hilkat

Unless you’ve been stuck in a hole for the last year or so, you’ll know that the New Rave scene has recently exploded, giving the traditional indie guitar bands a run for their money. The fans are a rather unconventional looking bunch; whistles and glow-sticks in hand, dressed in luminous colours and day-glo make up – the new attire could be considered long overdue, as the traditional ‘indie uniform’ of skinny jeans and waistcoats now entices only yawns from the most forward thinking fashionistas. Rave band Hadouken! recently waxed lyrical about the hoards of scenesters looking like clones in ‘That Boy, That Girl’:

“That girl thinks she’s an Indie Cindy,
Lego haircut and polka dot dress.
I don’t care if she think’s she’s indie,
How she’s different is anyone’s guess…”

The first time I heard it, I suspected they may have been attending the same gigs that I had recently been to, where I found myself surrounded by leopard print dresses and choppy bobbed hair. Imagination, it seemed, had gone out of the window as far as fashion was concerned. Was I the only one who enjoyed a good rummage in charity shops? Didn’t anyone else want to look even slightly original and unique? Was I the only one left who didn’t want to look like a Topshop mannequin?

Apparently not. While the majority of the audience may have looked like they were just lifted off of a style conveyer belt, on stage it was a completely different matter. The music industry is rapidly becoming full of fun, carefree women, from The Gossip’s Beth Ditto and her love for lycra, to the Amy Winehouse and her massively impressive hair. If there was ever a shortage of inspiration to try something new with your clothes, now is not the time – the music industry is now heaving with fearless women who all provide a source of fashion imagination, whatever your style.

So say YES to vintage! YES to car boot sales! YES to creating and customising, mixing and matching! And we say YES to borrowing ideas from our girls in music – and if you don’t know who to go for, here’s my pick of three of the best.

Kate Jackson of the Long Blondes

Whenever I hear the throaty, husky tones cutting through the opening chords of ‘Lust at the Movies’, two images pop into my head; one being pencil skirts and the other chic neckscarves.

In an interview with the Guardian newspaper, circa 2005, Ms Jackson quoted her style as being ‘glamorous punk’, and although two years have passed, her fashion choices have not changed.

Frequently borrowing looks from the 1940’s, the young singer (and rapidly rising style star) cites feeling ‘held in’ as her top priority when choosing outfits. However, she is not afraid to mix things up, often adding a punky t-shirt, or matching delicate sandals with brightly coloured striped socks. It is her unique approach to fashion that makes her look so desirable to copy; with Kate it’s all about experimenting with garments and colours that shouldn’t necessarily work, but somehow still do.

To steal Ms Jackson’s edgy style, you will need to leave the rules at the door, grab yourself a large selection of neckscarves, a good pencil skirt and a boxful of rock ‘n’ roll t-shirts. And if in doubt, accessorise. What’s good enough for the Long Blondes is certainly good enough for me.

thelongblondes.co.uk

Maya Von Doll from the Sohodolls

Maya Von Doll literally oozes sophistication. From her long dark hair to her sultry eyes, the girl is pure sex, and she’s not afraid to show it. Her voice is deceptively smooth, and from simply listening to The Dolls tracks you could be forgiven for thinking that she is all innocence. But you’d be wrong.

After watching the video for ‘Stripper’, I had to fight down the urge to strap myself into a corset and prance around brandishing a whip. After watching the video for ‘Right and Right Again’ I went online hunting for a white tutu skirt. The girl can’t help it - whatever she wears becomes instantly cool. If she appeared on stage in nothing but a cardboard box, I can guarantee that supermarkets all over London would have girls queuing up outside the back doors of their warehouses.

It’s not so much what she wears as how she wears it. With Ms Maya, its all about attitude. But if you want to steal her style then I’d suggest a combination of the highest heels, the tightest corsets, white shirts a-plenty and vampire films on dvd to take inspiration from. Because she just can’t help it - the lady is a Vamp.

sohodolls.co.uk

Luciana

Sporting a hoody, lycra dress and spike heels, Ms Luciana first burst onto our screens last year when she featured in the Bodyrox video, declaring, “I’ll show you who’s rock and roll.”

And show us she has. From her choppy multicoloured hair to the way she mixes up her outfits, the girl is unique through and through. Vintage nylon hoodies, lashings of lycra, skinny trousers and more jewellery than you can shake a stick at all make up her highly covetable style.

