For Boston boy band The Click Five, getting too big for their britches Is a
real sartorial concern. After all, the matching suits they wear onstage are tailored to hug their bodies within the quarter-inch.
So far, though, they’ve only upgraded — not outgrown — their uniforms.
Their first suits, put through a ringer of mall appearances and opening-act cameos, were purchased at H&M. When they signed their first record deal — their debut album, “Greetings from Imrie House,” hit stores Aug. 16 — they hightailed it to a Newbury Street tailor for $3,000 bespoke suits with three-button jackets and pegged pants.
“The fittings took forever and the tailor thought we were crazy that we wanted the suits so tight, but we wanted to be sleek looking, not like Wall Street,” recalls keyboardist Ben Romans.
Four of the five members met at Berklee College of Music in Boston. Drummer Joey Zehr then roped in hometown friend Eric Dill to sing lead vocals. They settled on matching suits because “they look more professional. We’re in the business of rock,” says Romans.
With the suits come Mod-ish haircuts, tonal shirts and ties and black Kenneth Cole slip-ons. Their young fans are wise to the subtext.
“It’s more old-fashioned, like The Beatles,” observes Mary Kacprowicz, 12, of Natick, Mass., as she waits along with several hundred teenagers and their mothers for Click to play at the Middle East club in Cambridge, Mass.
Clearly, this is a band on the cusp of fame: Their catchy single, “Just the Girl,” is the most downloaded song on iTunes; they appear in Perry Ellis’ 25th anniversary campaign this fall, and they chatted up late-night host Conan O’Brien on a recent appearance.
They are guileless and enthused about the whole thing — especially the fashion. Romans dreams of someday getting a pair of “custom rock pants, like Steven Tyler wears.” Currently their shopping is mall-based and modest: H&M, Gap, Urban Outfitters, Banana Republic and other chains.
Bassist Ethan Mentzer favors “women’s Old Navy, size 8” jeans for their tight fit. Zehr has a closet full of “Express shirts purchased by my mother.”
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Dill is acknowledged to be the group’s fashion leader. He has an experimental vein that runs to orange plastic pants.
The band favors button-fly Skinners and Chuck Taylors, freebies from Levi Strauss and Converse, respectively. They covet lizard-skin cowboy boots, if anyone wants to send them. And yes, they would wear freebie suits on stage.
Asked if that’s selling out, they look incredulous. Dill finally speaks for the group. “Who cares?” After all, this is a band already lining deals to peddle licensed lunch boxes.