I just got a pair of Surplus Research headphones through the post, all the way from Tokyo. Not sponsored, by the way, this is a legit purchase, one of the impulsive ones at that, but I do welcome gifting for thorough, in-depth reviews. Just DM me — @kevinkafesu on IG.

I had seen and heard about these headphones before buying them, notably on Frank Ocean. Still, I know very little about them, actually. More on that later. But first impressions, I think they are better than my old AirPod Pros. Although to be fair, those have been through years of heavy use and abuse and I think the Danish rain has finally got to them. The mic now makes me sound like I’m talking underwater.

Let’s start with the sound, it’s really really good, but ofcourse, I am not the person to talk to you about frequency response curves, sound stages and whatever else audiophiles talk about. What I care about the most are the voices. I listen to a few podcasts (shoutout Blamo), and when I listen to music I tend to focus on the lyrics, sometimes more than the music itself. These are pinnacle for that, at least in mine and my wallet’s humble opinion. Vocals feel clear and kinda intimate, podcasts sound like I’m in the room, and overall there’s a fidelity to voices that immediately stood out to me.

There’s no active noise cancellation either, which wasn’t a surprise to be honest. After a few days though, I actually really like where they sit. They filter out the white noise from the busy city surroundings without completely removing you from the world. Sometimes ANC is almost too good. You switch it on and suddenly you’re in this weird vacuum or bubble where the world disappears. What I like about the Surplus Research headphones is I can concentrate on what I’m listening to, but I’m not completely feel removed from everything happening around me.

It hasn’t all been great though, after wearing them for most of the first day I started getting some pressure and pain in my ears, although I think that was down to the inserts which I later switched out because they ship with a load of different sizes and after playing around with them the fit has been much better. Then there’s the wire. Oh, the wire, the oxygen-free braided cable is a head turner. It doesn’t really tangle, it feels great, it looks great, and I just like saying oxygen-free, which I just learnt means that the wires have higher conductivity, allowing the power to travel more efficiently, improved flexibility and better thermal stability to name a few. I just googled that.

The problem though is, it’s still a wire. And I’d completely forgotten that wired headphones require pockets. Haha!

Usually I’ll put on a playlist or my station on Apple Music, throw my phone into my pannier or top-tube bag and just get spinning but that’s now a thing of the past, at least for now until I’m fed up. iPhone, headphone adapter, connector, cable… it’s a lot. The phone needs to be somewhere on my body, and ideally in a big pocket. This sounds obvious because this is literally how we listened to music for decades, but I’d forgotten. Wireless technology didn’t just remove the wire, it changed where we put our stuff. And this made me think about phone pouches, Motorola two-way pagers we’d strap to our belts way back!

On day one I actually enjoyed the ritual. Pull them out of the pouch, plug everything in, press play. No Bluetooth pairing, no battery, no charging case, no firmware updates. Occasionally my iPhone still reminds me that I’ve connected something as though we haven’t done this multiple times already. Yeah bro, I know. I connected it, just now and yesterday.

By day two I was already thinking, ah damn, this is actually a little long. My AirPods go in my ears and that’s it. Maybe new tech has spoiled me. Or maybe it solved a problem and I’m slowly choosing to reintroduce because I think the old way makes me look less like an “unc.” I’m still processing.

The future used to look something like this

Transparent casings, exposed thingamajig’s, silver braided cable, yellow ear hooks, red and blue ear tips to signal left and right. There’s something about them that quickly took me back to that Y2K era when Windows Media Player masks were somehow more exciting than the music. And listening to music just wasn’t enough without a visualizer putting you in a trans while you bumped to Aphex Twin.

It also triggered a core memory I hadn’t thought about for years. Nearly two decades ago I walked into my Design & Technology classroom and it was full of those Apple iMac G3s. Screen, speakers and CD-ROM drive all sitting inside this big, round, translucent bulb. I loved those things. You could see into them, and that inspired me a lot. You could see the speaker and shapes through the coloured plastic, and the whole thing had this beautiful bubble look to it with a handle built into the back as if to say, you could just grab it from your desk and put it on the floor. Even the handle! Why did a desktop computer need to look so much fun? I miss Steve Jobs.

Around that same time you had Sony Ericsson making phones in all sorts of colours, one of my favourites being the Walkman range! And let’s not forget the Nokias where you could swap out cases. I remember purchasing translucent bootleg cases from this spot called Oasis Market where you could buy a case that would let you see the guts of your phone. Technology had personality back then as did we. It looked futuristic because it was almost trying to show you what it was and the idea of nano tech was cool back then, if that.

And maybe that’s what I like most about these headphones. They’re like a time capsule.

Now everything is glass that breaks all the time, though it’s only happened to me once *touch wood*, aluminium, titanium that’s not great at holding signal, polished surfaces and hidden components. I’m not saying that’s necessarily bad. I’m writing this on an iPhone, after all. But I do think there’s something interesting about seeing the rawness of a product, the connections and the little things that make it work. I think this is why I love art that isn’t perfect,

Surplus doesn’t really hide any of that, you can see the wires running through the shell. You can see where things connect. Even the cable becomes part of how the product looks which kept thinking about this as a kind of minimal maximalism. Minimal in what’s added, maximal in what’s beeing communicated by the product and exposed. I could be reaching here, but I kind of like the idea. The function almost becomes the decoration. Form follows function and all that. Here… literally!

It’s probably why I’m drawn to what brands like Teenage Engineering and Nothing are doing too. They feel like the slightly rebellious crowd in a category dominated by huge companies increasingly making very similar-looking objects. Teenage Engineering gives you buttons, knobs, colours, typography and speakers that actually look like speakers, and heck, some customizability thanks to the LEGO System-in-play compatability. Nothing has made transparency a huge part of its visual language. Maybe after years of hiding the machine, there’s an appetite to see it again.

And this is where I started getting a little carried away.

Radical transparency. Or maybe not.

Seeing inside these headphones got me thinking about transparency more generally. We increasingly want to know what we’re buying. Where was it made? What materials went into it? Can I repair it? Who made it? What am I actually spending my money on?

