In 1999, my favorite song was “Everybody in Cords,” a track by the indie art-group The Gap, whose 31-second music videos still resonate some 15 years later.
Just kidding! Obviously the gap isn’t an art-group—unless you consider their recent embrace of #normcore in their fall campaign parody art. But, contrary to what our rebellious hearts may tell us, Gap’s Millenium-era commercials were perfect. They inspired us to wear vests. They justified trying to buy amounts of leather no high school or college student could possibly afford. They urged us to ignore how gross corduroy feels. And they did it through music, minimalism, and appearances by Rashida Jones.
Videos by VICE
These ads had power. After all, that’s what it takes to convince millions of middle-schoolers to beg our parents for puffy oranges vests during cold winters. But it wasn’t even about the vest—it was what the vest represented: status, coolness, standing cool at a high-status place, and whatever else the peppiness of the song implied. “That ‘all over your body’ song!” we’d say as teens— the song with the vests!
That song, of course, was a cover of Madonna’s “Dress You Up,” sung 14 years after its release by those we assumed were the models and/or actors shown in the commercial. (We’ll never know for sure.) So by offering a stripped down—albeit poppy version—of what we equated to being our parents’ music (gross), Gap sold us on modernity. Like a denim-loving Don Draper, they told us that with these clothes, and with this song (and with those stares), you could be just like Rashida and friends; people who wore $80-something dollar vests as though everyone should have that many pockets. As though bright orange vests needed to be all over our bodies (so that other people would be too).
Well, no one should ever have that many pockets. Nor do puffy vests seem practical in any other climate but an indoor hockey rink. But accompanied by the simple notes of twenty-somethings singing Madonna, rationality was replaced by want and the need for fun.
We meet again, Rashida.
Or maybe not. (1999 video quality means everybody looks like a character in “The Sims.”)
Now, enter: cords a.k.a. pants we all owned despite most of us not being able to answer why. The fabric feels weird, they stretch and wear badly, and the positive association with the fabric is a bear we grew up reading about. But alas, cords came back. Just in time for back to school 99, when Gap featured a monochromatic ad sung by its models and/or future celebrities to the tune of Donovan’s 1966 single, “Mellow Yellow.”
The cord commercial alone was cooler than most music videos we see now. In 31 seconds, thanks to dressed-down Donovan and dressed-down spokespeople, it sold an image: wear this thing and you will understand what everybody’s singing about. Nelly wishes he were that smooth when he was hawking his Air Force Ones.
So, with a Madonna cover making vests exciting, and Donovan establishing corduroy as some fabric of life, Gap looked to Depeche Mode to make leather accessible—or, more specifically, hard as fuck.
I mean, look at these fucking people. I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’d still feel cool if they told me they liked my clothes.
See in 1999, leather separated the boys from the men. Boys (and girls—I’m using a figure of speech here) couldn’t afford leather because it costs hundreds of dollars, and adults could. So instead of using pop music or oldies to make this particular trend seem accessible, Gap used Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough” to go on the offense; as if you wouldn’t really understand the song or the point of the ad if you weren’t a leather-wearer to begin with.
Nobody here is fucking around.
So while most of us millennials wrote off “that third Gap commercial” as the completion of the holy trinity (and not as fun as the other ones), the ad itself still did two very important things: it exposed viewers to Depeche Mode (duh/bless) and it sold an image, not a product.
Like Everybody in Vests and Everybody in Cords, Everybody in Leather abided by the minimalist mandate, but like Depeche Mode itself, wasn’t desperate. The video didn’t beg you to try on leather pants like Ross Geller in that “Friends” episode. It didn’t even list the price. Instead—and again, in 31 seconds—this Gap ad represented a subculture. Which, in this case, were elements of the UK underground with a little bit of The Matrix. The future was now! Just set to a song from the ‘80s.
Which is in complete contrast to the year before: a 1998 Gap ad that helped revive a music trend we all got very into for a few important months.
Remember “Jump, Jive, and Wail?” Of course you do. We lived it, breathed it, and convinced ourselves we could dance to it—just like the Gap models whom made khakis seem like the ideal bottom for nights at the Suds Bucket (remember when Madonna danced in A League of Their Own? Again, of course you do).
So Gap used Brian Setzer to figure out what worked. At the time, we may not have been hankering for swing dance lessons, but thanks to the brand’s unconventional approach, swing music was suddenly cool. (Or at the very least: not lame.) Which meant that khakis were cool. Which meant that he Gap was cool. And all that meant we were cool for wearing it.
Of course, none of us were cool then, and none of us are cool now. (Sorry, guys.) But Gap helped intertwine music—or more specifically, covers of vintage hits— with what we equate to hipness. As a billion dollar company, they could’ve used any song; any top 40 hit, but they chose not to date themselves. This explains why we can still watch these ads and justify a winter vest. Or why we can still recognize how fucking boss corduroy could be. (Even though it isn’t—please no one let me buy any.) But more importantly, we can acknowledge that for 31 seconds in 1999, each commercial conveyed more than a four-minute music video in terms of promising a lifestyle and withstanding the test of time.
Anne T. Donahue still wants Saffron to be mad about her. She’s on Twitter – @annetdonahue.
—
Want more 90s trends?
Mapping the Music and Style of ‘My So-Called Life’
The Score: Mapping the Music, Style, and Girl Power of ‘Spice World’
The Score: Mapping the Music, Style, and Gateway Feminism of ’10 Things I Hate About You’
