Clarks shoes are back in
fashion, thanks to dancehall artist Vybz Kartel. Jesse Serwer charts a 30-year
love affair between Jamaican rudeboys and Britain's premium sensible footwear
Back in the spring, the Jamaican dancehall artist
Vybz Kartel released a single paying tribute to his favourite consumer goods.
He was, he says, recognising a great Jamaican tradition. The song was a huge
hit on the island, and stores across Jamaica reported selling out of the very
thing Vybz Kartel was hymning. The big surprise, though – to English
high-street shoppers at least – was the subject of the song: not Cristal
champagne, or diamonds from De Beers, but a pair of shoes, made by a
185-year-old family-owned company based in the town of Street in Somerset. Vybz
Kartel's single was called Clarks, and its cover carried pictures of his
favourite Clarks shoes – the Wallabees, Desert Boots and Desert Trek shoes of
the Original "heritage" range – of which he claims to have more than
50 pairs.
Clarks Originals have long been a staple of
Jamaican fashion,
but Kartel lifted them to another level. Vendors in Kingston doubled their
prices. Thieves, the Jamaica Star reported, targeted stores that stocked them.
Knock-off copies of the design started appearing and multiplying. "Right now you can't go less than $10,000
Jamaican for Clarks," says Andre "Popcaan" Sutherland, one of
two Kartel proteges, along with Vanessa Bling, who also appears on the single.
"It was six or seven grand before the song. It's been a massive change,
that. People feel dem haffi have 'em."
Kartel, a provocateur whose X-rated content has
seen him banned in the past from several Caribbean nations, appears to have
found a new, more airwave-friendly lyrical direction in the wake of the single.
In a blatant attempt to milk his own fad, he's released follow-up records
called Clarks Again and Clarks 3 (Wear Weh Yuh Have). His latest single, Jeans
'n Fitted, acts as yet another fashion manifesto.
To be sure, the unrest in Kingston that all but
shut down business in the capital last month has tempered the phenomenon
somewhat. But as Clarks has reverberated across the Caribbean and throughout
the diaspora – it's currently receiving daytime spins on BBC's 1Xtra, after
topping the station's dancehall chart – the trend is being echoed from Brooklyn
to Brixton.
"I've gotten a few emails and texts where a
young lady has said to me, 'Robbo, it's because of your show with this song
that we're working overtime at Clarks,'" says BBC 1Xtra DJ Robbo Ranx.
"Online, I went to order a pair of black ankle Deserts . . . sold out. You
go out to find Clarks, you can't find Deserts. In my local in west London,
there's none in there."
Michael Borge, marketing director for Clarks North
America, confirms it has seen increased demand in Jamaica and many US markets
in recent months; however, an "upswing in the Originals business
overall" makes it difficult to quantify the song's effect. Likewise, Gemma
Merchant, senior account manager for Clarks Originals in the UK, says the
company has seen "increased interest and demand in particular areas of the
UK, shortly after the song became big in Jamaica".
But while Clarks – with its chorus, "Everybody
haffi ask weh mi get mi Clarks/ Di leather hard, di suede soft, toothbrush get
out di dust fast" – has boosted enthusiasm for the brand among young
Jamaicans, it is just the latest chapter in the country's lengthy embrace of
the shoe brand. "Clarks is as much a part of the Jamaican culture as ackee
and saltfish and roast breadfruit, I swear to you," says Kartel, whose
real name is Adijah Palmer. "Policemen wear it, gangsters wear it. Big men
wear it to their work. Schoolchildren wear it to school."
If Clarks have long been in Britain the shoes of
schoolchildren and pensioners, in Jamaica they are a long-standing symbol of
upward social mobility, valued for their versatility and – important in a
tropical climate – their breathability.
"The generation who had immigrated to England
to work in that period after the second world war would return to Jamaica
wearing these Clarks, and people developed a fascination," Ranx says.
"You go back to Jamaica on holiday, the first thing they ask you for is:
'Bring back a traditional Marks & Spencer string vest, or a pair of
Clarks.'"
By the time reggae
exploded internationally in the 1970s, Clarks were the preferred footwear for
Rastafarians and "baldheads" alike. Rummage through LPs from reggae's
golden era, and you're likely to turn up at least a few photos of rude boys
with their trouser legs rolled up to reveal ankle-length desert boots. But it
was in the 1980s, as the social consciousness of the Bob Marley era gave way to
dancehall's rampant materialism, that the shoes gained iconic status. "The
80s was a hyper-materialistic time in Jamaica and Jamaican music," says
Jason Panton, owner of the Kingston fashion boutique Base Kingston, and I&I
Clothing, a Jamaican streetwear brand. "After the whole scare over Jamaica
going socialist, a lot of importance was placed on brand names. People wanted
other people to know him stepped up him life. Part of the way you show that is
you have a Clarks, you have a gold chain around your neck, and you ain't afraid
to wear it on road." The teenage toaster Little John (not to be confused
with rapper/producer Lil' Jon) even scored a 1985 hit with Clarks Booty.