For a minute I had this theory that perhaps transparent product design somehow spoke to that wider desire for transparency.

Then I tried researching Surplus Research properly and realised they barely tell you anything. There’s more coming out of Reddit than the brand site, and fair. After all, Surplus Research isn’t limited to just headphones, they also make a plethora of things, including caps, straps, bits and bobs, here and there. A bit too late, right? Haha. I already have the headphones in my ears bumping 21 Seconds by So Solid Crew.

The contradiction is actually quite funny. The big boy tech companies making beautifully seamless products that reveal almost nothing physically will happily give you pages and pages of specifications and even their registered trademark info and brand guidelines. Surplus gives you a pair of headphones where you can basically stare into the thing… and then tells you very little about it. My first day owning these was like a blind date, if I can put it simply.

So no kids, today we will not be talking about specs.

Maybe my transparency theory is complete nonsense. I think what I actually like is being able to see how something is put together. I don’t necessarily know more about these headphones because I can see inside them, but somehow I feel closer to understanding the object. There’s a difference.

Actually using them

I didn’t want to spend a week staring at them and developing theories about industrial design, so I’ve been using them everywhere. Office, commute, walking around and, most importantly for me, cycling.

The gravel ride surprised me. At one point I was pushing into a headwind at around 28km/h (humble flex) with the volume at roughly 50% and didn’t suffer much loss in sound. Sounds unbelievable, but true. I wasn’t getting that constant whoosh of wind fighting against whatever I was listening to as would AirPods with ANC activated and I didn’t need to turn the volume up.

The yellow ear hooks also suddenly made complete sense on the bike. They’re really secure. I’ve had wireless headphones fall out here and there while cycling, but with these I felt confident they weren’t going anywhere, and even if one did fall out, well… there’s a wire attached to it. Look at that. The annoying wire just became useful.

They also make me look and feel like an undercover fed, which is probably more important to me than I should admit.

I commuted with them too. They did the job, stylishly of course, and I wore them all day in the office. Corporate means no blasting music from the speakers, rightly so. Everyone has different tastes and different working styles, so headphones keep things neutral. Although I do miss the creative studio days when someone would put Gunna on at 10am on a Tuesday and everyone just had to live with it.

After a few days, I think that’s where I am with them. They’re less convenient than my AirPods in many ways. I need pockets. I need an adapter. I can’t ask Siri something while cycling. Taking a call is annoying. There are moments when I genuinely think, why am I making my life more difficult than it should be?

But I’ve also spent fa fair bit of time thinking about these headphones than I have any pair, ever. I’ve snapped them for your visual pleasure, thought about their construction, remembered those iMacs from my days in high school and somehow ended up questioning twenty years of consumer-electronics design because I bought a pair of wired headphones off the internet. That’s quite a lot for a pair of headphones.

And I should probably apologise if this entire ramble has convinced you to buy them because getting a pair seems to be another challenge. They appear in limited drops, with quite a bit of time between them, so this feels closer to buying something from JMM than walking into an electronics store and picking up some headphones. If you’ve made it this far only to discover you can’t actually get a pair, sorry.

I’m still not sure whether the friction will eventually get to me. Right now, though, I like that they require a little intent. You decide you’re going to listen to something, plug yourself in and go.

Just make sure you’ve got a big enough pocket or pockets!

Yesterday my son and I headed out to pick up a couple of Pokémon cards and, post-lunch, stumbled across a vintage store with piles of blue French work jackets in the window.

Well, some were French. Some weren’t.

There are so many iterations of the blue work jacket from across Europe, particularly from the ’70s through to the late ’80s, but we tend to generalise them all as French work jackets. I guess it’s easier to classify them as such because the average bod cares too little to dig any deeper. And why should they?

It’s just clothes at the end of the day.

Musty ones at that.

Anyway, I tried on maybe 10–15 jackets and none were hitting the spot. And you know they have to hit the spot.

One was too long but perfect across the chest. Another was the perfect colour but too small. Another had contrast stitching which I just wasn’t feeling.

You know how vintage shopping goes. Everything is almost right.

On my way out, the shopkeeper happened to receive the jacket we’re talking about today.

Fresh off the pallet.

A random blue work jacket that fit almost perfectly, but what really got me was the comical logo patch slapped across the chest pocket.

Le Touze.

Rather than being the maker’s label, it appears to have been applied to a fairly generic work jacket as part of a company uniform.

And I love company uniforms.

Nothing says workwear more than something that was actually worn to work.

You’re probably wondering what Le Touze is. Trust me, I was wondering too. Mainly because I’d hate to be rocking some controversial organisation across my chest and then get put on the spot in public.

After a little digging, it turns out Le Touze was a timber business founded in Lorient, France, in 1890, originally importing timber from northern Europe alongside exotic woods. Over time the business expanded into processing, adding its own sawmill and drying facilities before moving further into finished and semi-finished building products.

It was eventually acquired by Accueil Négoce in the early ’90s, with the Le Touze name surviving until the various businesses were brought together under the Partedis name in 2017.

Which means it’s fully plausible that this jacket once belonged to somebody working in a timber yard, warehouse, sawmill or the likes.

Honestly, this feels like it could be a Netflix series. Trace random pieces of vintage workwear back to their roots and figure out who the hell actually wore them.

Because maybe that’s what I like most about old workwear.

None of this was designed to be precious. The pockets weren’t added because a designer thought they created an interesting silhouette. The fabric wasn’t washed fifteen times in a factory to make it look lived in. The fading, abrasions and softness weren’t on a moodboard.

Someone just wore the thing.

But there’s another reason I think we’re drawn to these things.

Nostalgia doesn’t regenerate.

Or at least, the same nostalgia doesn’t.

This jacket comes from a particular version of work that is slowly disappearing. Cotton uniforms, sawmills, warehouses, oversized company patches and clothes that accumulated their character simply because somebody went to work in them every day.

Nobody was trying to create provenance.

Provenance just happened.

