Though I haven’t lived there in eight years, Atlanta is where I grew up, where I’ve kept tabs and where sophisticated style, culture and music coalesce. Pulling from favorite memories and inventing others, I depict my ideal day exploring the city’s gems. In crafting made-up exchanges with Atlantans I hope to one day meet, I pull quotes from brilliant journalists whose work is cited throughout. Whether you’re from Atlanta or have never visited, these are some of its creative minds, businesses and events worth your attention.
THE MORNING
I throw on a white tee, short shorts, Vans. I’m not cool enough to skate, so I bike to Alon’s, an upscale market; owner is an immigrant who toured the European culinary scene after serving in the Israeli military. With the breeze inflating my shirt I sail past charming bungalows, tucking my arms and head so I’m like an aerodynamic sausage. Approaching the entrance I greet two men embracing each other, chatting in hushed French. Must be nice.
Through the heavy door the air is thick with flour. I get a chocolate croissant and a latte and sit on the terrace. A latte I love, but a latte and a baked good? Usher voice—we’ve reached the climax. For a while I read my Economist: Turkish teahouses, Colombian coca farms, Peruvian prison yards. I mark the well-written sentences and underline the words I don’t know. Effusive: to express gratitude in a heartfelt manner. This croissant is making me effusive. More or less. I sketch the Frenchmen and show it to them—amused, but the hotter guy points out I’ve gotten the silhouette of his boots all wrong. I wish he wasn’t right.
I hop on the bike and coast over to Videodrome, a vendor of VHS tapes, the last of its kind in the city. The curb appeal is real: mid-century, original steel beams, floor-to-ceiling windows. I skim the aisles. Each cover impresses more than the last: color palettes I’d use to redo the kitchen, typefaces I’d tattoo across my chest. I overhear the owner, Booth, chatting with someone.
“Totally,” he says, “the idea that everyone can order whatever movie they want from home is flat—out—wrong.”1
Opened in 1998, the year that bore OutKast’s third album and my mother’s only son (likening myself to Aquemini—who do I think I am?), Videodrome would act less rental corporation, more public library. “Movies are two-hour vacations—you should look to someone who knows what they’re talking about,” says a pierced-up woman to Booth’s left. “Tarantino started out working VHS. We are people cut from that same cloth; it’s our passion, you know. This is walking into a restaurant where everyone is a chef.”2
I’m drawn by the conversation, or maybe its her cardigan, which looks like a Clyfford Still painting in mohair form. This cardigan is so fly I ask to take her picture, then post said picture to my story, to which my flyest friends reply how fly it is. She shows me flicks independent and cult, foreign and horror; I rent something Federico Fellini, whom she says was the director Martin Scorsese idolized. No kidding. Doubt I’d find that out while scrolling Netflix.
THE AFTERNOON
I eat some chicken and take a nap. Sipping a second coffee I flick through some mags. In GQ I see a name that rings a bell: Matt Lambert, formerly at Sid Mashburn, a local tailoring institution. He speaks on his new brand, Factor’s, whose mission is to loosen up super-slim tailoring, and whose apostrophe is a salute to Muse’s, the first in town to stock Polo.3 My interest is piqued. To a young man learning to navigate menswear, Factor’s seems to be speaking my language.
Opened in 1998, the year that bore OutKast’s third album and my mother’s only son, Videodrome would act less rental corporation, more public library.
I swing by and meet the man himself. Spraying the ivy that drape by the open windows, Lambert wears an orange blazer: the shoulders are strong, the lapel dramatic, the fit longer and looser than I’m used to. I fuck with it.
“At some point, I got—obsessed—with ‘70s Yves Saint Laurent,” he says, his eyes so locked on mine I think he’s trying to communicate via telepathy. “You gotta see these suits, man—the shoulders—mmm—and the trousers, flow—ing.” He’s passionate, aroused even, about men’s suits—and his energy is infectious.
“Sounds hot. Tell me more.”
“I eventually started grabbing suits off the rack and wearing ‘em unaltered,” he says, bringing me over to an ivory jacket, double-breasted.
“What we do is fit your shoulders and your face with the highest quality and the narrowest shoulder, and then just let it drape naturally,” he says. “Cuz skinny garments, they don’t last. You can wear this harder.”
Though Factor’s will produce only four of these, and though I’m already imagining myself in one while sipping mezcal in the chicest bar in Mexico City, it turns out the jacket is thrice my rent. Now that I’ve wasted this nice man’s time, on my way out I notice a chick flicking through a crate of records. Patched-up cargos, yellow raglan tee and Life Aquatic Adidas.
