Chris Black Can’t Slow Down
The How Long Gone co-host and founder of Hanover opens up about everything.
- Written by: Chris Gayomali
- Photographed by: Adam Powell
An overcast afternoon in New York City’s Chinatown, some non-fussy coffee shop. Chris Black, a downtown fixture, lives nearby with his wife, and this neighborhood joint is one of his spots. We’re seated across from each other at a tall table, and he’s showing me something confidential on his phone—information that, under less transactive circumstances, would most likely remain private, known only between him and his god.
“4:35 hours!” he said, pleasantly shocked. “Hell yeah.”
That his screen time wasn’t somewhere closer to double digits was surprising, as Chris Black is something of an inescapable presence online, someone for whom doomscrolling is, as he once admitted, mostly a skill issue. “You know, it’s because I’m always on my laptop instead,” he said. “I’m still like Gen X vibes. I won’t book a flight on my phone. I use Twitter on the desktop. Instagram is so bad on desktop that I don’t really use it. I’m kind of old school.”
Black is a panoptic presence among the New York creative class, somehow everywhere all at once: as a consultant for @donetodeath projects; as co-host of the podcast How Long Gone, which has recorded three times a week since the pandemic without fail; as a soon-to-be memoirist; and as a regular columnist to magazines like New York and, until recently, GQ. Aside from maybe Stephen A. Smith, there are few people alive who can touch Chris Black’s endless capacity and endurance for getting off takes.
In 2025, Chris Black added another job to his growing list of hyphenations: clothing-brand founder. Hanover, named after the street he grew up on in the Atlanta suburbs, is a line of made-in America basics, with nothing priced higher than $300. The brand, soon available on SSENSE, is a reflection of Black’s taste and values, an insistence that fashion has maybe gotten a little too wild and it’d be in our best interest to reel it in.
I first met Chris Black years ago, when I was, for a few years, his editor at GQ. I remember he had tweeted something like “New Found Glory is the best workout music” and very quickly hit follow. Soon afterward, he wrote an essay that still sticks with me, about how his group chat got him through a divorce and addiction, and it’s been fascinating to watch his rise.
When we meet up for coffee—his drink is an iced quadshot with oat milk—he’s wearing a long sleeve polo from Hanover, olive green military fatigues chopped somewhere between jorts and culottes, and plaid Jack Purcells. Black is 43 and looking trim these days. He attributes the weight loss to ditching his usual GoMacro bars and instead cooking for himself after the gym. “Now my lunch is six scrambled eggs and a piece of toast from Frenchette,” he said.
Chris Gayomali
Chris Black
It’s been a few years, man. I’ve been wanting to ask you: When did the possibility of starting a clothing brand become a real thing for you?
I mean, I was screen printing T-shirts in my early twenties. And starting a brand, everybody who does this for a living actively discourages you from even trying.
Like they’re daring you to have a go at it.
“Don’t do this. It’s a nightmare.” And I’m like, sure! But everything’s kind of a nightmare. Around 2024, one of my partners came to me and they were like, “Hey, we could raise money for this if you’re interested in doing it.” And I was sort of like, “Nah… but maybe?” And then I thought about it more and then we started talking. I was like: “Oh, if I could do Made in USA for this price point, let’s try it.” And those two factors are sort of the reason that it happened.
Then you launched in late 2025, so things moved really fast?
I mean, the beauty of How Long Gone and the columns and all this stuff is that there’s a built-in audience. It’s not like a complete risk, but it’s also not like a full-on Dairy Boy situation where you could just print money because you know it’s going to work. It was somewhere in between, which I felt comfortable with. The production guy for Hanover is a guy named Brooks [Fitch] who used to work at Double RL. I’ve known him for 15 years. And they brought him to me, we were both like, “What the fuck, bro!” So once I knew he was down, it was like, “Oh, this guy has amazing taste. We’ve known each other for years. I know where he comes from.” So it makes my life a lot easier because he’s sort of able to get things to a place where when I see it, it’s pretty baked.
What was your hero item when you launched?
The hero item I had in mind was a polo. I’ve been a polo guy ever since I was a kid. It’s some Southern shit. It’s like the dress shirt of summer in the South.
Something you can wear to weddings, funerals.
