like emo dressed up in black heels. These guys definitely don’t dance and they’re not happy about it. This says something about their utter un-rock 'n roll-ness, which, in turn, reaffirms the real and remarkable tie between shoes and music. I'd say nice work, Zephs, but you really had no foot hold in my analysis.

Most embarrassing line(s): “When violence is the answer, pain is the only outcome.”


Steel Toe: “Dancing Shoes” (The Arctic Monkeys)
The Kicks: The Monkeys don’t quite do it for me on their version of “Dancing Shoes” but at least they’re trying. I would say something like, “…and that’s probably worth more than I know…” but screw that, I haven’t given up on irony yet.