To steal Luciana’s no-holds-barred look, the one thing you need most of all is guts - this is not one for shrinking violets! Be as daring as possible, and when it comes to sourcing garments, never say never - second hand shops, designer shops, tiny boutiques and New Age shops, anything goes when working this style. The key thing to think about is to combine two or more different looks - dresses and heels with hoodies, chunky jewellery with delicate lace gloves, in-your-face make up in the middle of the day, if you think you shouldn’t, then it probably means you should!

Being a dedicated lover of all things fashion related, I hold a firm belief that inspiration for style can be found in a hundred different places. Books, magazines, music videos… even somewhere as simple as the street outside. Some would say I’m nosy, however I prefer the term ‘inquisitive’, and it’s my interest in others’ sartorial choices that seems to have brought out my voyeuristic side. I’ve passed more afternoons than I dare to count hiding behind a magazine, scrutinizing everything from bags to coats, and then headed home to log on to the ‘Street Chic’ section of Vogue Online.

All my recent observations, although satisfying, have led to one question that has left me completely baffled: HOW do so many women spend their days running around in six inch heels?

Stack heels, stilettos, cone heels, boots, sandals, shoes – they appear in a million different varieties and are simply beautiful. Don’t get me wrong, I love beautiful shoes that give you vertigo from merely looking at them, and I own many pairs. But I never actually wear them. Some of them are lined up against the wall in my bedroom, while others jostle for space in my cupboard. Sometimes I just sit and look at them, absorbing the exquisite designs, and occasionally I even put a pair on and wander round the house in them. But it’s unlikely, if not impossible, that you could find a pair that have scratches on the soles or scuff marks on the toes.

You see, I believe that when it comes to shoes, women are divided into two categories; those that wear high heels and those that would like to wear high heels. I am undoubtedly part of the latter group. There is nothing I’d like more than to strut down the road, head and shoulders above everybody else, my high heels warning of my presence in the manner of the bell on a cats collar. But when it comes down to it, the simple truth is that, well…I just can’t be arsed.

When I select a pair of shoes which elevate me more than two inches from the floor, so many questions are raised. What if it rains? What if I get blisters? What if my feet are cold? And more importantly, what if I fall over? High heels are many things; glamorous, sophisticated, even powerful – but comfortable they are not. Which is why I reside day in, day out, in flats. Pumps, ballet slippers, flip flops, flat boots, flat sandals…if I can feel the pavement through the sole, they’re on my feet faster than you can say ‘glass slipper’. If it wasn’t such a fashion faux-pas, I would probably go out in my slippers.

You see, when I go out, whether day or night, I pre-empt a lot of running around, whether soberly from shop to shop or drunkenly from nightspot to nightspot. And if there is one thing high heels do, it’s hinder rapid movement.

However, as comfortable as I am in my horizontal heels, I do have a nagging feeling that there is a certain element of glamour missing from my life – but unless there is a specific reason to squeeze my delicate feet into something which is almost certainly going to cause indescribable amounts of pain, it’s just all too easy to back out.

Which is why, for the first ever Give It a Go column, I will be wearing only high heels for the (seemingly endless) period of one week. And also praying that I don’t need to run for any buses. Now where did I leave those maribou kitten heels…

DAY ONE – MONDAY

I had originally planned to venture into town today to restock my art materials, however upon pulling open the curtains I am greeted by endless grey clouds and a rain spattered window. Ordinarily this would simply make me screw up my nose, but today I conveniently remember some articles I am supposed to be writing. I decide that not leaving the house certainly does NOT qualify as cheating, as I do genuinely need to get the pieces written.

However, come 4.30pm I am feeling pangs of guilt for not taking the challenge seriously, so I send a text to The Boy proposing we go out for drinks tonight to celebrate him starting his new job. He accepts enthusiastically. It then dawns on me that a) it is Monday, I live in a student town and will be ridiculously overdressed and b) alcohol and high heels are not the best of friends.
Usually, ‘going for drinks’ on a week night constitutes The Boy and I shoving on our cleanest jeans and schlepping down the local for a warm pint and some pork scratchings. However, said local would not be the ideal place to turn up in six inch heels, so I find myself suggesting the more upmarket bars in the centre of town. Substitute ‘upmarket’ for ‘stupidly expensive’ and you will have a good idea of the type of place we are going to. I realise with horror that the challenge is already costing me a minimum of twenty pounds and I haven’t even wedged the bloody things on my feet yet. I shoot a glare in the direction of the now hated shoes, willing them to disappear. They don’t.

