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The Best of Jan Hammer


There are ‘shorts’. And there are ‘dress shorts’. You wear shorts when it’s hot and you want to lie in a park, sit on a beach, or run around with a hoop and stick and play one of those sports I’ve read about. You wear dress shorts when it’s hot and you want to sit outside a cafe sipping an iced macchiato, while prodding at a pastry. Or dawdle around Wolf and Badger, pondering pointless candelabras made out of plumber’s pipes.

Shorts can get grubby. Dress shorts must not. Shorts are a practical, reasonably priced, essential. Dress shorts are impractical, expensive and serve no real purpose apart from making other people think their shorts are wack. I only give big fucks about dress shorts.

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Having said all that, I don’t know who’d feel mad inadequate about their existing shortswear when faced with these. They’re by Bru Na Boinne and 143.43 quidderies will kit you out. As if it had escaped your notice, they look like they’re made from a beach towel. Impracticalness? Off the charts. When the sun blisters down, any brah in these is going to leak pints. Maybe the toweliness would suck it all in? Maybe you’d just end up waddling around in a heavy, sweat-dripping nappy? Maybe that’s cool in Japan?


Pattern heavy and proud, by TS(S). Dressed down like this bro, these shorts look solid enough. You wouldn’t want to get too blousey and loafersy with them though – a bit Brazilian houseboy.

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I’m down with these yellow ones. They’re also by TS(S), and if you take a closer look at the fabric…


… you’ll catch the slubbing effect in the cloth. Sure yellow’s a bit, yellowy, but worn with a long-line navy shirt (as above) I think they look savage. They also come in a proper trouser…

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I’m loving the way Japanese brands are pumping out loads of shit rocking pure Miami Vice vibes. In fact, ignore all those shorts. Sonny Crocket never busted them. Anyway, these pants are so wide, you could roll ’em up to shorts if needed. I’m not saying I wouldn’t get a few looks, striding around an overcast Peckham Rye. But in my head, I’d be elsewhere – I’d be holstering my Bren Ten, shrugging on a giant Hugo Boss bolero jacket and lounging in my Ferrari Daytona chatting up some 80’s hoes. Sure people might talk, but I wouldn’t hear, I’d have The Best of Jan Hammer on my iPod.




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