Which makes me wonder what workwear will look like in another 30, 40 or 50 years.

Will our kids’ kids be digging through vintage stores looking for the things people are wearing to work today?

Will a battered Deliveroo jacket become the French chore coat of 2070?

Will somebody lose their mind over the perfect fade on an old Amazon warehouse gilet?

It sounds ridiculous, I’m actually in tears thinking about this.

But then again, imagine telling the guy who originally wore this Le Touze jacket that decades later some guy would buy it in Copenhagen, research the timber company printed across the pocket and then write about it on the internet.

He’d probably want his jacket back.

And perhaps that’s the thing about nostalgia.

We can’t decide what becomes nostalgic because nostalgia needs some kind of distance.

The person wearing this jacket probably didn’t think there was anything particularly romantic about it, in fact, he or she probably hated it. It was a uniform. Something to stop his actual clothes getting dirty. Something he threw on every morning without thinking about it.

I’m the one who added the romance.

Maybe nostalgia does regenerate, just never in a form we recognise while we’re living through it.

Perhaps every generation is unknowingly manufacturing the raw materials for the next generation’s nostalgia.

The things we consider mundane today might eventually become evidence of a world that no longer exists.

And now, however many decades later, I’ve paid money to cosplay someone else’s blue-collar lifestyle while writing about it on Substack.

Stolen valour.

I was clearing out my camera roll the other day when I stumbled across a photograph I’d completely forgotten about.

It was taken during a New York market week after a long day of showroom appointments. My good friend and former buying colleague Kevin is having a beer with Ichiro Nakatsu, the founder of OrSlow. I took the photo somewhere outside, I think near Gentry in Brooklyn. Looking at it now, it feels like a snapshot from another life, back when I still drank, when market weeks blurred into late afternoons spent debriefing over a beer before doing it all again the next morning.

Funny how a single photograph can transport you.

At the time, I thought I was on a journey towards something bigger, better brands, better fabrics, better clothes. Looking back, I realise I was simply taking the long way back to OrSlow.

For most people interested in menswear, the path is fairly predictable. You start somewhere accessible. For many of us, that was A.P.C. Then someone introduces you to Japanese denim and suddenly you’re learning about shuttle looms, selvedge IDs and ounce weights. Before long you’re deep into Fullcount, Warehouse & Co., Iron Heart, Samurai and every other brand that promises to be the last pair of jeans you’ll ever need.

I happily went down that rabbit hole, not just as someone buying clothes, but as someone fortunate enough to build a career around them.

Over the years I worked as a buyer and brand marketer, travelling between Paris, New York and Tokyo, meeting founders, buying collections and helping introduce brands to new audiences.

I wasn’t just observing menswear evolve; I was lucky enough to participate in it.

Every season taught me something. Every showroom sharpened my eye. Every conversation expanded my understanding of what good design could be. And every pair of jeans taught me something.

I’ve owned denim from Fullcount, Warehouse & Co., Visvim and, most recently, Herill. I still adore them. The mud-dyed and natural indigo pieces from Visvim are genuinely special and will stay in my wardrobe forever.

But here’s the funny thing: despite all of that, I’ve found myself reaching for OrSlow more than anything else.

What I appreciate now is precisely what I overlooked years ago. OrSlow has never felt aggressively “denim head.” It has never shouted the loudest in the room or asked you to prove your knowledge before you could appreciate it. To me, it always felt like the natural progression after A.P.C., before disappearing into the wonderfully obsessive world of Iron Heart, Samurai and the rest.

The irony is that after exploring all of that, I’ve ended up back here. Perhaps because OrSlow has never tried too hard to prove anything. It doesn’t ask you to become obsessed with denim. It simply asks you to wear it.

The Grandad fit feels like the physical expression of that philosophy. Straight through the thigh and leg, relaxed enough for warmer days but never so oversized that I disappear inside them. At 165cm, proportions matter. Too slim and I feel restricted; too wide and I start looking like a cuboid. The Grandad somehow sits perfectly in between.

Oddly, I feel a little taller every time I wear them. Have you ever seen a tall short person? That’s me in a pair of Grandads.

Then there are the details that quietly earn your appreciation over time, the cinch back, the belt loops, the pocket proportions, the subtle flash of selvedge when the cuff turns over. Nothing demands your attention. Everything simply works.

I recently picked up the rinsed pair and they’ve barely left my body, despite sharing wardrobe space with jeans that many people would consider more prestigious. That made me stop and ask myself why.

For years I thought the journey through menswear was about climbing, the next brand, the rarer fabric, the more obscure reference, the more expensive purchase, as though taste was something you levelled up.

Now I’m not so sure.

Perhaps real taste isn’t about constantly moving forward. Perhaps it’s about recognising when you’ve arrived.

Every brand taught me something. OrSlow taught me where I wanted to stay.

That has become a much bigger lesson than denim. It’s made me question my wardrobe as a whole.

Maybe the goal was never to build a collection of exceptional clothes. Maybe it was to discover the handful of pieces that quietly become the foundation of everything else, the pieces you stop thinking about because they simply feel right.

Lately I’ve found myself wondering what would happen if I stripped my wardrobe back and rebuilt it around those foundations, not around the rarest pieces, not around the most expensive pieces, but around the ones that have quietly earned their place.

I’m not quite ready to do that. But the fact that I’m asking the question probably tells me I’ve arrived.

I’ve wanted to write about my undying love for Jacques Marie Mage for a minute now, but I’ve struggled to find the words.

Or perhaps I just hadn’t thought deeply enough about why I keep buying them, which requires slightly more brain power than simply admitting that I think they look great.

So, where do I start?

I first discovered Jacques Marie Mage in 2022. That year, I somehow ended up buying two pairs.

The first was the Hopper in Taos, numbered 340 of 400.

They remain one of the most prized pairs in my collection. They are also among the more out-there. The shape is bold, the frame is substantial and the gold-plated hinges and trims make the whole thing feel slightly excessive.

I don’t pull them out too often.

