Out of the Box
The cult of Carhartt
Recently I re-entered the world of physically taxing labour in the fields of construction and masonry. Thankfully, I still had steel-toed boots left over from my lumber-piling days. I also had a couple of pairs of substantial canvas work pants that had only ever seen any “work” behind a desk or in front of a photocopier. Onsite at my new jobs were many other men in similar thick canvas jackets and trousers. At the lumber-yards in the morning, more people in thick cotton duck—all of us wearing Carhartt.
Carhartt, out of Dearborn, Michigan, claims to have been around since the late 1800s, but I can only recall their prominence over the last dozen years or so. Dickies used to be the main brand of work clothes “re-appropriated” by a wider market. And, of course, the granddaddy of working-class wear hoisted into the mainstream is blue jeans, namely those of Levi Strauss, who eventually sold copper-riveted denim meant for miners to the world. The recent Carhartt popularity is stunning, as the clothes are so universally loved by wearers for sartorial hardiness that the company has captured major market share.
A testament to the practical cult of Carhartt is the annual Carhartt Ball in Talkeetna, Alaska. People assemble in their finest cotton-duck attire to party and celebrate the garments’ life-saving toughness: outerwear that has proven thick enough to deflect something sharp like the business end of a bad-tempered, rutting elk, for instance.
But, as with SUVs, these clothes are increasingly sold to a market that doesn’t really need the products’ ruggedness. In fact, the Carhartt label has not only taken a huge market share of the work clothes arena, but has also taken a chunk of the “upscale-outdoor-clothes” market of LL Bean and Eddie Bauer. There are plenty of Carhartt jackets that aren’t going to deflect anything more lethal than gas-bar coffee, mine included.
Indeed, the clothes are very protective. In fact, donning any garment made from 15-oz. duck is much like girding oneself with marginally flexible armour, especially if suited up in the insulated overalls. Those babies feel like they could protect one from a protracted paintball or BB-gun ambush. However, the 15-oz. logger’s dungaree is so relentlessly stiff–sewn from a material so rigid that doesn’t fold so much as bend—that I attempted to tenderize a pair with the blunt backside of a maul, to no avail. A double-kneed pair of 12-oz. trousers can weather nearly anything without the threat of suddenly pinching its wearer.
It’s inevitable that a work-wear brand that offers a kids’ line and can be seen adorning retired guys driving their RV’s around the country will be a little dearer than say, the fares of Dakota or Denver Hayes. Over the border in Oroville, Washington, the local Prince’s store sells as much Carhartt as Dickies merchandise, even though two nearly identical items, like two light brown, 12-oz. insulated vests, have wildly disparate costs (the Dickies vest selling for about half as much as the Carhartt). Still, the checkout girls tell me, Carhartt’s reputation and fierce brand loyalty ensure brisk sales year-round.
It’s difficult to write about a particular product, to bolster its legend, without appearing like a shill. I assure you that a corporation is not rewarding me to characterize its wares as expensive and able to raise pinch-welts. But Carhartt has become so ubiquitous, like Crocs were two years ago, that it’s worthwhile to consider from whence this dominance arose. As the economy “readjusts,” it’ll be interesting to see if the company loses market share, or if folks come to see its resilient jackets and trousers as investments for work.
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