A Cry: "Too Young to Die, Too Old to Live"

These roots, suppressed in the name of purity and asceticism, are now, along with my parents, the body they gave me, my upbringing, my environment, and my youth, cherished as precious assets, even more so than the great Earth we must save. When such a cry echoes from the depths of my heart, its rhythm is rock and roll, its scent is sweet pomade, and its light is the sheen of velvet.

The thrilling world I glimpsed beyond the "No Middle Schoolers Allowed" sign at a shop called Hachiya in Kurume, Fukuoka (in retrospect, a brilliant sales tactic for middle schoolers), when combined with my innate British taste, made TEDDY BOYS dance in my mind. They danced, crying, "Too young to die, too old to live."

The resulting Autumn/Winter collection is something I'm quite pleased with, almost like my second debut.
When I considered the music for this collection's exhibition, I immediately recalled the sound compilations Malcolm McLaren played at his shop, 'Too Fast to Live Too Young to Die.' For the next few days, those vulgar, raucous beats repeated in my head. I even gave copies of the CD to acquaintances who visited.

It was on one of those days that I learned Malcolm had passed away.

He once told me about his encounter with Hip-Hop:
"In a corner of the Bronx, people dressed in peculiar outfits, wearing trainers (that's what they call sneakers in the UK; incidentally, a jumper means sweater, and the punk staple is the mohair jumper – but I digress), were doing strange dances to the rhythm of records being scratched."
For him, from an aristocratic background, this must have been as shocking as seeing the working-class youth of London's suburbs with their sideburns grown long and their bolo ties fastened, wriggling and dancing.

But eventually, his series of discoveries began to fade.

"Why aren't there any more thrilling events where such styles and fashion are linked?"

"Because the media crushes them so quickly."

To repeat, these words carry the melancholy of a man who, while using the media, ultimately felt used by it.

But has that thrill truly ended?

I, for one, felt a thrill from the skaters during the rise of 'Ura-Hara' (I was a skater myself), and from the style of the members of Dex Pistols. I sense a reproduction of that thrill in new people.

Isn't continuing to convey and pass on such thrills the greatest tribute we can offer Malcolm?

VIVE LE PUNK!!!!!