the abbreviated reign of “neon” leon spinks

CULTURAL NORMS RESIST RADICAL CHANGE 167
short-circuit the usual thinking pro cess that precedes a purchase. So it
was with the leisure suit, which tugged on the loose thread of conformity
and ended up unraveling good taste.
By the summer of 1974, the New York Times was reporting that
three main styles of leisure suits had emerged. The most popular was the
“safari” suit, which had a winged collar, and sometimes epaulets and short
sleeves. Another variation included the “battle jacket,” which ended at the
waist, reminiscent of the outfit that General Dwight D. Eisenhower wore
during World War II. It could be worn with a necktie. Yet another was the
shirt suit, a pajamalike outfit that vaguely evoked the wardrobe of Hugh
Hefner, or perhaps certain third world dictators.
The leisure suit’s popularity had overwhelmed the menswear market
in small towns and cities across America, places that fashion trends
usually reached slowly and sometimes bypassed altogether. In Lincoln,
Nebraska, the Eve ning Journal concluded that “the leisure suit is where
it’s at.” The Newark (Ohio) Advocate offered locals advice on what sort of
shirt was acceptable to wear under their new leisure suits: “turtlenecks,
open- neck solids, prints and crew necks, open shirts with ascots, even no
shirt at all.”
Only the bravest of Ohioans likely tried that last suggestion, but it
hinted at the degree of sartorial anarchy that the leisure suit induced, as
the style evolved from playfully flamboyant to outright garish. The garment
came in colors seldom before seen in men’s suits—mocha, peach,
fi re-engine red, pumpkin, forest green, sky blue. (De cades later, a vintage
clothing store’s Web site would struggle to describe one surviving specimen
as “a shade of rust that is brown more than orange.”) In 1976, Haggar
unveiled a special bicentennial-edition leisure suit—white, with red and
blue stitching, and a similarly patriotic belt.
By early 1975, the leisure style had become so pervasive that in
New York, the Lord & Taylor University Club shop, traditionally devoted
to the staid Ivy League look, had to confess that its top-selling item was a