Whites have always bitten off black culture (the beatniks, rock 'n' roll, everything Quentin Tarantino has ever done). It gives them that cool, outsider image they so desperately need. But over the past few years, black kids have been taking fashion cues from the whitest of the white: ski gear, polo shirts, hiking boots, N.H.L. jerseys. The gold chains and dangling clocks of the '80s have been replaced with sweaters in bright primary colors with polo embroidered on the front. Jeans are in, but the baggier the better. Ski jackets are pumped up to Michelin Man proportions. Things have got freaky, albeit in a decidedly unfreaky way.
For the past three years this baggy-preppy scene has been dominated by giants like Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger, but now more than two dozen tiny African-Americanowned labels are beginning to steal some of their cool. And even a little bit of cool can be worth it: it may look like merely oversize jeans and hooded sweatshirts, but the $5 billion male urban-clothing niche is growing faster than any other apparel category except, perhaps, lingerie. And how long before Hilfiger offers low-slung panties with his name on the butt?
Boutique labels like FUBU, Naughty Gear, Phat Farm, Pure Playaz, UB Tuff and Wu-Wear can legitimately claim--as they do, over and over--closer connection with street fashion than Hilfiger has, even though their clothes look a lot like his. But that street cred, along with their funky logos, is helping them gain ground. FUBU, which means "for us, by us," began in 1992 when Daymond John, at 24, started selling tie-top hats on the streets of New York City. The hats caught on, so he drew up some ideas for coats and shirts and asked his mom to teach him to sew. Then she remortgaged their house for $100,000, gave him the money and let him turn the place into a mini-factory. He has a really nice mom.
In 1995 John and his three partners took their wares to a fashion trade show in Las Vegas; they sold $300,000 worth of clothing in just a week. Soon after, Samsung America agreed to distribute their $69 shirts and $800 bubble jackets to hip boutiques like Dr. Jay's and Casual Male on the East Coast. Last summer Macy's began carrying the line in its 10 East Coast stores. "That was like cutting our own album and headlining above Michael Jackson at Wembley Stadium," says John.
Even more than hard work, luck or an agreeable mom, FUBU's success was due to a strategy straight from Phil Knight's playbook: it got the ubiquitous LL Cool J to sign an endorsement deal. The trick to hip-hop-fashion money, even more than offering slick styles, is somehow to get a rapper--preferably one on heavy rotation on MTV--to wear your stuff. Dr. Dre is dipped in Karl Kani, Mase gets giggy in Mecca, and Busta Rhymes is decked in Ecko. "Videos are hands down the best advertising you can have," says Mike Clark, the chief operating officer of Wu-Wear, the label started by the rap group Wu-Tang Clan, all of whose members wear it constantly. "It's the best way to cross over." And those who can't yet afford an official-endorsement deal send free outfits to as many famous people as they can find addresses for and hope they will wear the clothes in public. Celebrities who have worn Wu-Wear include Icelandic singer Bjork, the rap metal band Rage Against the Machine and athletes Ricky Watters and Shawn Kemp.