The Horn of Invention

The IRA’s series of bombings on Oxford Street, London, marked the beginning of 1977. The fanfare of the Silver Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II followed, and then the James Bond movie The Spy Who Loved Me premiered at the Cannes Film Festival in May. The release on July 1 of the Sex Pistols’ song, Pretty Vacant, would officially signal punk as a distinct subculture and musical movement. Then, across the pond, on July 13, New York City suffered a wipe-out day-long blackout. Together, they would erupt a concoction of chaotic and spellbinding emotions. On that unlucky date, the guests at the Palm Court in the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan would dine under candlelight – a more convivial atmosphere in comparison to all of the mayhem, only exacerbated by criminals unleashing opportunistic terror. However, if we begin this sequence of culturally significant events on the Halloween weekend of the previous year, 1976, the dissolving of the Warner Bros. Jungle Habitat, the African safari theme park in New Jersey, does provide humorous context to the history of the safari jacket.

Louise Botto, a theatre buff and contributor to the New York Times, described in an article from 1974 that, at the turn of the decade, he would sojourn in the Hamptons wearing a safari suit – a decision he felt onlookers thought was kooky. But suddenly those assertions were redacted by an abundance of fellows who could be seen sporting versions in arenas stretching from the manicured lawns of private estates in Connecticut to taking afternoon tea under the sheltering palms of the Plaza’s Palm Court – even during the blackout. The boost in popularity of the safari suit only paled in comparison to the rapidity with which the infamous 1973-1974 stock market downturn gripped the world.

Born in Berlin in 1923, John Weitz migrated to England with his parents in the early 1930s, as Adolf Hitler was rising to power. Evincing an urge to work in fashion like his father, in London he met Edward H. Molyneux, who was thirty-two years his senior, impeccably connected, debonair and multi-hyphenate, whose modernist yet refined clothing design aesthetic was avant-garde for its time; and it was at Molyneux’s Grosvenor Street salon, his last atelier following successful spells in Paris, New York, Monte Carlo and Cannes, where Weitz would start as an apprentice – a position that could only ingrain and inspire him to lead an indefatigable career of success in diverse facets of life, spanning high-speed sports, novelism, army intelligence and, not least, fashion design.  

A cordial gentleman like Molyneux, who was pleasantly observed in the upper echelons of society, Weitz befriended a certain Albert “Cubby” Broccoli, producer of the James Bond films, and once remarked that he was better looking than the 007 character. Firstly, he was revered in New York in the 1950s for his women’s sportswear; in 1964, he launched a menswear line that he personally modelled in stores. Aside from being admired for his body-contoured dress shirts, his safari suit designs sparked a preliminary explosion – a scissors reality demonstrating his contempt for the garb’s exploitation by every Tom, Dick and Harry in spheres that began to undermine its roots. But his conviction was not directly spawned by its popularity; rather it was the ill-conceived advertising campaigns that then lured in the wrong people in the wrong scenery, and which, in fact, would tarnish its authenticity – thus Botto humorously resorting to only sporting the suit at the aforementioned Jungle Habitat.

Now, if there’s a pyramid measuring the divisiveness of the denizens in which that well-known garment should be worn, in the mid-seventies the safari suit would hover at the apex. Peter Barrett, a veteran of safaris and the editor of the highly distinguished books Great True Hunts (1967) and Treasure of African Hunting (1970), postulated to the New York Times in 1974 that the safari suit or bush coat had become somewhat of a joke in Africa. Too many tourists started wearing them; now the African guides call them “Hero Coats”. In the mould of the 26th president of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt, for his impassioned devotion to big game hunting while successfully exercising his additional interests and commitments, Russell Barnett Aitken was a voice that said the safari suit does not belong in the city, but is only acceptable on safari or in the country. Weitz echoed the sentiment that city slickers were trying to parlay the safari suit at Wall Street conferences and business luncheons, and it only infringed on the respectability of the individual, thus doing the same for the costume.

Like the Bengal stripe shirt and a host of other distinguished designs, the origins of the safari suit are debatable. In January 1842, Sir William Elphinstone, who was dubiously appointed commander of the British garrison in Kabul, Afghanistan, ordered his 16,000-strong force to retreat from the capital. They fled sporting immaculate red coats – a devastating clothing faux pas, given that the Afghan snipers were lurking in the undergrowth, camouflaged by dusty garments. It was an awakening outcome, not least for the fallible military attire worn by the Corp of Guides; it prompted British Lieutenant Hodson to choose a light-coloured “khaki” uniform – a word derived from the Persian term for dust. And that is the origin of the famed khaki-coloured uniforms, which were first attributed to the military but have since been seen in a broad realm of society.

