Adam Baidawi

Nick Waterhouse
by ADAM BAIDAWI 
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This story appeared in GQ Style Australia.

First, you think R&B revivalist Nick Waterhouse is guilty of superficial pastiche: all thick-frame glasses, Ike Turner guitar, and pomade-combed hair. But then it clicks. It’s the yearn in his vocals, the silhouette of his pinpoint oxford, the maverick glimmer in his eye. Eventually, everyone comes to realise: Nick Waterhouse is legit.

Waterhouse, a style rebel from day dot, shunned the California-cool of his hometown, Orange County. The son of a surfing man, he spent his adolescence around an abundance of millionaires and an absence of collared shirts. Chasing sartorial smarts, this was the kid who, after seeing The Blues Brothers, asked for mod suiting at age 11. This was also the kid who insisted on chunky frames, even when his father warned him he’d “look like Elvis Costello”.

“He was half right,” grins Waterhouse. It was a dapper baptism of fire. “That tough, sharp, urbane look was something that was really unique. In Southern California, even millionaires are in business casual.”

And it’s not just his look that earns hi attention. Waterhouse’s take on rhythm and blues is brilliant and mesmerising. Part homage, part breakaway, it gives you that gut-punch of a feeling that this guy might really give a damn. And, in this Voice-driven, Bublé era of soul—which is arbitrated by Deltas and Seals—that’s a rare thing. 

“When people say ‘soul,’ it used to mean deep down soul. Now it’s like saying, ‘punk,’” he says. “Take away everything to distract you from a tune, you're only left with that person's personality. Their little quirks are going to come out.”

Even Waterhouse’s recording sessions are throwback. His debut Times All Gone was crafted through all-in jams where sweat and goosebumps proved as crucial a barometer as anything. The LP evokes the ecstatic sounds of the blues-era. It’s partly thanks to the rapturous vibe but, even better, Waterhouse uses the same analogue recording gear.

“It's the most honest-sounding thing,” says Waterhouse. “The nakedness and rawness of analogue means you can't trick yourself or trick the listener or trick the song into being something it's not. That, to me, is how you get to the core.”

It shows. Waterhouse’s tracks are a gutsy locomotive: the husky live vocals, the eight-piece brass band, the Raelette-esque backup vocalists. Sure, blues is blues. Sure, every crooner from Ray Charles to Amy Winehouse recorded the same Rosetta Stone of a 12-bar chord progression. It’s Waterhouse’s details, though, that break him stylishly away from the pack. Like how he rolls his eyes at the flashy, “one hundred per cent audaciousness” of Elvis Presley, and injects nods to Hart Crane and e.e. cummings instead.

“It’s things like nuance and not being fashionable—focusing on craft and quality and style,” he says. “Those are same things I look for in clothes as well.”

Only 26, Waterhouse has curated a stylish, nostalgic life. It’s that Midnight in Paris whimsy—with less wimp and more punch. Waterhouse knows what he likes and pursues it doggedly. He digs Brooks Brothers shirts, for instance, because he can buy one today and trust it’ll fit exactly the same as the one he bought a decade ago. 

“It’s this classicism: you don't mess around with something that's good, when it's really good. The collar fits right, the yoke on the shoulders is great. Everything is still double-stitched along the edging.”

He has an East-LA barber—who grooms his band every couple of weeks—and two hard-won tailors. “Quite a few tailors, especially now, are glorified alterers,” Waterhouse explains. He raves about “this crazy Russian lady” Victoria, who takes care of his shirting. “She’s never afraid to go too slim.”

Though he’ll regularly dig through vintage clothing racks in Long Beach, Waterhouse describes himself as a “meat and potatoes” kind of dresser: deep blue Levis, the perfect white tees, and those aforementioned immaculate shirts. Like his music, the beating heart of Waterhouse’s style is stripping away the flash—and nailing the details.

A while back, he ditched his quintuple-bladed, face-massacring razor for a single blade and never looked back. “It’s incredibly comfortable. I stopped getting in-grown hairs.”

“It's like everything else,” shrugs Waterhouse, the breezy rebel. “It doesn’t make sense to have all that extra stuff.”

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Nick Waterhouse’s Rules for Sharp, Throwback Style

“Look lean and mean.”
“Always wear trousers at your waist.”
“Wear a jacket at night. Without fail.”
“Never mix black and brown leather.”
“Hair combed—always.”