Each candy-floss topped model was crammed full of Kings Road angst; from dishevelled mesh shirts, fully exposing breasts with fuck-you-fortitude, right down to the fiery, impassioned pounding of her heavy-duty, doc marten style, biker boot. The anarchic dynamism soared.
Modern grunge was also utterly conquered through a battered-doll sensibility. Webby knits, long straggly layers and negative photo prints screamed new generation innovation and awkwardly paralleled the 18th century uniform of hoop skirts, which Yamamoto perversely contorted with flashed exhibitions of inter-structural caging.
Yohji Yamamoto's a/w offering was totally my cup of vodka spiked tea and, quite franky, anything that even half resembles ice cream is going to get my vote. This guy is on to a winner.
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