Retro garments look gorgeous on the racks, but once you put one on, the dream crumples. The fit is never right, and the shapes end up being too fanciful: ridiculous bishop sleeves, for instance, or weirdly gigantic shoulders. Or a skimpy elastic waistband that's always stationing itself so harshly. Margie Brzezinski designed her line 1978 to draw upon that year's stir-fry of riches, but with a batch of adjustments to "make it more now." Kimono sleeves are modernized, bringing a silhouette that's at once slouchy and tapered. The forms stay full but lean while the flashiness is subdued, instilling a pent-up glamour. Trimming one dress are straight lines that elegantly splice the neckline, "kind of like sun rays." They're disco sun rays—beams made of braided gold rope wrapped with iridescent gold chiffon.

In 1978, nearly everything was gold: the lamé, chains, tassels, and powders that would cake bald heads and wend up hosiery seams. The spectrum continued to warp delightfully: Going round was an especially good and especially pricey type of cocaine that was pale pink, and wealthy people decorated themselves with exotic feathers dyed in lipstick tones. Life was sustained by armfuls of glossy mink and feathery blow-dryered up-dos, with montages and soft-focus shots and glowing lights the color of marinara.

On the burgeoning DIY frontier, designer Alexander Guest was launching an obscure collection of handbags crafted from cardboard cartons of Tab, priced for hundreds of dollars. Tony James of Generation X shaped his hair into spikes, using a blend of orange and lemon juices and spit. Superstar genius Yves Saint Laurent triumphed over the haute realm, though his ideas were fast trickling away—he'd blown his wad with the 1976 Carmen collection, and in only a couple more years he'd begin reappropriating his old designs. (The man sounded terrifying and lively: He smoked six packs a day and bragged about the loads of drugs he did. When he got bored during conversations, he'd mockingly pretend to fall asleep.) Meanwhile, smeared all over the mainstream were sparkly Lurex leotards and Saturday Night Fever and hot-shit model Jerry Hall. Andy Warhol diarized a June encounter with her: "She was wearing the same green Oscar de la Renta dress she wore the last time I went out with her. And when we got into the elevator, I noticed she had underarm BO, like she hadn't taken a shower before she got dressed." The description only deepens her beauty. recommended

Attention, makers of fashion and workers of garmentry: Tell me what you're doing at marti@thestranger.com.