THE FLARED TROUSER

Flared trousers have never been a neutral silhouette. Kendrick Lamar’s flared denim at his Super Bowl performance sparked excitement and bewilderment. Their origins, like many iconic pieces in menswear, lie in utility. In the early 19th century, American sailors wore bell-bottomed trousers not as a fashion statement, but for ease—easy to roll, easier to remove when wet, and easy to roll up. But what began as maritime practicality would, decades later, become a visual shorthand for ease and swagger.

In the late 1960s and through the 70s, flared trousers were adopted by a generation disillusioned with tradition. Youth movements—political, cultural, musical—used clothing as a form of showing misaligned, subversive identity, and the flare became part of that vocabulary: Mick Jagger, Jimi Hendrix, David Bowie. It was anti-establishment, a deliberate move away from the narrow, conservative cuts of previous decades. Flared trousers were worn in defiance: Jackson Five, Berkeley students, the Black Panthers, British football hooligans, Saturday Night Fever. Anyone with something to say: denim, velvet, corduroy—it didn’t matter. What mattered was the shape.

By the mid-70s and the age of Disco, flares had gone mainstream, before quietly retreating into the archives during the rise of slim minimalism in the 90s and 2000s. The iconic bell-bottoms of the ’70s, as in John Travolta’s cream suit, fit tightly to the knee before ballooning out. Today, flares are being reinterpreted in tailoring: clean lines, heavier fabrics, modern proportions with a more gradual widening of the leg. No longer just nostalgic, flares are now structured, deliberate. Flared Pants anchor the silhouette, just like turn-ups do, but more dramatically. They offer an alternative to the dominance of otherwise straight and slim cuts. In wool, the flare becomes architectural. In denim, it recalls its roots. Either way, it speaks. Not louder than the other trousers but differently, and always with intention.