I decide to attempt to get in the mood for my unusually sophisticated evening by having a monumental bathroom session. Scented candles, face mask, magazine, enough bath water to practise diving in…it’s most women’s idea of heaven. Unfortunately, I am not ‘most women’, and bathing to me is usually functional. Get in, get clean, get out. After ten minutes I am bored. The only aroma emanating from the scented candles is a smoky one, the magazine has slipped out of my hands and plunged to a watery death, and the bath water is so hot that I am starting to feel ill. My cheeks feel like they are on fire, and rather than ‘cleansing my pores’ as promised, I rather think the face mask is actually stripping away the top layer of my skin. I decide that it is time to pull the plug on this. Literally.

Being a creative person, getting ready to go out is always the one part of the night I can guarantee I’ll enjoy; putting together an ensemble and finding a new way to wear something, pre-party drinks, playing with make up….but tonight, with my new wardrobe restrictions, I find I have turned into one of those girls who lurches around in a panic with a dress stuck on her head as the taxi beeps frantically outside. According to my best friend, I usually ‘leave it all until the last minute, pick eighteen things and wear them all at once, still managing to look fabulous.’ She does have a point, not a great deal of organisation goes into me getting dressed.

But tonight is different – there are certain things that you just cannot wear with heels, and to be honest, wearing heels sometimes makes me feel sort of, well…skinny. I’m naturally slender and 5ft 7”, so anything that elevates me too much tends to make me look like a piece of garden cane. I rifle through my wardrobe, pulling things out and putting them back again, gradually getting more and more irritated. I pull on a pair of cream suede boots with a stack heel and straps that can be tied any which way, and I have to say that I do actually adore them. The fabric is so soft, and I love the way you can change their look at the drop of a hat. Unfortunately tonight, they don’t go with anything. I struggle into three different dresses, and after swearing profusely, I struggle out of them again, and they are left abandoned on the floor. By now, my bedroom is starting to look as if all the clothes have leaped out of the cupboards of their own accord and run amok, creating a scene of absolute mayhem and pandemonium. I am frustrated, sweaty, and starting to contemplate calling the whole evening off. The thing is, I can’t comprehend why I seem to be having so much trouble. I mean, although they’re not part of my daily wardrobe, I do tend to wear heels out in the evening every now and then.

In the end, I select one of my tried and tested outfits; vintage black and gold heels, skinny jeans, and an oversize black top secured at the waist by a vintage white belt with gold buckle. Mentally sticking a finger up at the God of Fashion Co-ordination, I select a red bag, as if getting my own back on the hateful clothes that would not work for me.

When I finally get in The Boys car, he drops a bombshell.

“I don’t think I’ve got the energy for all that poncey bar crap,” he says. Then he looks down at my clothes. “You look nice. You didn’t spend too long getting ready did you?”

DAY TWO – TUESDAY

Traumatised from the events of yesterday, I stay in all day reading Vogue and working on some new jewellery designs. I cannot think of one thing that would entice me out of the house, even if Kate Moss herself came calling.

DAY THREE – WEDNESDAY

It is raining. Again. This time I have to go out, and cannot possibly make excuses - I have completely run out of black paint, jewellery wire and beads, and all production has come to a standstill.

I lurch around my room, putting clothes on and taking them off again, getting more irritated and frantic by the minute, and start to wonder if I have somehow become caught in a bizarre time loop. Because this is all very reminiscent of Monday evening. Its like high heels Groundhog Day.

As soon as this dawns on me, and I suddenly realise this is what life will be like for the next four days, I start to panic, and begin shedding the clothes as if my life depended on it. Well, in a way, it did.

I slip my feet into my much-adored, beaten-up, old £9.99 trainers from H&M (I’m far too tight to spend thirty-five quid on a pair of converse when you can get look-alikes for a tenner), and sigh with happiness. I am simply not a high heels girl - and if there’s one thing you should never do in the name of fashion, it’s follow the crowd. I might not look glamorous or sophisticated, I think as I trot off up the road to the shops, but at least I’m finally bloody comfortable.