They are my equivalent of a Birkin. Something I absolutely wanted, probably couldn’t comfortably justify at the time and still found a way to buy anyway.

I seem to remember getting an assist from a friend at Mr Porter because the price was steep and my pockets were considerably less so. But I had to have them.

For a while, I had been without a proper pair of sunglasses. I had looked around, tried a few things and found nothing that really captivated me. Then I saw the Hopper.

That was it.

They had this unmistakable 1960s flair, which makes sense given that the frame takes its name and inspiration from Dennis Hopper. They felt cinematic without looking like costume. Familiar, but not obvious.

Some people complain that Jacques Marie Mage frames are heavy. That they become a little clammy on the dome after a long day.

Strangely, that is part of what I love about them.

Sometimes, I need an object to feel like it weighs its value. Not because weight automatically means quality, but because there is something reassuring about an object that makes its presence known. You pick up a pair of JMMs and immediately understand that they are not trying to disappear.

They feel considered.

My second purchase was the Dealan.

Man, do I love the Dealan.

It is perhaps the closest thing Jacques Marie Mage has to the perfect everyday frame. A familiar alternative to the Wayfarer, but with a slightly sharper, almost cat-eye expression. Enough personality to feel different without becoming difficult to wear.

For a while, they were my daily pair.

Then, one morning, I lost them while cycling to work.

I think I was reaching for my phone and somehow managed to pull the glasses case out of my pocket at the same time. A fellow cyclist started shouting something to me in Danish, presumably to tell me that I had dropped something, but I was too far inside my own head to realise what was happening.

And that was that.

By the time I understood, the Dealans were gone.

I was so annoyed that I impulsively bought another pair almost immediately. Not my most sensible financial decision, but grief works in mysterious ways.

An expensive month, that one.

Next came the Initials, a more aggressive cat-eye silhouette that looks fast and fashionable the moment I put it on.

They are another pair that could easily become a daily. I am not entirely convinced that they suit my face, but I wear them regardless because I think they are incredibly cool. Sometimes that is enough.

The colour also makes them surprisingly easy to combine with the rest of my wardrobe. They have presence, but they do not necessarily take over an outfit.

Then came the Whiskeyclone.

Now, these are great.

But the colour is a lot.

They are probably the wildest pair in my collection and remain almost brand new because they barely make it beyond the front door. I love them, but they scream, “Hey, look at me.”

And, honestly, I’m not really that guy.

I tend to prefer understated clothes. Pieces that appear relatively simple from a distance and slowly reveal themselves upon closer inspection. The cut is slightly unusual. The fabric is more considered. The construction contains details that only the wearer, or another obsessive, might recognise.

The Whiskeyclone does not wait for close inspection.

It announces itself.

The silhouette is amazing, though. A friend of mine owns the same frame in black and every time I see him wearing them, I wonder whether I simply chose the wrong colour. His pair looks incredible. Mine looks like it wants its own dressing room.

Last but not least are my optics.

I recently picked up the Godard as my everyday prescription frame. They are great for daily wear, although after a long day in front of a computer screen, their weight begins to make itself known.

Perhaps there is a little style over substance involved here.

That did not stop me from going for every available option. Prescription lenses, blue-light filtering and a blended graduation across the lenses. The full works.

Most importantly, they make me look smart.

Or at least smarter.

None of this is sponsored. I have had to fork out for every pair myself, which is perhaps the clearest indication of how strongly I feel about them.

I have tried DITA, Matsuda, Native Sons and Eyevan. All very good brands in their own right, but none of them has hit me in quite the same way.

There is something about Jacques Marie Mage that feels complete.

The proportions, the manufacturing, the materials, the hardware, the packaging and the limited production numbers all work together to create an object that feels special before you have even put it on.

But I also think some of the brand’s appeal comes from the people who wear it.

Jacques Marie Mage has become a frame of choice for actors, musicians, designers and the sort of culturally influential people whose taste is constantly being watched. That inevitably adds another layer to the product.

There is aspiration attached to it.

You are not only buying Japanese manufacturing, sculptural acetate and intricate hardware. You are buying into a particular image of discernment. The suggestion that you know what the best version of something looks like, and are willing to pay for it.

Perhaps that is the ultimate luxury product.

Something that satisfies the nerd through its construction while satisfying the ego through its cultural status.

The interesting thing, though, is that despite the investment and the expectation of perfection, none of my pairs has remained perfect.

They have developed scratches and blemishes. The gold-foil text inside the temples has begun to fade. The surfaces carry small signs of being handled, folded, opened, dropped into bags and worn through ordinary life.

At first, that can feel slightly painful. These are expensive objects, after all.

But over time, I have started to appreciate it.

Each pair is developing its own patina. They are becoming less like pristine luxury items and more like personal possessions. The scratches are evidence that they have left the house. The faded lettering marks the hours they have spent on my face.

Even the Dealans I lost have become part of the story.

And you already know I’m a sucker for a story.

Perhaps this is where my love for Jacques Marie Mage really sits. Not only in their scarcity, their craftsmanship or the people photographed wearing them, but in the way something so highly finished eventually becomes yours.

Luxury often sells us the fantasy of perfection. But ownership begins when that perfection starts to break down.

So, is collecting Jacques Marie Mage about status?

Probably, at least a little.

It would be dishonest to pretend that the name, the limited numbers and the cultural associations have nothing to do with the attraction.

But I also think there is something deeply private about appreciating an object that has been made with this much intention. Something you notice every time you pick it up, even when nobody else is looking closely enough to care.

Maybe the answer lies somewhere between the two.

An object can be aspirational and personal. It can carry status while still bringing genuine pleasure. It can be admired by others while ultimately being something you bought for yourself.

The question is whether you would still love it without the name stamped inside.

With Jacques Marie Mage, I think I would.

Although the name certainly helps.

Some were considered. Some were impulsive. One was added to a basket because I needed to reach the free delivery threshold.

Not exactly the beginning of a great love story.

There are caps here tied to places, friendships, former jobs and brief moments of online excitement. There is even one from a band called The Greenies, despite the fact that I do not know who The Greenies are.

