Dress codes used to be a way of indicating what kind of place or event you were going to. Now the term is almost a form of abuse, as shown by the ruckus raised when Arcade Fire said that people attending its forthcoming shows should come in "formal attire or costumes."
Nothing the Montreal band has done, said, written or recorded has had such sneeringly bad press, though from my years as a music writer I know that rock critics tend to resent any clothing more formal than a faded band T-shirt.
They're missing the point this time, which is that a dress code can create an occasion, by getting people to do something in harmony with a lot of others they don't know.
An audience that dresses for a show is an engaged audience, especially when the code is as open as "formal attire or costumes." The wonder isn't that Arcade Fire put out such a request, but that other bands don't.
We already have a massive public event with a dress code that is universally accepted. It's called Halloween, and I'll bet that a lot of people grousing about Arcade Fire's call for costumes didn't raise a murmur when the pumpkins were out, just a couple of weeks earlier.
Last weekend I attended another event at which everyone dressed to rule, and no one complained about it. WORN Fashion Journal's periodic Black Cat Ball is a black-and-white affair, and few people who go to the Toronto event fail to execute some riff on that simple contrast.
It would be a very different party if they didn't. The thought and effort that go into making your appearance a variation on a common theme give the ball the feeling of a creative social experience.
A lot of people at the Black Cat Ball dressed to stand out, which is contrary to the traditional purpose of dress codes, especially at the formal end of the spectrum. "Formal and semi-formal clothes leave less leeway for individuality, hence less room for error," says my 1954 copy of Esquire Etiquette. Dress codes were a way of defusing anxiety, not stirring it up.
When clothing started to become less formalized, a decade or so after that book was published, dress codes started to seem more like the universal dad's way of spoiling the fun. Restaurants that keep racks of jackets and ties to impose on men who arrive without them are the worst thing that ever happened to dress codes.
The second worst is probably the kind of hedged terminology – "casual black tie," for example – that sets up a puzzling dissonance about what is expected.
But where a dress code has an organic origin or is well-established, it can be hard to displace. The Queen's annual race meeting at Ascot has been held since 1711, and is "the last large-scale court occasion with strictly enforced dress rules," writes Philip Mansel in his 2005 book, Dressed To Rule: Royal and Court Costume From Louis XIV to Elizabeth II.
Women at Ascot must wear "formal day dress with a hat"; for men, "black or grey morning dress with top hat is required." In 1968, these rules were relaxed so that men could wear a business suit, but the change was abandoned after two years, "since so few men wanted to wear it." Presumably they felt that without formal dress, Ascot wouldn't be Ascot. What people wear is a key part of the event.
That's what Arcade Fire had in mind: to get its audience to help make the occasion with the clothes. "It just makes for a more fun carnival when we are all in it together," they said. A similar idea is visible at any goth or metal concert, where fans tend to dress within a carefully structured code without prompting.
From the outside, a uniform look among people who attach themselves to a kick-it-over sensibility in music can seem comical, but from the inside, it's part of the experience, part of being in the crowd and with the band.
Arcade Fire's error, apparently, was to ask. But what they're asking seems to me a great idea, and could make these concerts among their most satisfying.
Say yes to dress codes, rock fans. You have nothing to lose but your inhibitions.