Originally Published in Print, April 2022.
Art by Ellecia Vaughan.
It truly is drama and boredom that drives the Indie Sleaze scene into 2022 in all of its crude and unadulterated glory. For those seemingly unfamiliar with Indie Sleaze, you may be more modish than you first may think, as it takes the ugliest and most unspeakable elements of every style to create something so unlikeable that it actually works. Indie Sleaze is the love child of the garish Y2K/Juicy Couture bling and the sultry edge of the Arctic Monkeys fan pages that dominated early Tumblr. It was born somewhere between MySpace and Skins, a violent clash of cultures culminating in the most popular club-trend of the mid 2000s – and of The Perch, apparently.
The clothes of true Indie Sleaze were not unlike the garments you’d see currently sitting around the coveted Arts Block picnic tables, fags hanging lazily from mouths, some philosopher bragging about come downs and ket over hangover Kaph concoctions. These people are in constant states of inebriation or headache, and their clothes match this cyclical ritual. Indie Sleaze blurs the lines between day and night, pairing cheap sweatshop ‘out-out’ clothes with accessories worn to protect the hands and heart from cold smoking areas where the best tunes would inevitably be played. We are yet again seeing knitted hand warmers and thin scarves pulled choker-like to expose the low cut of unflattering 2000s blouses, with any length of skirt being married with any form of tights – the more ripped and sleazy, the better.
The men of Indie Sleaze are harder to pinpoint. As with any subculture, the male participants usually fall flat, sporting instead a more… unintentional style. Although with Indie Sleaze, this haphazardness beautifully encompasses the true essence of the style, with cardigans, graphic and terrible t-shirts, waistcoat vests, and tawdry sunglasses at the forefront.
Not only were the clothes – as mismatched, layered, and clashing as they were – the soul of Indie Sleaze, but its real draw was in the performance of it. You were not in it if you were not showing it off through vulgar flash photos from darkened bar booths and clogging every Instagram feed of 2012. The style reeks of day-old cider soaked into polyester and sequins, and it probably hasn’t been washed since the first time it did coke in the bathrooms of The George, but every line and can of it is documented through the medium of a digital or film camera. Every flash is another ‘unforgettable’ night ending in a taxi back to Howth or Dartry or wherever the after party lies in wait to bore you with another ski trip anecdote. The shots are raunchy and unfiltered, and they show just enough pore and smudge to look effortless and just little enough to make the bathroom cubicles graffiti look mysterious and seedy – DUDJ, eat your heart out.
These new-age hipsters wear solely large, awkward headphones with enough wire to actually reach the charging ports in the business building, and can usually be seen listening to the newest Fontaines track or the oldest Radiohead one. They reminisce about the days of Bloc Party and The White Stripes, and of Azealia Banks before she became a racist. The riffs are still as grimy 10 years on, and the lyrics still as questionable, a true testament to the timelessness of the Indie scene when it frankly just hasn’t developed in 15 years.
The Indie Sleaze fanatics spend weekends or free classes in charity shops that they call ‘thrift’ haunts, where middle-aged women behind the counter question why they’re still selling rhinestone belts and graphic jackets to people over the age of 14. But that is exactly what brought Indie Sleaze back. It is accessible, it is ugly, it is frowned upon by those not in it. It represents a time when people frankly didn’t care, and culturally it pissed off everyone who came into contact with it- just like anyone who occupies the Arts Block with a tote bag and an ego. It is raiding your parents’ closet and being disappointed when all you found was Benetton and Polo. It is knowing everything about fashion but nothing about class. It is Ethics at 2pm and Chaplins at 8pm. Is it stylish? No. Is it meant to be? Absolutely not. Is it ruining fashion? Completely and utterly. But is it saving it? Well, that’s for you to decide.
