A Love Affair With Corduroy

Two years ago, I retired my favorite pair of pants, slim chocolate brown corduroys from J. Crew. I wore the pants out. They developed holes in the legs, the wales faded away. These cords were unbeatable, made in the days before every pair had 2% stretch. Worn with a denim or chambray shirt, or a turtleneck, they were perfect.

Last week I finally replaced the chocolate brown cords with a similar pair, again from J. Crew (full disclosure: I work at J. Crew, and am not being paid to the promote the product), a shade lighter, along with a dusty khaki pair with a faint rose hue. They have 2% elastane, though the stretch isn’t as noticeable as I thought. The wales are thin, the cut and colors straight out of the 1970’s. Wearing them, I feel like I’m in a period piece, the best version of myself.

My love affair with corduroy began years ago. It started with a book about a bear bearing the name, and I ran around family gatherings yelling “Corduroy, Corduroy!” I earned the nickname Corduroy, and I started wearing the fabric thereafter, after a friend of my mother’s made me a pair of beautiful royal blue corduroy pants. Beyond some of my father’s shirts, they are the single piece of clothing from my childhood indelibly imprinted on my sense of style. They helped develop it.

Mick Jagger

Years later during college, when paging through GQ after class, I noticed two rich-colored corduroy suits from Parisian brand Surface to Air. These suits could not leave my mind, I thought of them constantly. Their narrow wales made them appear youthful, their deep hues regal. I haven’t been moved by the brand since, but I’ve never been so moved by a flat outfit layout in a fashion magazine. I needed corduroy in my wardrobe again.

The refined wales are a rustic man’s velvet, vaguely aristocratic. While corde du roi, the French phrase for “the cord of the King,” is not the word’s root, it aptly describes the fabric. Originating in 18th Century England, the soft texture and luxurious appearance made it a favorite of rogues and creatives, worn by everyone from Mick Jagger in his 1968 photoshoot with Cecil Beaton, lounging topless in a pair of dusty pink cords, to dirty old Frenchman Serge Gainsbourg, who looked dashing and insouciant in his baby blue corduroy coat. Nor can we forget Wes Anderson, the Patron Saint of Corduroy, exhibiting daring in wearing sometimes resplendent, sometimes restrained corduroy suits in orange, olive, burgundy, and purple, among other shades.

G. Bruce Boyer

Frustrating is corduroy’s bad reputation as a teacher or professor’s fabric. Worn in a slovenly manner, wide-waled, pants pooling at the ankles, jackets blousing out at the waist, not in an attractive manner like today’s intentional oversized silhouettes appear. There is little merit in this association, and the college professors who do sport corduroy look more like the stylish G. Bruce Boyer, who also had a double career as a magazine editor. Boyer’s classic-cut cords, in trouser and suit form, have the slightest bit of shape and drape that give them a tailored appearance. He defies the false connotations that sunk corduroy deep into the abyss of neglected clothing, a fabric so untrendy and frumpy that it would make you look haughty, aloof, and out-of-touch.

As the 1970’s and 1990’s, the last two decades where corduroy was popular, have returned in style, thus has the fabric. Perhaps it’s here to stay, and corduroy pants will become a wardrobe essential like a form-fitting pair of Levi’s 501 jeans, or gray trousers paired with a blue blazer for important, yet not formal, occasions. Corduroy is everyday wear, yet is tactile and luxurious enough to show extra consideration. Touch a pair of chinos, and they’re predictable, presentable, and don’t cause a frisson. Touch a pair of cords, and that frisson occurs. They feel as right as they look.