It covers all the bases. So I wear all these polos; I have several polo shirts from several different people. It’s one of those things where they’re all good, but none of them are exactly what you want. For me it was like, how can I make Lacoste heavier, but washed? Unique, but a little heavier. That was the game we played—and we did it basically.What’s really interesting is that the stuff that’s doing the best is Oxfords and jeans, which are the things you can get everywhere. But I think that the Made in USA thing and the price consideration is enough. And hopefully some of the marketing stuff we’re doing works.
It is kind of funny that you’re in a place where your chief competitor is like Dov Charney.
I mean, that’s the thing! Like I love Lady White. I would never charge those prices. I just don’t want to do that. I would rather compete with LA Apparel or Uniqlo or J.Crew. I think that’s actually what guys want. That’s my whole thing. I think guys are sort of like, all this shit is ridiculous! It’s too expensive. It’s too extreme. What if we pared back a little bit? And you could still buy that stuff sometimes, but at least there’s a place to go all the time to get the stuff that’s a little more simple and considered. That’s really it.
How involved are you in the design process? Are you basically like “I want this, this, and this” and then they go out and do it for you?
Basically. It’s like every other business now. There’s a text chain and there’s 10 other text chains that are one-on-one. There’s one that’s bigger and then three or four that are smaller. A lot of it is just sort of like, what makes sense? You launch with T-shirts, long sleeve T-shirts, hoodies, jeans, Oxfords, and boxers. And then it’s like, oh, we’re going to do a denim Oxford. We’re going to do plaid. And then Chinos, and then black Chinos. It’s pretty clear what the roadmap is as far as what makes sense.
What were some of the early guardrails in terms of color selection for you?
Dude I was always like, I only wear navy and black and olive. Very pared down. And then Brooks really pushed me on a cherry red T-shirt, and it sold like crazy. And every woman in my life is like, “That is the shirt. I need the shirt.”
In terms of taste, I’d love for you to break down what makes a good shirt to Chris Black. What qualities are you looking for in terms of, I don’t know, shoulder length or how it should fit?
It’s mostly about the wash and how it can feel substantial, but not too thick. I don’t like thin. I don’t like James Perse. Those are really nice T-shirts, but that’s not what I want to make. I want something with a little more of a hand feel, and that’s the most important. To me, it’s the color and the wash of the shirt because I think everything needs to feel lived in. That was the goal. The fit is the fit.
I think people get too scientific with it. But the issue is everybody’s particular. I want something as traditional as possible with a little more room. Not like a Hanes or Gildan, you know what I mean? From a fit perspective it’s like Comfort Colors. That’s what everybody actually wears. Post-merch boom, I think people don’t realize that’s what they actually want. Our fits are more based on that than some sort of avant-garde or high-end T-shirt maker. All that shit people like, Merz b. Schwanen, all that shit is very, very good. But to me it feels silly. It feels a little fussy.
I get it. There’s almost an apprehension to wear your shit when it’s too nice.
I think men are sort of in a weird spot where it’s like we’ve been given too much license to like clothes. It’s time to walk it back! I don’t need to go back to the ’80s, but there’s a part of me that’s like, dude, maybe we should express ourselves less.
I live in this general neighborhood. You see it all. I’m basically shopping all day, walking around, whatever. And you start to see a 13-year-old boy with his parents, and he’s going to Gucci to get a sweatshirt for his birthday, while you and I were going to a record store or a skate shop or whatever. When I saw that, I was like, “This is bad!” Liking clothes is not a subculture. That’s what fucks me up.
I recently revisited that anonymous “I Hate Menswear” essay I wrote a couple years ago and I was like… yeah, this holds up.
Dude, 100 percent holds up. Menswear is so cooked. And I know to some extent that’s my customer, and I’m fine with that because they’re buying stuff no matter what.
The way men shop and women shop are different. I hear it from my wife, I hear it from Ash who does our sales. Women are basically like, “How does this look on me? How much does it cost?” And guys are like, “What’s the construction? Where is this made? What’s the thread count?” Because we’ve tried to nerd it out to make it socially acceptable. And it’s like, dude, it’s just fine.
It used to be that your style was dictated by the subculture you were into. So if you were into hardcore, there’s a look. If you were into punk, there’s a look. If you were goth, there was a look. If you skated, that was your look. Now it’s like, “My look is: I like to shop!” And that’s crazy.
I can’t prove it but I think all the textile fetishizing is a psyop.
