When he reached the counter, the woman didn't even look at the tags. "Twenty bucks for the haul," she said. "Wear them until they fall apart, then patch 'em up and wear 'em again."

He didn't need a dressing room. He threw the flannel over his t-shirt and felt an immediate sense of belonging. It wasn't about the brand or the price tag. It was about the fact that these clothes had survived. They were rugged, unpretentious, and slightly messy—just like the music that inspired them.

"The real stuff," Leo said. "Not the stuff made to look old. The stuff that actually is."