The Inventor of the Cowboy Shirt

Jack A had spent his life on the hunt for design ideas that were different than the conventional. Before the war, while visiting San Francisco, he had noticed that a Chinese tailor was making handmade shirts with snaps on them instead of buttons. He was impressed by the idea. He knew enough about the technology of snaps to see that the tailor hadn't got it quite right; he was using glove snaps that wouldn't hold up to the stresses and strains that a shirt undergoes. But the idea intrigued him; it wouldn't let him sleep at night. While the war raged in Europe, and the clothing factories were restricted to military production, Jack quietly nurtured the concept of putting a snap on the cowboy shirt.

Jack A's variation of the bolo has become the de rigeur piece of clothing for every wannabe cowboy. You see them on insurance salesmen in Nebraska, on hip Hollywood producers drinking at the Chateau Marmont, and even on Presidential hopefuls when they are out on the stump in the rural west. But you can also spot them on real, honest-to-god ranchers when they are in town visiting the bank or meeting friends for coffee. Out west, a bolo tie around your neck means that you're not a poor immigrant field worker but neither are you an uptight city suit. It signifies down-home authenticity. This is exactly what Jack A had hoped for when he put a silver buckle on the bolo lariat. He had a theory about it. "The bolo is a lot less formal than the conventional European silk necktie. Also, you can wear it with your shirt collars open which makes things more comfortable for a working man.” He had taken the European men's tie, a symbol of wealth, privilege and class authority and had loosened it up, democratized it. Life in Colorado, he felt, was less constrained than life back east or in the Old World and what you wore around your neck should reflect this new culture. Manufacturing those early bolos was a craft-intensive undertaking. Special pliers, used by telephone linemen, were used to bend the silver tips around the lariat. It took training and persistence. As a result, for many years Rockmount produced only two types of bolo ties. ("Bolo" is actually a misnomer. Jack A wanted to call it the "bola" but he didn't write the "a" clearly enough on the manufacturing order one day. Remarkably, when westerners pronounce "bolo" it comes out sounding like "bola.") When Jack B assumed some of the design responsibilities from his father in the mid 1970s, he felt it was crucial to expand their output. "I've styled the bolo line for over twenty five years," Jack B boasted to me as he tucked into his meat, "and now we have over 300 styles. You know those bolos with dried scorpions on them? Those are mine, along with all the ones with buffalo nickels and cowboy boots, pigs asses and Stetson hats. Oh yeah, its been a lot of fun." If Jack A was a western wear visionary, then Jack B was Rockmount's popularizer. He never let the issue of taste get in his way. As a result, he successfully saw the company through times when cowboy culture was on the wane and disco culture dominated. He steered a profitable path through glam rock and rhinestones. His cowboy shirt designs embraced stripes and tie-dye, stonewashed denim and appliqué. If Jack A's designs were classic and manly and simple — think of a lone horseman on a cattle-drive in Montana — then Jack B's aesthetic was flashier and trashier and more prone to rapid change — think square dancing in Reno on a Saturday night. When lunch was over, we got back into Jack B's car. He was driving a midnight black Cadillac Seville with white-wall tires and all black leather interior. We cruised down Colorado Boulevard at 40 mph. Jack B tooted his horn at people on the street and they waved back familiarly. Jack A even touched his Stetson once or twice in a graceful western salute. They were minor Denver royalty. I offhandedly asked Jack A if any of the other ready-to-wear Western clothiers were also Jewish, like himself. He pushed his hat back up on his head and astonished me by rattling off a list: Karman, H Bar C, Miller Western Wear and, at one point, Stetson. And of course there was Levi-Strauss. "I think Jews were a part of the revolution in western apparel because it was suited to independent thinking people," Jack said. "Our history shaped us." We came to a stop in front of a rectangular five-story, red-brick building. It was plain and handsome and functional looking. The large display windows were artfully filled with leather saddles and cowboy boots, Stetson hats and gleaming silver spurs. Jack B switched off the engine. I noticed to my surprise that he was livid, with veins branching across his forehead. "I've never had any desire to be part of that — people who push being part of a so-called minority." He got out of the car and shut the door firmly. "Anyway," he said leaning in through the window, "I'm a Unitarian." Jack B sauntered away from the car, leaving me with Jack A as he slowly extricated himself from the back seat. We walked slowly towards the doors of Rockmount. "I don't wear my feelings or my religion or my beliefs on my shoulder" he said to me. We climbed the stairs. "The Jews who came out here wanted to fit in, wanted to be Westerners. They had come to this country to be Americans. They didn't come to this country to be Jewish. It shouldn't conflict. One is a religion and the other is a way of life, a physical, daily life." He placed a hand on the door. "Now let me show you around."I followed Jack A into the store. Lined up along one wall hung an impressive array of Rockmount shirts, mounted behind Plexiglas. "This is just like the shirt that Paul Newman wore in the movie Hud," he said. "See those diamond-shaped snaps? And look at that hand stitching." He ran a trembling finger over the Plexiglas, as if he was explaining an exhibit in a museum. "Can't get people to do that kind of detail work anymore." He then ducked into a chaotic room, one half of which was filled with hundreds of cowboy hats hanging from pegs.I pointed to a photograph propped up on a counter and which was surrounded by a tumble of bolos, cowboy hats and kerchiefs. "Oh, that's Tony Curtis. He was in Denver and was driving by and saw the lariats and horns and hats in the window. He came in and we gave him a cowboy hat and then took him out to lunch. That's us at lunch with Tony Curtis. He had the time of his life."Jack A suddenly seemed extremely tired. In his presence, it was easy to forget his immense age. We walked slowly to his office, which was in the rear of the store. A large desk commanded the space. As he lowered himself into his chair his head sunk behind an outcropping of paper. "This is not a good commentary on a successful businessman,” he said wryly as he eyed the mound.

Jack Arnold Weil died in his home in Denver last August. He had outlived Jack B by nearly seven months. He was 107 years old.


Adam Levy is a filmmaker and writer. He recently produced "Selling the Sixties," a BBC documentary about consumerism, advertising and culture of the early 1960s.