"Hol' up yuh foot and show your Clarks Booty," went the song's
chorus, a riff on Yellowman's Zungguzungguguzungguzeng, "Fling out your
foot because your shoe's brand new."
In fact, Jamaica's love of Clarks spread through
music beyond the Caribbean. In the mid 1990s, the New York hip-hop band the
Wu-Tang Clan famously made Clarks Wallabees their preferred footwear. The cover
of Ghostface Killah's 1995 solo debut, Ironman, depicted the "Wally
Champ" (as Ghostface often calls himself) and Wu members Raekwon and
Cappadonna surrounded by custom-dyed Wallabees. The Clan's own clothing brand,
Wu Wear, was among several American brands that produced Wallabee derivatives
in the following years.
Ghostface and his Wu-Tang associates had borrowed
the style from the Caribbean immigrants who poured into New York City in the
1980s. "People had stopped wearing them, so Ghostface and Raekwon started
rocking them for that reason," says hip-hop journalist Alvin Blanco,
author of an upcoming book on the Wu-Tang Clan. "The idea was, 'Other
rappers are rocking Timberlands and sneakers, we're going to stay ahead of the
curve by going back and rocking Wallabees.' They also weren't that much. You could
probably finagle a pair for $60 or $70 on Canal Street in Chinatown."
Wallys grew less prevalent in the States as the
Wu-Tang's influence over hip-hop waned in the late 90s, but they never became
unfashionable in Jamaica. There was already a bubbling resurgence even before
Kartel released Clarks in March.
"At Sting [the annual Jamaican concert], all
the top dancehall artists – Aidonia, Mavado, Assassin – were wearing
Clarks," Ranx says, chalking the revival up to a broader return to classic
fashion in dancehall. "A lot of the major artists aren't allowed to travel
out of Jamaica now. Kartel's [US] visa has been revoked. So they've just got to
go downtown to buy some footwear. Before, these guys would go out of the
country and come back wearing foreign brands like Gucci."
Kartel offers a more basic explanation: "I
personally have more than 50 pair of Clarks," he says. "I have more
than there are states in America. The concept for the song came when Vanessa
Bling saw my Clarks. She said, 'Every day you in a different Clarks, and a
badder Clarks. Weh you get so much Clarks from?'"
Kartel is famed as a canny commercial operator. He
already endorses rum and condoms. But he didn't receive a penny from Clarks for
boosting sales of their shoes. Maybe he didn't need to, though: as the Jamaica
Observer has reported, he has a new idea after the success of Clarks. It was
inevitable, really: Kartel is to launch his own brand of shoes.
Bling's the
thing
The unlikely brands that seduced the streets
Kangol
How it happened: The Cumbrian hatmaker went from
supplying berets for British troops to outfitting hip-hop's early foot soldiers
in the early 80s. British-born Jamaican Slick Rick and his Kangol Crew helped
popularise the beret-turned-to-the-side look; in his pre-Hollywood days, LL
Cool J rarely appeared without his trademark Kangol bucket hat and its
distinctive kangaroo logo.
Signature shout-out: "Stepped out my house
stopped short, oh no/ I went back in, I forgot my Kangol" – Slick Rick,
La-Di-Da-Di.
In the long term: Although Kangol found itself the
height of street fashion, it didn't help those who worked for the company at
its factory on the Cumbrian coast. Over the last few years, the company has
been passed from one international owner to another, with just seven jobs remaining
at Kangol's old HQ in Cleator Moor after Bollman Headwear's latest round of
cuts.
Timberland
How it happened: Following the lead of drug dealers
who found them ideal for pounding the pavement during cold New York winters,
underground rappers adopted these rugged, waterproof boots as their uniform in
the early 1990s.
Signature shout-out: "Tims all seasons for
ass-kicking reasons" – Smif-N-Wessun, Wrekonize; producer Tim Mosley
adopting the name Timbaland in tribute.
In the long term: Fearing association with this
unexpected new market might scare its established clientele of wealthy outdoor
enthusiasts, Timberland limited availability in urban areas in an effort to
discourage fashion-conscious African-American shoppers from buying the shoe for
the "wrong reason".
Cristal
How it happened: Cristal became a key rap accessory
after Jay-Z made frequent references to the upper crust-approved French
champagne on his 1996 debut, Reasonable Doubt.
Signature shout-out: "My motto, stack rocks
like Colorado/ Auto off the champagne, Cristals by the bottle" – Jay-Z,
Can't Knock the Hustle.
In the long term: Jay-Z himself called for a
Cristal boycott after the managing director of parent company Louis Roederer
referred to the champagne's hip-hop fanbase as "unwanted attention"
in an interview with the Economist in 2006.
Prada
How it happened: The Italian fashion house, along
with Louis Vuitton, Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana, was part of a wave of
European luxury brands celebrated by rappers and dancehall artists in the
noughties.
Signature shout-out: "Getting paid not played,
pushing Escalade and rocking Prada" – Buju Banton, Paid Not Played.
In the long term: With dancehall's international
visibility at an all-time high in 2005, Prada returned the favour with a
Caribbean-inspired spring collection complete with Rasta-striped knitwear.
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