WRITTEN BY: WILL HALBERT
Tall tales, small talk, and useless tangents inspired by the daily rotation.
Before I get down to the brass tacks and general badassery of the Heartbreaker boots, there’s a couple of things you should know about me. The first is that I’m a beard-toting, tiny beanie-wearing, speciality coffee-drinking, wiener dog-walking poster boy of postmodern irony. The second is that I reside in the city of Liverpool. We do things a little differently here in the North of the UK. We’re a rough-and-ready, post-industrial port city with an infamous accent, a perpetually terrible weather forecast, and a near fatal intolerance for bullshit.
You’d be justified in thinking that this would make walking around Liverpool in a pair of snakeskin-embossed, western-cut, cowboy boots something of a contentious issue. You’d be dead wrong.
You see, much like a bearded man walking a tiny dog through the city of Liverpool, the SOP x Santa Rosa Heartbreaker boot offers a touch of irony, a mite of intrigue, and not one single, solitary trace of bullshit. That mix goes a long way in these parts. The Heartbreakers were right at home.
Part rock n’ roll cornerstone, part rootin’ tootin’ anachronism, the Heartbreaker boot is as batshit crazy as it is deadly serious. I’ll skip over questions of quality and solid construction for the simple fact that both are an absolute given. Neither SOP nor Santa Rosa are in the business of half measures or cut corners. Which is why both parties have come away with the kind of boot that not only speaks for itself, but does the talking for you. The Heartbreakers are, quite simply, your intro music. They bring the kind of noise that makes walking into a room feel like you’re stepping into a spaghetti western standoff with half a dozen henchmen at your back. Bottom line? They make an impression.
I should know, too. Over the last month and change, my Heartbreakers and I have been inseparable. Together, we’ve braved London heat waves and Liverpool downpours; morning coffee runs and evening whisky hunts. From talking shop to kicking rocks, the Heartbreakers have been my go-to choice for all business, leisure and pleasure endeavours.
In that time, they’ve turned so many heads in quick succession that I think someone missed a trick not naming them ‘Neckbreakers’. A few unsolicited comments and descriptors (from friends and strangers alike) include personal favourites like ‘ballsy’; ‘spicy’; ‘saucy’; ‘sassy’ and ‘sick’. Some considered my Heartbreakers to be ‘the shit’, others merely thought them ‘the tits’. Debates raged over whether my boots were ‘cold as ice’, ‘cool as fuck’, or simply ‘slick as pig muck’. The jury is still out.
This, if you ask me, is exactly the way in which personal style ought to operate. Style isn’t about status, but it should serve to elevate, embolden and even invite a little conversation along the way. Style should always be considered, but never overthought, and certainly never taken too seriously. It should be fun. Considered this way, even the loudest, most statement-making pieces become not only feasible, but completely and utterly unfuckwithable. My Heartbreakers offer the best visual metaphor of that attitude - they might only have a 1.5” heel, but they have me walking around like I’m 60ft tall.
This is probably just as well, because if you’re unfortunate enough to have been living on the same planet as me for the last few months, then you’ll know full well that 2020 has offered up an ass kicking fit for the history books. My Heartbreakers have taken on a whole new significance in that respect. Wearing them has become an act of defiance. They now serve as a snakeskin-emblazoned, goodyear welted reminder that when life decides to knock you on your ass in such a spectacular fashion, you don't just get back up with all the poise and steez you can physically muster. You dust yourself off, you don your boots and you come out fucking swinging.