A Thought About Clothes
By Rafi Mercer
It started, as so many of my thoughts do, with a record. A Japanese pressing of a Blue Note reissue, heavyweight sleeve, obi strip still crisp. I remember the first time I held one of these in the store — it felt different, somehow more deliberate. You could hear it too: quieter surfaces, richer tones, every detail cared for.
That same philosophy is what gave us the listening bar. A room where nothing is accidental: the weight of the curtains, the cut of the light, the placement of the speakers. Everything pared back until only the essentials remain, and those essentials tuned with absolute care. Simplicity not as absence, but as focus.
Lately I’ve been wondering: what would it look like if that philosophy moved from sound into clothes? Not Tracks & Tales as a brand, but simply Rafi Mercer — a line of garments as understated as a kissa, carrying the same reverence for detail.
I imagine it quietly. No shouting logos, no hype drops. Just well-made clothes that whisper if you know how to listen. Heavy cotton tees, the kind that soften but don’t lose shape. Denim that wears in the way a record sleeve does, edges frayed from living. A jacket with a detail only you know — a stitch, a lining, a note tucked where no one else sees it.
The Japanese would understand this instinct. They’ve been doing it with denim for decades — Okayama mills weaving indigo into cloth that ages like oak, each pair of jeans a record of its wearer. Their sneakers too: pared down, geometric, tuned like instruments. And here in the UK, you see a similar spirit in places like Hiut Denim in Wales — small runs, high quality, the belief that making less, better, is the real statement.
If I follow this thought, the parallels are obvious. The listening bar and the wardrobe are both about tuning space. One is sonic, one is physical. Both rely on restraint, and both are defined by what you choose not to include. A kissa doesn’t flood itself with neon or chatter; it gives you silence so the music can breathe. Clothes should do the same: cut away excess, so the person inside can breathe.
I don’t want to over-romanticise. This is just me thinking aloud, sketching ideas in the margins of a notebook. But the temptation is strong. Because I’ve learnt that simple doesn’t mean easy. In fact, it’s the hardest thing: to make something that disappears into daily life, but leaves a trace every time you wear it. To cut a jacket so it just feels right when you move. To choose a fabric that holds its line five years in. To place a stitch where only you will ever notice it.
That’s the appeal of calling it simply Rafi Mercer. Not as vanity, but as responsibility. If your name is on the label, you make it count. Each piece should hold the same attention as a record I’d play in a bar: chosen carefully, sequenced deliberately, intended to last.
Maybe it’s nothing more than a daydream. But I can’t shake the sense that the listening bar and the idea of a clothing line share the same origin story: a refusal of noise, a devotion to craft, the belief that atmosphere matters. Whether it’s a record in a café at midnight or a shirt you reach for in the morning, the philosophy is the same.
Simplicity, done well, is its own kind of music.
Rafi Mercer writes about the spaces where music matters. For more stories from Tracks & Tales, subscribe here, or click here to read more.