However, back to British rule in India and khaki uniforms – it is speculated that versions of these practical jackets were adopted by hunters and were denominated as ‘shikar jackets’, which is a Hindi/Urdu word. Contemporary illustrations show that this style, which later became a popular choice for the maharajahs and the Raj, features collars, lapels, pockets, belts and shoulder epaulettes. However, in the 19th century there is little or no reference to the safari jacket on either the Indian Subcontinent or African savannah. In Arabic, “safar” means “travel” or “journey”; the word was later adopted into Swahili as “safari” by slave traders, and it only gained acceptance among Americans in part due to the trailblazing hunting adventures of Teddy Roosevelt.

Even when the War Office in Whitehall commissioned a new khaki drill uniform for the British army to quench the blistering temperatures in South Africa during the Second Boer War (1899–1902), the safari jacket moniker was still not a widespread term. It wasn’t until the onset of the ‘30s, when European colonial power collided with the emergence of Hollywood motion pictures, that the term safari jacket was officially coined. Dubbed the “Golden Age of Flight”, East Africa, particularly Kenya in the 1930s, was awash with wealthy American hunting fiends, literary bigwigs, European nobility (a number of whom were part of the infamous Happy Valley Set) and, finally, Hollywood, which recognised the scene as ripe for the next spate of romantic, action-packed motion pictures. Trader Horn (1931), and Stanley and Livingstone (1939), were two memorable pictures dramatising adventure in the African savanna, thus exposing the safari jacket to the world. Likewise, the safari jacket would play a major role in elevating actors into sex symbol status – Clark Gable and Gary Cooper stand out amongst an illustrious list of Old Hollywood acting titans.

If we idolise a safari-oriented film for its romance, glamour – and undeniably alluring safari jackets and shirts – we can’t look past Mogambo (1953). Not only were the feline beauties of Ava Gardner and Grace Kelly dressed in sumptuous field costumes, but Gable beautifully blended muscularity with elegance in a myriad of safari shirts and jackets, which were tailored by H. Huntsman & Sons of Savile Row. From his tan cotton drill brush shirt with a wide-pointed collar, featuring two box-pleated chest pockets, to his lighter-weight cotton safari jacket, which bore all the hallmarks of necessary practicality, including straight flaps on the chest pocket and a plain front with no placket for the five-button closure, it was evident that each design detail was the work of adept tailoring, a phenomenon that has long since been scarce.

Now, of its sort, encompassing a sleeker profile, the catwalk/urbane creations designed by the likes of Yves Saint Laurent and Ted Lapidus were more bodacious inventions that are commended, but they often lack practicality – plus you’d be hesitant to wear one for semi-formal city engagements. The truth is, until Alexander Kraft launched his inaugural safari jacket this summer, it would have been difficult to identify one to fit that bill. “No brown in town” is a well-known sartorial adage and, during the era of John Weitz and Russell Barnett Aitken, the same understandably could be applied to the safari jacket. However, AK MC is revered for its trailblazing interpretations of classic designs such as the bridge coat and Venetian slippers, and so it’s no surprise that tasteful sartorial nuances have been imbued into the safari jacket, thus breathing new life into a garment of which imitations are vast.

The introduction of the new AK MC bespoke-inspired safari jacket has enthralled both new and old followers, making it a refreshing yet impressive addition to the AK MC sartorial enactment. The discreet details, such as dark horn buttons and slightly elevated lapel buttonholes that allow for a more comfortable buttoning arrangement, elevate its sartorial credentials and give it appropriate license to be worn in cityscapes with real vigour. And, if you decided to pair it with a Bengal stripe shirts, ecru Gurkha trousers and the handmade tan calf penny loafer, then it more than permits you to wear it in a meeting in La Defense, before absconding for supper in the old-school Allard restaurant in Saint Germain des Près.

It’s on a day full of engagements in Paris that practicality is a welcome attribute for your uniform. Designed with patch pockets and a flap, but in a sporting bellow pocket arrangement, enhances storage; think storing keys, phones and even a case of cigarettes with ease. Rarely seen, if seen at all, on a sartorial jacket, the ticket pocket comprises the same design, including the triangular angled point. A discreet martingale is attached to the back, while its tailored double vents embody skilled craftsmanship. And, as is custom with AK MC, it is partially lined in matching silk.

The AK MC’s rebellious adaptation of the safari jacket expands the wearing possibilities of one of history’s most venerated pieces of apparel, and it is already pleasantly broadening options for dress by allowing the same style to be worn on safari and in the countryside, and now in important business meetings in the city.