The reasons we buy things are rarely the reasons we keep them.

The Skirt Chronicles

This is probably the cap with the most complete story attached to it.

In a past life, when I worked as a buyer, I had the honour of stocking The Skirt Chronicles, alongside this limited cap. What began as a business transaction became something considerably more meaningful: a lifelong friendship with the publication’s founders, Sofia, Haydée and Sarah.

That is the kind of history no product description could ever contain.

The cap now represents far more than the publication printed across its front. It takes me back to a particular period in my career, but it also reminds me that the most valuable outcome of working in fashion was rarely the object itself. It was the people encountered through it.

The clothes and publications move on. The friendships remain.

VEN SPACE Cap

This was the first thing I ever bought from VEN Space in New York.

I remember the purchase partly because of the cap, but mostly because it marked my first visit to the shop. There is something special about the first object you bring home from a place that resonates with you. It becomes proof that you were there, but also a way of carrying a small piece of that world back into your own.

The embroidery is barely visible against the washed black cotton. A dark flower that reveals itself slowly rather than announcing its presence.

It is probably one of the quieter caps in my collection, but it carries a very specific memory of New York.

The Greenies Tour

I found this one on Etsy.

I do not know who The Greenies are. I have never seen them perform. I am not even certain whether I would like their music.

But I liked the cap.

There is something wonderfully dishonest about wearing old tour merchandise for a band you know nothing about. Or perhaps it is more honest than buying merchandise from a band you have only just started listening to. I was not trying to prove anything. I simply liked the black cotton, the orange embroidery and the imagined history of it.

It is a souvenir from someone else’s memory.

Now, through wearing it, it has started collecting mine.

GR

Another Etsy find.

I still do not entirely know what the initials stand for, which may be part of why I like it. There is enough information to suggest a story but not enough to explain it. The red embroidery feels collegiate, sporting or perhaps connected to some obscure local organisation.

It could mean almost anything.

That ambiguity allows it to sit naturally within my wardrobe. I am not representing a team, institution or place. I am responding to the proportions, the typography and the slightly faded grey cotton.

Sometimes that is enough.

Acid

The Acid cap is by IDEA in London.

It is a simple word, embroidered in yellow against olive cotton, but it carries a strange amount of energy. Acid could refer to music, chemicals, colour, counterculture or simply a certain state of mind.

I suspect the appeal is precisely that it never fully explains itself.

It is direct without being obvious. A small provocation sitting above the face.

South2 West8

The South2 West8 cap was purchased because I needed to reach the free delivery threshold.

There is no more dignified version of that story.

I had placed an order, noticed how close I was to qualifying for free shipping and convinced myself that adding another item was somehow the financially responsible decision.

This is the logic of online shopping.

What is funny is that the incidental purchase often becomes the thing you use most. The cap was not the reason for the order, but it has outlived whatever calculation led me to add it.

A decision made to avoid paying for delivery became part of the permanent collection.

The Otto caps

The Otto caps were hype purchases.

There is no point pretending otherwise.

I saw them circulating, liked the oversized embroidery and wanted in. They felt like objects from a very particular menswear moment, when the right cap could appear repeatedly across Instagram until resistance started to feel pointless.

The logos are much louder than those on most of my caps, particularly in yellow, green and brown. Yet the washed cotton and soft, shallow shape bring them back into familiar territory.

Perhaps that is how hype enters a wardrobe without completely disrupting it. The object feels new, but some part of it already conforms to what you like.

I bought them because they were having a moment.

I kept them because, underneath the noise, they fit.

A collection without a plan

None of these caps were bought with the intention of forming a collection.

There was no system. No checklist. No attempt to secure every colour or variation. They simply accumulated through work, travel, friendship, curiosity, convenience and the occasional lapse in judgement.

Yet when placed together, a pattern appears.

Washed cotton. Soft crowns. Muted colours. Embroidery that is either restrained or just strange enough to hold my attention. Caps that look better slightly collapsed than perfectly structured.

Perhaps a collection is simply what remains after enough individual decisions begin to resemble a point of view.

The memories are different. The reasons for buying them are different. But somehow they all look as though they belong to the same person.

For all the attention given to Japanese denim, knitwear and military reproduction, canvas shoes remain one of the country’s most under appreciated manufacturing traditions.

Photo via Moonstar

Many of the brands we obsess over today are made in Kurume, a city in Fukuoka Prefecture on the island of Kyushu. Since the late nineteenth century, Kurume has been associated with rubber production and would eventually become one of Japan’s centres for vulcanised footwear manufacturing.

Photo via Moonstar

Unlike modern sneaker production, which relies heavily on automation, many of these shoes are still made using a process where the canvas upper and rubber sole are bonded together through heat and pressure before being slowly cured in vulcanisation ovens.

It’s labour intensive. Slow. Expensive.

The kind of process most industries spend decades trying to eliminate.

Yet that’s precisely what gives these shoes their appeal.

In an era of optimisation, they feel wonderfully unoptimised. The production methods haven’t survived because they’re efficient. They’ve survived because the shoes they produce still feel different.

Softer. More flexible. More alive.

Perhaps that’s why brands such as Anatomica, Moonstar, Doek and Asahi have developed almost cult-like followings amongst menswear obsessives. They’re not reinventing the canvas shoe. They’re preserving a way of making them that most of the industry left behind decades ago.

Asahi: The One I’d Buy Again

If I could only keep one pair, it’d be the Asahi.

Not because it’s the most famous. Not because it’s the most expensive. And certainly not because it has the strongest story.

It simply gets the proportions right.

For me, that’s what separates a good canvas shoe from a great one. The silhouette needs to disappear into an outfit while still feeling intentional. Too round and it starts to look juvenile. Too narrow and it begins drifting into fashion territory.

The Asahi sits perfectly between the two.

Photo not my own (found on Pinterest)

The toe shape is balanced, the opening sits neatly below the ankle, and the foxing rises just enough around the upper to give the shoe some visual weight. It’s one of those rare designs where nothing feels overthought.

