What makes a great pair of jeans?

I submit my six year-old pair of Levi’s 511 dark wash, seldom actually washed skinnies.  It’s been cuffed and rolled, scuffed and crumpled, stains and dirt caked into weathered grooves.  A crotch blowout repaired at a Korean dry cleaner is Astoria Queens, signs point to another before too long.  One of the few times I washed it was when I returned from a long vacation to find it caked in mold – war Shenzhen will do that to ya.  It gave when my waist favored the Chipotle craze, and it took when I my calves fell into triathlons.  They still sit among the top of the pant stack.

So when I caught wind of the initial craze of premium denim, I stood unconvinced that a pair of jeans five times the price of my good ‘ol blues was worth the hit to my back pocket.  You can take your precious red seam stitches and kick rocks.

But as my admiration grows for the art and skill imbued in honest clothing, so does the attraction of finer cloths. And eventually dark washes, glorious fades, and even those red train tracks put me on course for my first pair of raw denim. The question is, which one?

Well, time-killing stroll in northern China decided it for me.

On my last day in Tokyo, I momentarily caught  myself in the tourist shuffle: wandering into an alley, then another, searching for any hint of address, doubling back, pacing in square circles, swearing that the café we researched had to be right around here.  I took a moment at the buzzing Harajuku intersection to grasp any sense of direction.  Waiting at the crosswalk, I saw no less than:

• One pastel woman in Doc Marten boots and a Victorian wig
• Two of four perfectly chromed hubs bouncing to the hydraulic initiations of a lowrider impala
• A corner shop dedicated to a rainbow of prophylactics, appropriately called Condomania

I bet everyone has caught their own version of this scene in Japan, a self-contained ecosystem of idiosyncratic flairs.  The Galápagos of style.

In the metro, the cavalier mode above contrasts with everyday businessmen, commuting in hues as muted as the subway cars that transport them.  Gray, navy, black.  Crisp, polished, deft.  It was as if the underground spreads of Brooks Brothers surfaced into bubbles of cosplay.  Except here, there’s no sign of caricature or false characterizations.

For whatever reason – be it the lifelong reverence to improving upon one’s craft, or the flawless execution of foreign signatures, at-times to the point of succeeding its progenitor – Japan has always been able to embody an assortment of styles on any given day with breathless ownership.

And I think that’s what’s kept Ring Jacket relevant through its sixty-one years.