“I love your outfit,” I tell her.
She smiles.
“Which record has caught your eye?” I ask.
She flicks back to a ‘70s piano vinyl which I recognize. On the cover a woman in hijab holds a child on her shoulders.
“I know that designer,” I say. “Ronald Clyne. He was good.”
This is Lulu Graham. Whereas I spend my weekends inhaling sweets while smearing the pages of my favorite indie mags, you can catch her in the byline, writing for L’Étiquette, Yolo Journal and Where Is The Cool. Whereas I sit on the toilet swiping through Instagram, she is on set, assisting Factor’s with its debut visual campaign. One area of overlap we do have: an admiration of Emily Adams Bode, the Atlanta-born, New York-based designer infusing garments with family narratives.
“The clothes I value the most aren’t the pieces worth a lot of money,” Lulu says, popping her faded tee, “for me, it’s my grandmother’s high school sweatshirt or the sweater my great-grandmother knit. I have a love and respect for how Emily is weaving fashion and history.”4
I get her talking about Wells, a brand she created as an ode to her childhood summers. “When I was looking through old camp photos, I noticed all the girls wearing short-sleeve plaid shirts,” she says. “I fell in love. I researched camp archives, referencing old family photographs, collecting vintage uniforms to figure out the construction.” Named after Lulu’s sister, Wells modeled its logo script after that of the family dairy in Wisconsin.
“I made the Camp Shirt after learning how the Garment District worked from my internships. The love of historical garments is alive and well right now,” she says, gesturing to the racks of clothing, “and I don’t see it slowing down. I like everything I wear to have a story.”
I’m reminded of the streets of Lower Manhattan, where fashionable people flex their $100 athletic shorts. Whether by Eric Emanuel or ALD, these shorts can never—ever—exude more style than your mom’s from her uni days, or my own from youth soccer. I see what Lulu means, wondering what garments are unique to my DNA that are waiting to be worn, reinterpreted or used as a medium for storytelling.
Drizzling rain lures me out to shoot photos. I hop on MARTA and head southwest to Murphy Ave., where crumbling archways and decrepit trains mean striking compositions await. I recite the wisdom of photographer Jay Maisel: “It’s not a game to see how much territory you can cover—it’s a game to see how much you can see.” Yes, sensei. Let the scenes unfold around me.
On my stroll I spot a man in a trench coat. Passing under a bridge, walking away from me, he’s edge-lit from the front by red tail lights. The train—a wet brushstroke of silver and orange—glides above the man’s silhouette. A child has their chubby face blurred against the fogged up window. Click.
THE EVENING
After a quick dinner I’m back at the flat. Much like a Spaniard preparing the room for his siesta, I carry out a ritual to kick off a big night: the blinds are drawn, lights dimmed, pisco soured, soundtrack sorted. Gifted by an uncle who frequents listening bars in the Tokyo outskirts, custom speakers flank my fire place like stone lions.
I take a shower candle-lit, feeling the muffled bass through the walls, then dress myself in a camp-collar polo, frayed jeans and loafers, plus my graduation gift: the watch my dad bought my mom for their anniversary twenty years ago.
It’s the third Friday of the month, which means Jazz Night at The High Museum. This event is the epitome of sophistication, the broth of the quintessential night out in Atlanta. Not only visuals, not only music, not only booze—but sipping Scottish whisky, absorbing Cuban jazz and digesting Japanese art in a glorious ménage à trois.
At the gallery I order a drink, checking out all the beautiful people in their beautiful outfits. On the terrace a crowd sits around a model, sketching with charcoal her self-assured pose. I take a lap, ascending the ramp that spirals the atrium. From the fifth floor the spectators mingle like colorful scribbles, the percussion faint. Down the hall I find myself in front of a Basquiat. Year: 1984. I scrutinize the negative space.
At some point I realize I’m not alone. To my right is Chris Black: writer and creative consultant with a strong eye for matters style and design. We’re dressed similarly, but you can guess who is copying whom.
“You know the story?” he asks.
“Sort of. It’s a portrait of his friend, right?”
“They met in Tribeca, at this very theatrical club. Basquiat was DJing, Warhol was stopping by. So Basquiat was actually introduced to MP,” he says, gesturing his tatted arm to the man depicted in the painting, “by their mutual friend Glenn O’Brien.”5
“Glenn, who?”
“Wow. How old are you?”
“14. And a half.”
He cackles, adjusting his glasses.