The canvas is another pleasant surprise. Firm enough to hold its shape but breathable enough for long summer days. Unlike heavier canvas shoes that can feel clammy once temperatures climb, these remain remarkably comfortable.

What really won me over, however, was the vulcanisation. The rubber rises slightly higher around the forefoot than some of its competitors, helping the shoe maintain its shape over time. It’s a small detail, but one that’s immediately noticeable when comparing them side by side.

As for sizing, ignore the internet.

“Size down” means absolutely nothing.

Follow the centimetre measurement and buy accordingly. I took the same CM size I wear in Nike and the fit was spot on.

After trying everything else in this brain dump, I kept coming back to the Asahi.

Sometimes the winner isn’t the loudest option.

It’s the one that quietly gets everything right.

WAKOUWA by Anatomica: The Cult Classic

If Asahi is the rational choice, WAKOUWA is the romantic one.

For many menswear enthusiasts, this is where the rabbit hole begins.

Designed under the Anatomica umbrella and inspired by vintage American deck shoes, the WAKOUWA has become something of a modern classic. Mention Japanese canvas footwear and chances are this is the shoe most people picture.

And for good reason.

If Asahi is the rational choice, WAKOUWA is the romantic one.

The proportions are elegant. Longer. Narrower. More refined than the others featured here. On the right foot they look exceptional, particularly with khakis, fatigues, shorts or washed denim.

On my own feet, however, the relationship is slightly more complicated.

I have what I’d describe as a foot-shaped foot, like that in cartoons. Not particularly narrow, not especially sculpted around the ankle and through the arch. As a result, the elongated silhouette occasionally feels more flattering in theory than reality. There’s a fine line between streamlined and canoe-like.

That said, I still wear these constantly.

The upper materials are excellent, the construction is beautifully executed and the overall shape feels distinctly different from anything else in the category.

My only criticism lies in the vulcanisation. Because the foxing sits lower around the ball of the foot, the rubber outsole tends to open up more noticeably with wear at the stress points. Some people will call that character. Others might call it a flaw. Some might just say it’s a you thing, Kevin.

Personally, I’ve made peace with it.

Artwork by Dick Carroll

The WAKOUWA remains one of the defining shoes of the category and deserves every bit of its reputation.

Just don’t assume it’s automatically the best choice for your foot.

Doek Oxford: The Designer’s Choice

I bought my first pair of Doeks from Beige in Paris.

Even before putting them on, they felt different.

Where Asahi and WAKOUWA lean towards classic deck-shoe territory, the Doek feels more considered. More rounded. Less concerned with nostalgia and more focused on execution.

The first thing you notice is the canvas. It’s dense. Exceptionally dense.

The tightly woven fabric gives the shoe a surprising amount of structure and weather resistance. Living in Copenhagen, that’s not a small thing. I’ve walked through enough puddles to appreciate footwear that can handle an unexpected downpour.

Visually, the Doek occupies an interesting space. The toe is slightly sharper, the profile slightly cleaner, and the contrasting tape around the upper creates just enough distinction without becoming decorative.

The colours are excellent too. Richer and deeper than many competitors.

Sizing, however, runs a touch smaller than the others despite sharing similar centimetre measurements on paper. Not enough to size up, but enough to notice.

If Asahi is the shoe I’d recommend to most people and WAKOUWA is the cult favourite, Doek is probably the one a designer would choose.

Thoughtful, understated and quietly confident.

The only reason it lands behind the others for me is personal preference.

Not performance.

Moonstar: For Those Who Want Something Else

Now, I should probably start by saying this isn’t really a deck shoe.

At least not in the same way the Asahi, WAKOUWA and Doek are.

If anything, I’d classify this particular Moonstar as a gym trainer. And perhaps that’s precisely why it deserves a place here.

Because not everyone wants a deck shoe.

Image via Pinterest

Some people want something a little tougher. A little less refined. A little more anonymous.

Like many of the shoes featured in this article, Moonstar is made in Kurume, Japan’s spiritual home of vulcanised footwear. But where the others lean into Ivy style, deck shoe traditions and classic Americana, the Moonstar feels rooted in military and workwear references.

The upper is noticeably softer than the Doek and Asahi. Less structured, more forgiving and comfortable from the first wear. The colours are equally understated, often disappearing into an outfit rather than becoming the focal point.

There’s something refreshing about that.

Photo via Front General Store

Not every shoe needs to announce itself.

Sizing is perhaps the most generous of the bunch. Despite sharing the same centimetre sizing as the others, I’d comfortably describe it as fitting around half a size larger. Nothing dramatic, but enough that you’ll notice when tightening the laces.

In fact, the eyelets pull together so closely that it occasionally looks like your feet have signed up for a Victorian waist-training programme.

Oddly enough, that’s part of its charm.

What I appreciate most about the Moonstar is its honesty. It isn’t trying to be the most beautiful shoe here. It isn’t chasing perfection or obsessing over proportions.

Photo via Moonstar

It’s simply a well-made canvas shoe that gets out of the way and lets the rest of your outfit do the talking.

And for some people, that’ll make it the best shoe in this entire article.

If the Asahi is my recommendation for someone looking for the perfect Japanese deck shoe, the Moonstar is my recommendation for someone who wants all of the craftsmanship and none of the nautical associations.

Not in any deliberate way. I haven’t been researching it, collecting it, or consciously seeking it out. In fact, if I look through my wardrobe, there’s very little red to be found. A few details here and there. Some accents. One fuchsia cardigan, which isn’t really red at all. And yet, over the past few weeks, as spring has slowly given way to summer, red seems to have appeared everywhere.

A faded sweatshirt worn with washed denim. A red knit thrown over the shoulders on an evening walk. A baseball cap catching the afternoon sun. A flash of colour on a cyclist waiting at a traffic light. Once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop seeing it. Red is a strange colour. It carries more meaning than almost any other colour in our lives.

