Am I a Streetwear Bro Now?
From Chanel to Corteiz in 72 hours.
And a premium economy seat that reminded me that glamour is a concept, not a constant. Three days after Matthieu Blazy’s debut at Chanel, I traded Parisian tweed for compression socks—destination: Sydney.
The mission? Attend Surplus, a streetwear-heavy festival run by Supply and backed by Nike, bringing together some of the biggest names in the scene—from Throwing Fits’ James Harris and Lawrence Schlossman to Clint 419, Avi Gold, and a global roll call of collectors, creatives, and hypebeasts who treat “deadstock” like religion. I traveled with colleagues Michiel (our luxury-coded chief commercial officer) and Adam (global business director/resident streetwear whisperer). Together, we were fashion’s most chaotic boyband: One Directional Aesthetic. Or maybe just a really ironic sitcom.
Sydney greeted me with sunshine, humidity, and the kind of tan, cheerful energy that instantly makes you feel like an unpaid extra in a surf documentary. My hotel room, naturally, wouldn’t be ready for six hours. So I went straight to Supply HQ, unshowered but spiritually glowing. Stinky, yet in good spirits.
Founder Shawn Yates welcomed us like old friends. His office was a shrine to cool—sneakers stacked like architectural models, vintage cassettes, and a Fugazi 1991 tour poster declaring “Australia’s first all-ages alternative tour.” I immediately trusted him.
The food was next level. Olympus had me emotional over saganaki and bread, and the freshly baked bacon jam and Comté tarts at Bar Copain were divine. Plus, Australia has no business being this good at Asian cuisine. Feels illegal. More on that later.
The first official day of Surplus kicked off with a string of exhibitions—graffiti artist Chito, photographers Finlay Flint and Sly Morikawa, plus a group show at China Heights Gallery featuring Mimi Libro and Sam Stephenson.
That night, Throwing Fits hosted a live podcast event that turned into one of those fever-dream coincidences. My DMs exploded with messages from old friends saying, “Wait… wasn’t James our RA senior year?” Correct. My college RA is now a menswear legend. We met for drinks the next night and screamed laughing about it. Fashion. Still the smallest community on earth.
Saturday, Burton Street turned into the Surplus marketplace—a mix of vintage, indie brands, zines, and American imports like Scarr’s Pizza, Matty’s Patty’s, and Uncle Paulie’s Deli. I blacked out and woke up having purchased a full Stüssy archive look. No notes.
Lunch was at Pork Fat, a Thai restaurant that genuinely reconnected me with my ancestors. The giant prawn claypot noodles and beef panang hit like therapy. Then came the Corteiz laser maze, staged inside a women’s prison. There were 220 pairs of Corteiz x Nike Air Max 95 Honey Blacks up for grabs. I won. Of course. But I let the kids take the shoes. I’m generous like that.
Sunday was all about “movement,” a.k.a. running in 86-degree heat at 9 a.m. The HOMERUN NYC crew hosted a community run with a Nike raffle at the end. I did half the course, then ordered a taxi to the finish line. A tactical exit. Then off to brunch like a true fashion It Girl.
Post-run (sort of), we hit up the Throwing Fits Bazaar at the East Sydney Community Center, where I nearly bought vintage Miu Miu loafers for $100. Still thinking about them. Still grieving. All the swag I was getting made me averse to spending money.
That night, dinner at Bennelong—the restaurant inside the Sydney Opera House—was pure cinematic perfection. Steak that tasted like a monologue. Waves outside. Existential peace. Then a nightcap at The Ace Hotel, followed by a Thai takeaway order to my bed because… when will I get good Thai food again?! Certainly not in London.
At some point, between jet lag, streetwear bros, and too many flat whites (Aussies invented this genius drink, FYI), I was hit by the reality that I was practically “the only gay in the village” (Little Britain ref, in case you didn’t know). But everyone was absurdly kind, and I never once felt out of place.
In many ways, the trip felt full circle. I’ve been mixing Supreme with Prada and Stüssy with suiting long before it was a mood-board trend. My new Supreme jacket, bought in Seoul—a reversible track style, red-and-navy on one side, fuzzy leopard faux fur on the other—became the unexpected hit of Paris Fashion Week. Every chic girlie pop stopped me to ask where it was from. And in that moment I thought maybe streetwear never died at all.
Also: I met a koala named Nelson at the zoo. We made eye contact. It was spiritual. Then he started doing mating calls and I knew I had to leave.
Thirty hours back to London. One layover in Hong Kong, where I lost my laptop (don’t ask). Zero legroom. But as I sat there, scrolling through photos of Nelson the koala and my Corteiz maze victory, I realized maybe I am a streetwear bro—just one who still packs Miu Miu for good luck.
After all, this isn’t exactly breaking news. Martine Rose was splicing football kits with tailoring years ago, Palace flirted with Gucci, and Louis Vuitton x Supreme basically set the whole thing in motion. Luxe and street have been in bed together for a while now—they just finally stopped pretending it’s casual.
Or maybe I’m just a fashion fan who refuses to pick a lane—too overdressed for the skatepark, too underdressed for the Ritz, exactly right for airport security. Maybe business class next time.
Notes from fashion since we last spoke:
RIP Melanie Ward—legendary stylist whose vision shaped decades. Rest in power, queen.
Grace Wales Bonner named menswear creative director at Hermès. A seismic, culture-shifting appointment.
Aaron Esh joins AllSaints as chief creative officer. Also fab.
Glenn Martens x H&M capsule launched. Dinner was delicious; my jet lag was not.
Writer Amber Chow covered Barcelona Fashion Week. She says Dominnico is the one to watch!
Bag brand Six96 is making waves in London, stocked at Jake’s. I interviewed designer Sally Kite. Read it if you haven’t.
And yes, I bought another vintage ’80s Giorgio Armani jacket off Vestiaire. I plan to pair it with CRTZ—because, according to me, I’m a streetwear bro now.