Lately, I’ve been reading a lot about Nudie Cohn,
the late rhinestoner to the stars. Even though things like sewing and
embroidering don’t seem all that flashy, even the most the mundane
aspects of Nudie’s life are far more exciting than the highest points of
mine. I mean come on, his sewing machine lives in the Country Music Hall of Fame.
As a burlesque costumer, fringemaker to Roy Rodgers and Dale Evans,
lookmaker to the stars (Elvis’ gold lamé suit and Robert Redford’s
“Electric Horseman” get-up were Nudie creations), and a designer of
gaudy Pontiac Bonnevilles, Nudie cemented his place in fashion and music
history with rhinestones and glitter. And rightly so — his creations
were pretty spectacular. Just do a Google image search. Go ahead, I’ll
wait.
I was talking with a friend the other day, and the subject of Nudie’s
tuxedos came up, because his work was sitting all glittery in the
forefront of my mind and I wanted to know — if my friend could get a
Nudie suit, what would it look like? Which images would be eternally
emblazoned? My friend was pretty secure in his design choice – first of
all, there would be a scorpion, because he is Scorpio, and also a
guitar, because that’s what he plays. Or perhaps a scorpion playing
guitar. It was so cut and dry — easy-peasy. In fact, I was a bit
jealous that he had such a quick answer, because the question that had
sat, nascent in the back of my head for days was, what would I put on my
tuxedo?
Following my friend’s logic, because I am a Virgo, should I get a
virgin on my jacket? It would have to be a pretty identifiable virgin.
The Jonas Brothers, maybe? Or Madonna, circa 1984? She was like a
virgin. Or would I choose to immortalize something that I really
enjoy, even though it may not have Deep Sentimental Value? I love
toasters, and I really like vintage chicken illustrations, is that
enough to warrant bedazzled immortality?
The real question for me seems to be: when it comes to wearing one’s
heart on their sleeve, how far do you go? Do things have to be so
infused with meaning that they can’t simply exist for their own sake? If
I wanted to get a 42-scoop ice cream cone on my sleeves, would I be
taken to task to list every flavor and all the reasons I opted to make
the green one pistachio and not mint? Would I get catcalls about it from
pretty much every jerk on the street? The answer to all of these
questions is a resigned, “probably, yeah.”
In the blink of an eye I had talked myself into and out of a great
suit — a charcoal gray number emblazoned on the back with a flaming
toaster shooting toast into a heart-shaped frame wherein Madonna gyrated
in front of the Jonas Brothers (even that married one). I’d further
immortalize my Virgoness with a pair of stubborn mules balking on the
lapels and a dusting of pink asterisks on the shoulders. Other
life-long loves would be paid tribute to with a color wheel of cheese on
each sleeve, some dogs eating grapes, and probably a few other random
noodlings. If I could be assured of proper execution, and I would trust
Nudie to be enough of a stickler to detail to pull this off, the whole
thing would be in anaglyph 3D.
Nudie excelled with the personal touch — one of his first suits was
for Porter Wagoner, which was covered wagons and cacti and all kinds of
emblematic western images and Graham Parsons paid tribute to his beloved
Three P’s with the Nudie suit he wore on the cover of The Flying
Burrito Brothers “Gilded Palace of Sin” album (go look it up), so the
whole symbolism thing isn’t unheard of, it’s just unusual for regular
folks like me to go all out like that. We tend to keep our stuff hidden
— game faces on, tattoos under shirts, ironic detachment…
But honestly, I’d rather go the Nudie route, and put it out there for everyone to see — vintage chickens and all.
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