In much of Asia, it represents prosperity, joy, and good fortune. It’s worn during celebrations and gifted during moments of significance. In the West, it is the colour of romance, passion, and desire. It is equally the colour of stop signs, warnings, danger, and urgency. It can signal love. It can signal authority. It can signal rebellion.Sometimes all at once. Perhaps that’s why it feels so powerful when it appears in clothing. Unlike navy, grey, olive, or beige, red rarely plays a supporting role. It asks to be noticed.

But what I’ve come to appreciate is that red also demands restraint. A red sweatshirt, a pair of faded jeans, and good shoes. That’s often enough. The colour does the work. The outfit doesn’t need additional layers of complexity because the red already provides energy, contrast, and character. For the last decade, much of menswear has been defined by subtlety. Earth tones. Washed neutrals. Shades that reward attention. The message was simple: look closer. Red feels like a gentle rejection of that idea. Not because it is loud, but because it is confident. It doesn’t require explanation.

It simply exists.

What I find most interesting, however, is how beautifully red ages. A black garment eventually becomes grey. A navy garment becomes lighter blue. But red evolves. Sunlight softens it. Time washes it out. What was once bright and vibrant becomes faded, complex, and impossible to replicate. Think of an old Champion sweatshirt hanging in a vintage shop. It is no longer one shade of red. It is dozens. Years of wear made visible. Perhaps that’s what I find myself drawn to.

Not red as a trend. Not red as a statement. But red as a colour that seems to improve with time. A colour that grows more interesting the longer it exists. And maybe that’s why I keep noticing it.

In a world increasingly obsessed with the new, red reminds me of something else.

Some things become more beautiful because they age.

For nearly a century, its formula has remained largely unchanged: a low-profile silhouette, moccasin construction, non-marking rubber sole and a close association with life on and around the water.

That’s part of its appeal.

Unlike many categories within menswear, the deck shoe has never needed reinvention. The fundamentals were established long ago and, for the most part, they’ve endured.

Which is precisely why it’s so difficult to make one that feels genuinely interesting.

Most brands either reproduce the classics faithfully or push the silhouette so far that it loses the qualities that made it appealing in the first place.

The BOTO River Lace occupies an interesting middle ground.

It doesn’t attempt to reinvent the deck shoe. Instead, it subtly reinterprets it.

And in doing so, it raises a question I don’t find myself asking very often anymore:

What makes a new footwear brand worth paying attention to?

Starting a footwear brand today is extraordinarily difficult.

Consumers gravitate towards established names with decades of heritage behind them. As a result, many newcomers either imitate heritage products or chase novelty for novelty’s sake. Few manage to establish a visual language that feels distinctly their own.

The River Lace suggests BOTO may be attempting something different.

At first glance, the shoe occupies familiar territory. A leather upper. Moccasin construction. Rubber deck sole. Nothing particularly radical.

Yet after spending time with it, I found myself increasingly drawn to its point of view.

When I first opened the box, the shape immediately caught my attention. It’s squarer than I would normally gravitate towards. If I’m honest, I wasn’t entirely convinced at first. But that’s often the case when something challenges your assumptions about what a familiar product should look like.

The first thing that struck me was the shape.

It’s noticeably squarer than the silhouettes I would normally gravitate towards. But as the day went on, I realised the shape is precisely what gives the shoe its identity.

The generous toe box creates a natural silhouette while providing an exceptional amount of room for the foot. For anyone with wider feet, or anyone who has spent summer squeezing into narrow loafers, the difference is immediately noticeable.

That sense of ease carries through the rest of the design.

The fully unlined leather construction, lightweight build and memory foam heel insert combine to create the sort of shoe you forget you’re wearing. Putting them on feels closer to slipping into a pair of slippers than a traditionally structured leather shoe.

As someone with relatively wide, flat feet, this was perhaps the biggest surprise. The extra room in the toe box gives your feet space to breathe and move naturally. During the warmer months, when your feet inevitably swell after a long day walking around the city, that comfort becomes even more noticeable.

What’s perhaps most interesting is that BOTO has arrived at this point through a category that many people think they already understand.

The deck shoe has existed for nearly a century.

Its origins are usually traced back to Paul Sperry, who in 1935 developed a rubber sole with siped grooves after observing his dog maintain traction on icy surfaces. What began as functional sailing equipment eventually became a cornerstone of American prep style and leisurewear. Nearly every deck shoe produced today still owes something to that original design language.

Which is precisely why creating a distinctive version is so difficult.

Most brands either reproduce the classic formula faithfully or make changes that feel forced.

The River Lace manages to feel familiar while still possessing a recognisable identity of its own.

Examining the shoe closely reveals a high level of execution throughout.

The stitching is remarkably clean. The edging is neatly finished. The cuts are precise. There are no loose threads, no obvious shortcuts and no signs of rushed production.

What impressed me most was the consistency.

Often you’ll find excellent materials paired with average finishing, or strong design paired with compromises elsewhere.

Here, the quality feels remarkably balanced throughout the product.

The longer I spent with the River Lace, the more difficult it became to find obvious shortcomings. In fact, I found myself actively looking for them. That’s usually where compromises reveal themselves. Yet every time I examined another detail, from the stitching to the finishing, I came away with the same impression: this is a remarkably well-executed product.

One detail I particularly appreciated was the outsole.

Many contemporary footwear brands begin with existing components sourced directly from factory catalogues. There is nothing inherently wrong with that approach, but it can leave products feeling assembled rather than designed.

BOTO hasn’t gone as far as developing a completely bespoke sole unit in the way some established brands do. Creating a fully custom outsole is expensive, particularly for a young independent company.

But I still appreciated the effort here.

The sole has been given a squarer profile that complements the shape of the upper, and the BOTO branding is integrated into the design rather than simply added as an afterthought.

They could easily have selected a standard off-the-shelf sole and left it at that.

Instead, there are small adjustments that help the shoe feel more considered and more cohesive.

For me, that’s often where the difference lies between a product and a point of view.

What’s particularly interesting about the River Lace is that it feels designed for a very specific type of customer.