“Listen—when I was around your age, Glenn O’Brien—he was the guy to emulate.6 He was the first editor Warhol hired at Interview Magazine—the first, okay. But he wrote everywhere. He had this Style column at GQ that changed the game.”
“How so?” I ask, sipping my gin.
“He paved the way for much of the menswear commentary you see today. He was an individual, you know. Style, Glenn would say, is what makes you different to others. Fashion is what makes you the same.”7
I’m internalizing the point of view, checking out MP’s trousers, one leg turquoise, the other burgundy.
“Funny you say that: I met this woman today and we had a similar chat. On infusing your style with your unique story, family, traditions. I met her at Factor’s, you heard of it?”
“I’m familiar.”
“I had a nice chat with the owner today. Passionate guy. To your point—maybe without O’Brien he wouldn’t be where he is either.”
He nods. We look at the painting.
“Hey, it’s been a pleasure,” I say. “I’m off to a gig.”
“Nice. Who is spinning?”
“Kai Alcé at The Sound Table.”
Where the lighting is recessed, the drinks are stiff and the DJs are class. I sit at the corner booth by the window. It’s pouring outside, but cozy in. Wood slats run the walls, directing your gaze to the elevated nook at the back where the tracks are rinsed by the man himself.
Originally from St. Croix, Alcé learned disco in New York, house and techno in Detroit. Between gigs at Boiler Room, Mixmag, and The Lab, he founded his own production company, NDATL (named after the cities that molded him), specializing in records deep, classic, soulful. He went on to cofound House In The Park, the second largest outdoor house event in America, which I’ve been lucky to attend twice. It is a surreal experience, deserving not a brief mention in my silly little newsletter—but its own documentary.
Head bobbing, Alcé calls me to the floor with everything good: Moodymann, Mr. G, Frankie Knucks, Levan. The four-on-the-floor is intoxicating, and I’m intoxicated, shifting my weight from hip to hip with the other dancers. My head nods, my hands clap, my feet shuffle, my shoulders pop.
To my right a group of six has had a circle going for the better part of an hour, swaying side to side, shifting in and out. They smile, clink, sip, shuffle, repeat—non-stop. To my left is a Berliner. He’s chain-smoking cigs, and when I get tired I ask him for one. Now this: this is fuel, fuel that thickens the bass, accentuates the hi-hats, makes my brain warm and fuzzy. This is bliss.
Not only visuals, not only music, not only booze—but sipping Scottish whisky, absorbing Cuban jazz and digesting Japanese art in a glorious ménage à trois.
My friends come find me around two and ask if I want to split a ride. It’s tempting to save the money, but I’m not ready. My head punctuates each kick and clap until Alcé ends his set with a bow.
A cool breeze at my wet back, I stagger my way home—exhausted and ecstatic, impaired and inspired—certain there’s no other way I would rather spend a day in Atlanta.
Selinger, H. (2021, February 20). Who Is Still Buying VHS Tapes? The New York Times. https://www.nytimes.com/2021/02/20/style/vhs-tapes.html
Wheatley, T. (2017, December 13). Viva Videodrome, the Atlanta video rental store that refuses to die. Atlanta Magazine. https://www.atlantamagazine.com/news-culture-articles/viva-videodrome-atlanta-video-rental-store-refuses-die/
Hine, S. (2021, April 1). Meet the Atlanta Tailor Bringing '70s Funk Back to Your Suit Closet. GQ. https://www.gq.com/story/matt-lambert-factors-suiting
Club Duquette. (2019, November 25). COOL PEOPLE DOING COOL THINGS: LULU GRAHAM OF WELLS/ OUTFIT DISSECTING. https://clubduquette.co/blogs/news/cool-people-doing-cool-things-lulu-graham-of-wells-outfit-dissecting
Christies. (n.d.). Jean-Michel Basquiat, MP, 1984. Retrieved April 23, 2021 from https://www.christies.com/features/Lot-34-Expert-view-Jean-Michel-Basquiat-MP-10906-6.aspx
Matheson, M. (2021, February 18). Chris Black and Matty Matheson on How to Master Your Personal Brand. Interview Magazine. https://www.interviewmagazine.com/culture/chris-black-and-matty-matheson-on-how-to-master-your-personal-brand
Gordon, C. (2017, April 10). Remembering Glenn O’Brien, who hated fashion and loved style. Dazed Digital. https://www.dazeddigital.com/fashion/article/35542/1/rip-glenn-o-brien-who-hated-fashion-and-loved-style