When Outkast named their 1996 masterpiece ATLiens, they were broadcasting to the rest of the world the most important fact about Atlanta, Georgia: Its people and culture operate so far outside normal laws and standards that they might as well be from another planet. It's the last true thriving American subculture. A place of dualisms, both Southern and progressive. In Atlanta, the strip club and church aren't warring ideas; they're just two stops on a routine Sunday. (Also: Both prefer cash.)
It's also become, in recent years, America's number one exporter of pop culture, which is no accident. While the city has long been famous for its music—which can be punk or trunk-rattling or soulful or a mix of all of the above—style permeates everything. And everyone. From green locs to finger waves to military-approved side parts (see: a young Jimmy Carter), every phylum of personal style is represented in the A. Which is why we wanted to showcase the city and all its glorious energy. So we flew down with some of fall/winter's most beautiful clothes with the aim of dressing some of the coolest people on earth. And we also called up the fashion savant and native son Derek Watkins, a.k.a. Fonzworth Bentley, to write a blazing incantation that takes you on a first-person intergalactic ride through the mecca's most stylish corridors. No space ship necessary. —Mark Anthony Green
From left: Kemondre Brown, 25, Fashion designer; and Imani Dixon, 26, Dancer and creative
Universally at midnight, all across Atlanta, the Strafe classic jam played. It didn't matter if you were in your 40s at Mr. V's Figure 8 or in your teens at Shyran's Showcase. This meant the party was about to begin and you were to report to the dance floor.
The tempo was one where you could move in your clothes. It's not so fast that you have to sweat (I mean, you gon' sweat, but you know what I mean), but the perfect tempo to get acquainted with the drape of one's ensemble. If your shirt is tucked—your Bocci silk shirt and matching shorts, a fresh pair of K-Swiss with the gold package, white socks with the ball in the back, and wood-frame round gold Cartier glasses—this is the opportunity to adjust your fit so you can still take advantage of everything being in place while doing the Bartman seen on Atlanta Jams. Our very own Soul Train. Kids from all over the city would come in their freshest outfits and dance.
But the real fashion show was the day before at Lenox Square mall, which to this day may be the best fashion show I've ever attended (and I've been to many of them). The feeling of getting off the MARTA train and playing Frogger across East Paces Ferry and Lenox Road to finally walk into the food court and the smell of Cinnabon invokes Alexander Technique—and you find your stride while snatching up samples of Chick-fil-A nuggets and gesturing a talk-to-the-hand for subpar amuse-bouche wannabes. As you ascend the first escalator, you begin to question the country-club-influenced white polo buttoned up to the top, duck-head khakis with razor-blade creases, an O-ring repp-stripe ribbon belt, blue Sebagos, and one too many sprays of Obsession cologne. And now the red St. Louis Cardinals Starter suit and matching red Filas skrate from Walter's seem to be summoning you. On the contrary, today I'm fastidiously casual, thus donning an Alexander Julian pastel striped button-up long-sleeve rolled so you can see my clear Swatch watch on one arm and my white braided cotton nautical bracelet on the other. Canary yellow Polo chinos, kelly green Polo socks, and tan Timberland boat shoes with the thick white soles.
But all that is behind you now as you're nearly at the top of the second escalator and the runway of all runways now begins. The goal is clear.… I've saved enough money to purchase the esteemed Gucci belt, but what do you know about asking for a larger bag so you can lap the mall for the next umpteen hours? For the bag is now more important than the belt—you see, size does matter. The motivation, you may ask? The Gazelles and Clydesdales better known as the Jennifers, the Nikkis, Tashas, and Japonikas. Derek Watkins is never caught slippin', Cool Outrageous Lovers of Uniquely Raw Style is the punctuation.
You see, by this time I had nurtured a relationship at the Polo store. Archie Smith, who started in security, was now a sales associate in the men's shop and would become my plug. I started at the cash wrap through Christmas and started on the floor in Polo Sport in January. After proving myself in sales, I was promoted to the Men's Store, which gave me access to tailored clothing and arguably the best men's sales team in the league. It would be disrespectful to say we had a starting five—we had six starters and there was no bench. Randall Cartwright was Michael Jordan. Leonard Gresham and his unparalleled clothing knowledge was Magic. A recruit from the New Orleans store, Arthur Simon, with his center part and perfectly laid-down 1930s coiffure, was our Doc Rivers. And Benjamin Harris, our men's manager, was our small forward—assists when you needed but could put numbers on the board.
Before the city's blood pressure gets too hot, let me assure you I did not forget a thing. I saved the icing for just that. You see, Organized Noize (Ray Murray: YODA, Rico Wade, and Sleepy Brown) were more than a label. They represented the phoenix from which Atlanta is named rising from the Dungeon. (A heartwarming fun fact about the trio: They still write and produce as a collective to this day.) The culture that runs through the veins here prepared me for what was next, the Rhinelander mansion flagship store on Madison Avenue in the concrete jungle of New York City. This was the final training ground that opened a new world of opportunities for me, because this was the apex of culture and lifestyle wrapped in a retail experience second to none. I was ready, and it was the organized noise of all of this that groomed me. And with that I tip my lowercase Bob Horner Atlanta Braves baseball cap. Blaaaat!