Not in the traditional marketing sense, but in the way certain products seem to instinctively understand the people who will appreciate them.

You know the type.

The person who has gradually traded logos for fabrics. Who notices a dropped shoulder, a fuller trouser or the difference between ordinary cotton and sea island cotton. The sort of customer who buys fewer things than they once did, but thinks about each purchase far more carefully.

They’re often drawn to brands like OrSlow, COMOLI, Auralee or Margaret Howell. Not because those names signal status, but because they offer familiarity viewed through a slightly different lens.

That’s what the River Lace reminds me of.

It doesn’t scream for attention.

It rewards observation.

The shape is different, but only just. The construction is familiar, but refined. The details reveal themselves gradually rather than all at once.

In many ways, it feels like a shoe for someone who already understands the fundamentals and is now looking for products with a distinct point of view rather than a loud one.

Part of that story can also be found in where the shoe is made.

Like many menswear enthusiasts, I’ve long held a fascination with footwear produced in Northampton, Japan and the United States. Those places carry decades of mythology and craftsmanship.

Portugal deserves to be spoken about in the same conversation.

Over the past several decades, the country has quietly become one of the most important footwear manufacturing centres in the world. While Northampton became synonymous with Goodyear-welted shoemaking and Japan earned a reputation for obsessive attention to detail, Portugal developed deep expertise in leatherworking, moccasin construction and hand-finishing techniques.

Today, many contemporary and luxury brands rely on Portuguese factories not because they are cheaper, but because they are exceptionally good at what they do.

I’ll admit that I have often been a sucker for footwear made in Northampton, Italy or the United States. Those places carry a certain romance and credibility that many enthusiasts, myself included, have long gravitated towards. The River Lace made me think differently about Portugal.

Not because Portugal has suddenly arrived as a footwear nation. Quite the opposite. Portugal has been producing exceptional footwear for decades. The difference is that I found myself paying closer attention.

The River Lace reflects that tradition.

Not because it is made in Portugal, but because it demonstrates the level of care and skill that Portugal’s footwear industry has spent generations refining.

Ultimately, what I admire most about the River Lace is not a specific material, detail or feature.

It’s the ambition behind it.

It would have been easy to make another deck shoe.

Instead, BOTO has created something that feels familiar enough to wear immediately, yet distinct enough to warrant attention.

And perhaps that’s the answer to the question I started with.

The brands worth caring about aren’t necessarily the ones that reinvent categories.

They’re the ones that understand them deeply enough to contribute something meaningful to the conversation.

For a young footwear brand, that’s a difficult balance to achieve.

The River Lace manages it remarkably well.

It reframed something I’ve been sensing for a while. The current return to nostalgia, across fashion, music, and technology, does not feel sentimental. It feels alert. Almost defensive. As if we are collectively pausing to take stock of what progress has quietly eroded.

This is not about rejecting the future. It’s about questioning what we are trading away in the name of efficiency, scale, and speed.

The sociologist Hartmut Rosa describes modern life as defined by acceleration: faster cycles of production, faster consumption, faster communication. The problem is not speed itself, but what happens when speed becomes the default setting for everything.

When everything moves quickly, fewer things land deeply.

Nostalgia begins to surface not because the past was perfect, but because the present often feels thin. Over-optimised. Saturated. Lacking texture. In that sense, nostalgia is not a longing. It’s a diagnostic. A way of sensing where meaning has been compressed or stripped out.

Think about how we used to engage with music.

Buying a CD meant commitment. Curating a playlist took time. Burning a disc required effort. Writing the track list by hand was part of the ritual. Music travelled slowly, socially. It was passed around, traded, and borrowed. You lived with albums, not just songs.

This isn’t about arguing that CDs were better than streaming. It’s about recognising that friction once acted as a filter. The effort created attachment.

Writers like Cal Newport have explored how convenience can quietly hollow out experiences. When everything is instantly available, attention becomes shallow by default. Discovery loses weight. Listening becomes passive.

What I miss isn’t the format. It’s the intention.

Fujiwara of BerBerJin via Commune article here

Fashion is experiencing a similar correction.

Vintage isn’t having a moment because it’s old. It’s resonating because it carries proof of something we rarely see now: craft, restraint, and durability. Whether it be furniture or garments, these productions come from a time when not everything was designed for infinite replication.

Design historian Glenn Adamson frames craft as a form of resistance to industrial scale. Craft values time. Labour. Imperfection. The visible marks of making.

Vintage doesn’t just signal taste. It signals survival.

In a world of endless newness, using something that has endured becomes quietly radical.

We are surrounded by choice. Products, content, trends. More than any one person could reasonably process.

And yet, uniqueness has not disappeared. It has simply moved.

Scarcity no longer lives in access. It lives in discernment.

To be distinctive now is not to own more, but to choose better. To repeat. To repair. To return to the same things over time. Cultural thinkers like Douglas Rushkoff have argued that opting out of constant consumption is one of the few remaining expressions of agency.

In that context, nostalgia becomes a tool. A way of editing the present by asking what is worth keeping.

George Nakashima

Nostalgia, at its best, is not about going backwards. It is about remembering what mattered before it disappeared entirely.

It helps us notice the value of slowness, effort, and authorship in a world optimised for speed. It invites us to reintroduce friction where everything has become frictionless.

Not everything from the past deserves saving. But some things do.

And perhaps nostalgia is simply the instinct that helps us tell the difference.

What do you think?

This is a place to pay attention.

This is a place to pay attention. To the objects I live with, the rooms I’m drawn to, the art and music that linger, and the moments in between that quietly shape taste and perspective. Nothing here is written to keep up. It’s written to slow down.

Just so you know, this isn’t a work diary. It’s a personal one, shaped by lived experience, curiosity, and a long-standing respect for craft, restraint, and imagination.

Some entries will be short. Others may take time. Not everything needs explaining. If something appears here, it’s because it earned its place.

Read it like a conversation between yourself and a stranger. You don’t need to know their whole story to recognise a shared way of seeing.