Dude. It’s crazy. I don’t care. I make clothes, and I don’t care! Because I’m like, “This feels good. All right, great. It’s a weight thing. It’s a feel thing. It’s a texture thing.” But that’s all I need. I don’t need to think about it more than that.
I think the luxury of it all and sort of the signifiers that people want to look rich and that whole thing has really damaged us in many ways. I participate in my own ways, of course. You know what I mean? But you got to be subtle when you do it. I’m like, “Wow. Yeah, maybe that Auralee jacket is really nice. I want that and that’s worth it. But do I need the Auralee T-shirt for $300?” Probably not! I think you have to be a certain level of wealthy to really shop like that. You have to be actually rich.
What were your mall stores growing up in Atlanta?
I mean, I did a lot of shoplifting. It was GAP, J.Crew, Old Navy. I mean, I still have... It’s funny. I was at my parents’ house a couple weeks ago and I found the T-shirt I’ve had the longest.
What is it?
It’s a gray Old Navy pocket tee. Now it’s just unwearable. The fucked up thing is I realized that whatever my mom was dressing me in and now what I’m dressing in as an adult are kind of the same. Maybe the size of the pants differs. You know what I mean?
The pants skinniness fluctuates year over year.
But overall it’s kind of like, yo, it’s kind of the same. I was wearing a giant Oxford from the GAP or whatever in 1998, and now it’s like that’s the thing again. But those mall stores are like... Abercrombie was too much. It had too much adornment. J.Crew and GAP—they’re still like that. Those are two of our greatest exports as a country. And it’s because they make good, regular stuff. That’s what the North Star is: good regular stuff.
Even when I started to make money it was weird. I was buying Agnès B. button-down shirts, shopping at Opening Ceremony.
Did your style ever deviate at a certain point where you got a little freaky with it?
Definitely. I mean, this has come up a lot lately. I had Cheap Mondays with Repettos on. My friend showed up to the pool in LA last week with the Repettos on and I was like, “Could I buy these again?” And my wife was like, “No.” I’m like, “But...” She’s like, “Yeah, he can wear them, you can’t.” I’m like, “Fair!”
But yeah, who did I think I was? I had a white pair and a black pair. I wasn’t even a Serge Gainsbourg guy. I was very... There’s one side that was Oasis, like Stone Roses, but then you get into Jarvis Cocker and sort of like the Libertines. I would always wear the Fred Perry polo with jeans and a Repetto or a Vans. That was it.
I once bought a pair of April 77s because of Pete Doherty.
Those guys looked amazing. They still look amazing. It still looks good. It still holds up, I think. But I never had a weird phase where I was like, “I need a leather jacket.”
So you never had, say, a Rick phase?
That’s what I’m proud of and sad about. That I never really went crazy because it was always just sort of like, why? I didn’t feel compelled. I didn’t feel called. I made a lot of mistakes, but they weren’t expensive.
Did you ever work in retail?
My first job was in a dry cleaners, but I once worked at a store called Abbadabba’s. It’s like a small chain in Atlanta that sold Clarks and Birkenstocks and Vans and shit like that. And then I worked at a rave store called Wish that had a DJ booth above the cash register. It was like a real rave store. And then I worked at a place called Standard. My boss was a rich guy named Rashad who was from Iran, and he and his brother just put me on. My birthday presents would be like the Gucci wallet or a Chrome Hearts shirt. In 2005!
That’s so funny.
We sold Fred Perry and Y-3 and G-Star and our customers were Usher and Elton John. It was really Atlanta.
So that was your early education in luxury shoes?
Yeah, my parents aren’t into stuff like that and neither were my friends. When I started managing a band, and making money, I was like, yo, I’m in LA, I’m in New York. I’m going to Barneys. I’m just going to buy stuff.
I told this to the Paul Smith people because I work with them now, but when we did the VMAs for the first time, I was like, “Well, I want to look like a manager. I’m going to go to Barneys.” I got a Paul Smith suit. I still have it.
So you accumulated a lot of fashion experience IRL.
I mean, a lot of it was from IRL, and the only other thing that got through to me were magazines. Like: I know what looks cool, I know what I’m gravitating towards. Back then you could go to Waldenbooks and Barnes & Noble and you could sit there for three hours and read Arena, The Face, i-D, all of that stuff. I would read NME, Rolling Stone, and Spin, to learn about music, and then fashion so draped in my culture that it felt approachable.
How’d you end up managing your band Cartel?
