By Rifan Muazin 
In the contemporary landscape of menswear, where trends are born on TikTok and die on clearance racks within a single fiscal quarter, the search for a permanent wardrobe staple has become an act of quiet rebellion. For Chris Black, cultural commentator and co-host of the influential How Long Gone podcast, this search recently culminated in a pilgrimage to Denim Revival in West Hollywood. His journey was not merely a shopping trip but a confrontation with the shifting tectonics of male silhouette, the tactile limitations of modern textiles, and the enduring psychological weight of the "perfect fit." The quest began with a fundamental rejection of the lightweight and the lazy, specifically the polarizing nature of linen and the ubiquitous presence of "athleisure" in public spaces.
The debate over linen is as old as tailoring itself. While often heralded as the ultimate summer fabric due to its breathability and moisture-wicking properties, it carries a set of aesthetic baggage that many, including Black, find intolerable. The primary grievance is "handfeel"—the tactile sensation of a fabric against the skin and its perceived weight. Linen, by its nature, is prone to structural collapse. Its tendency to wrinkle the moment a wearer sits down creates a look of "disheveled elegance" that often leans too heavily on the "disheveled." For those who prefer a more substantial presence, such as 12-ounce ring-spun denim or firm cotton duck canvas, linen feels insubstantial, almost ephemeral. This preference for weight is not just about durability; it is about the "drape" and the way a garment holds its shape throughout a day of movement.
This rejection of the flimsy extends to the realm of sweatpants. Despite the "high-fashion" pivot toward luxury loungewear—a movement accelerated by the global pandemic—there remains a segment of the style-conscious population that views sweatpants in public as a surrender. While acceptable for the "puttering" phase of a winter morning or a transitional commute to the gym, the sweatpant lacks the architectural integrity required for the airport or the coffee shop. The middle ground is often found in the chino, a versatile workhorse of the American wardrobe, but for the true enthusiast, denim remains the undisputed king. However, the current state of denim is fraught with what many consider to be aesthetic disasters, most notably the resurgence of "jorts."
The "jort"—an oversized, often knee-grazing denim short—has become the mascot of a certain brand of 2024 irony. Worn by men and women across generations, these garments represent a nostalgic nod to the late 90s and early 2000s, an era defined by the exaggerated proportions of brands like JNCO. Chris Black, having lived through the original JNCO era in high school, views this revival with a mix of weariness and skepticism. The giant jean, characterized by massive leg openings and a "puddle" effect at the ankle, is currently experiencing its last gasp in the trend cycle. As the fashion pendulum begins its inevitable swing back toward slimmer silhouettes, many are looking toward the past to see where the next "standard" will land.
The fear among many fashion observers is a return to the extreme "skinny" era of the mid-2000s. This period was dominated by Hedi Slimane’s tenure at Dior Homme, where he pioneered a pin-leg, ultra-low-rise look that required a specific, almost skeletal physique to execute. This was the era of the "19cm" leg opening and Cheap Monday "skin huggers," often paired with black leather Repettos and a soundtrack of landfill indie rock. While the fashion industry is reporting a gradual return to narrower cuts, the hope is for a "wearable" middle ground—a jean that offers shape without strangulation. This search for the "golden mean" of denim is what led Black to move beyond his comfort zone of the Levi’s 501 and 505.
The Levi’s 501 is the foundational document of American workwear. Patented in 1873, its signature button fly and straight-leg cut have made it a universal constant. The 505, introduced in 1967 during the "Summer of Love," offered a zip-fly alternative with a slightly more tapered leg and a lower rise. For years, these two models served as the North Star for Black, even influencing his design work for the brand Hanover, where he sought to perfect the 501 by widening the leg opening just enough to modernize the silhouette. But the vintage market offers a deeper catalog, and in Los Angeles, the Levi’s 517 began to call.
The 517, introduced in 1969 as the "Saddleman" boot cut, was designed to fit over work boots. In the modern context, the term "boot cut" often triggers a visceral reaction, conjuring images of mid-2000s "mall brands" or the exaggerated flares of the 1970s. For Black, the concern was looking like an extra in a Taylor Sheridan neo-Western or a Led Zeppelin groupie. However, the vintage 517 offers a nuance that modern iterations often miss. They sit higher on the waist, providing a more flattering "rise" for the mature frame, and the "flare" is often so subtle it functions more like a slight widening that allows the fabric to fall perfectly over a shoe without stacking or bunching.
The experience of shopping for vintage denim in person, particularly at an institution like Denim Revival, highlights the limitations of the digital marketplace. While eBay and Grailed offer endless inventory, they cannot replicate the expertise of a seasoned clerk or the physical reality of vintage sizing. Vintage Levi’s are notorious for their "true" sizing versus "tag" sizing. Due to decades of washing, drying, and natural shrinkage, a pair of jeans tagged as a 38-inch waist might actually measure a 34. For Black, being handed a size 38 was a psychological trigger—a reminder of a former "fat guy" identity—but it underscores the importance of trusting professional curation over numerical vanity.
In the dressing room of Denim Revival, the struggle for the perfect fit became an exercise in trial and error. The first few pairs of 517s felt too voluminous, reinforcing the staff’s concerns that a larger waist size would exaggerate the flare. However, the breakthrough came with a pair of 36s. The color was a "perfect" wash—likely a mid-blue that had been softened by decades of wear—and the fit was transformative. When paired with his standard footwear—Converse All-Stars, JM Weston penny loafers, or Belgians—the slight boot cut of the 517 didn’t look like a costume. Instead, it provided a clean, architectural line that elongated the leg and sat comfortably over the shoe.
This successful acquisition serves as a broader argument for the "specialty store" model. In an era of algorithmic recommendations and "fast fashion" homogenization, the value of a store like Denim Revival lies in its ability to provide a "personal touch." The staff’s willingness to challenge the customer’s preconceptions, combined with the owner’s eventual concession and a 10% discount, represents a form of commerce that is increasingly rare. It is a reminder that style is not just about the garment itself, but about the context in which it is found and the expertise used to select it.
Ultimately, the shift from the 501 to the 517 reflects a broader cultural desire for stability in an unstable world. While "jorts" and oversized trends may dominate the current discourse, the pursuit of a well-made, historically significant piece of denim remains a timeless endeavor. By embracing a silhouette that once seemed "scary," Chris Black found a new staple to pursue on the secondary market—a reminder that in the world of fashion, the most rewarding discoveries often lie just outside one’s comfort zone. The 517 is not just a boot cut jean; it is a testament to the idea that true style is found in the details of the drape, the weight of the fabric, and the enduring legacy of a brand that has defined the American aesthetic for over a century. As the trend cycle continues to churn, the vintage Levi’s remains a beacon of authenticity, proving that while linen may wrinkle and sweatpants may sag, indigo denim only gets better with age.