We grew up together, most of us. Will, the singer, was younger, but we all basically went to middle school together. It was a classic, “Yo, I’m doing this, you’re doing this, let’s do it together.” They were cool because in those situations, especially when you get a major label involved, they’re trying to get rid of me. They’re like, “Who the fuck is this guy? He’s 24 and he’s on coke. How is he in charge?” But they always sort of stood up for me.
I saw they did a 25th anniversary release of Chroma. They sound good.
Yeah they sound good. Will sounds great.
My algorithm got hit with a bunch of the Warped Tour clips, and I was shocked that so many of these bands don’t sound torched.
Same. I still love some of that stuff. Taking Back Sunday is still good. I listen to a lot of that shit in the gym, but I was always on my British bands. The Smiths, Belle and Sebastian, The Libertines, Razorlight, Oasis. I’m so glad that I went that way.
Who’s the British dude who’s style you tried to emulate the most when you were younger?
Oh God, dude. I mean, probably Liam [Gallagher]. Because it feels easy. You look at him because it’s a sweater and jeans. I wore Adidas in high school and then never wore Adidas again until the Wales Bonner ones came out because I’m like a Nike diehard. The Samba was too good. Stan Smiths. I would move to London tomorrow…
Let’s talk about How Long Gone real quick, because I don’t think we’ve really talked about your ascension to pod lord. You guys record three times a week and never seem to take a break, huh?
We’ll take the week between Christmas and New Year’s, or we’ll take off maybe during the summer depending on the travel schedule. But I don’t know, man. It’s been like five years, maybe a little more. I think we’re just locked in. It goes through phases, but right now it feels like we’re having a really good time. It’s really fun. It’s like what Jason and I are doing in our other lives and how we interact with each other. We’ve really hit a point where it’s like, it’s just fun. Sometimes it does feel like a job. But right now it doesn’t, and that has nothing to do weirdly with the guests. It has everything to do with Jason and me.
That kind of creative sync feels rare. Why do you think you guys work so well together?
There’s a very clear delineation of skills and job responsibilities. The stuff that he does, I cannot do, and the stuff I do, he can’t do. That’s just been so clear and understood from the beginning. And we have not deviated from that or tried to deviate from that.
Most of these relationships fall apart because of money. It’s like in bands. There are all these issues with songwriting credits: who did this, who did that. We don’t really have that. It’s like when it comes to the podcast revenue, Jason gets paid more because he edits the podcast. He spends a lot more time on it, and that’s fair. We decided that at the beginning.
So you have this kind of wild pie chart of work. What does an average day look like to you?
Every day is different in a good way. I’m traveling probably 200 days or more a year. It’s crazy. I’m recording. I’m fucking on Zoom. I’m on these Hanover calls. The fun of it is that when you’ve never had a job, you just sort of get used to doing everything all the time.
You’re kind of like a shark. You can’t stop swimming or you die.
I was talking to someone recently who was like, “Yeah, I’m just ready to slow down.” And I was like, “What? We’re 40. What do you mean slow down? This is it!” I tasted some success at a young age managing the band. Historically, we’re taught that if you’re not successful or famous by the time you’re 25, you’re done. Like that’s it. You’re just going to have a job and be boring. But for me 50 is looking more prime than 20. And that’s something you can only understand once you’re there.
Early success is such a trap. You stop thinking that your best days are still ahead.
Dude, I think when you look at real success, you realize like, oh, this guy started this thing at 40 or 50. That’s the thing you have to keep your mind on. Even How Long Gone, it was good out the gate. The reception was really good. The press was really good. The advertising was really good. But it’s like anything else: You blast off and you have to be ready for the plateau, because that’s going to happen to everybody, no matter what the project is. So it’s figuring out how to navigate the plateau and the ego death that goes with it.
I take it you’re really bad at vacations.
Yeah, I don’t do that. I have no interest in it. I just think it’s boring. I think I get an inordinate amount of joy and pleasure and maybe self-worth from work.
In an ideal world, do you enjoy this tier of fame that you’re at? Would you scale it up? Would you scale it down?
I would call it more low-level notoriety. I mean, the biggest thing for me with all of this is that I get to interact and be friends with people that I think are really great at what they do. And that’s really it.
Chris Gayomali is the editor of SSENSE.
- Written by: Chris Gayomali
- Photographed by: Adam Powell
- Date: September 10, 2026
