I nearly crashed my car in Williamsburg last week. Not because of a pothole (though God knows there are enough of them) or a rogue delivery e-bike (the true menace of Brooklyn streets), but because I saw three separate people within two blocks wearing what I can only describe as full Bada Bing chic. Track suits. Gold chains. Pinky rings. One guy was even eating gabagool – or at least, that’s what I assume was in his Italian sub, which he was gesturing with dramatically while talking on his AirPods.
It wasn’t a costume party. It wasn’t Halloween. It was just Tuesday in New York, 2025, and apparently we’ve all collectively decided that the aspirational style icon of the moment is Paulie Walnuts.
The thing is, once I noticed it, I couldn’t stop seeing it everywhere. The chunky gold jewelry that’s replaced the delicate stackable rings we’ve all been wearing for a decade. The return of the track suit – not as ironic athleisure but as a legitimate fashion statement. The signet rings. The return of chest hair as a deliberate styling choice, visible beneath unbuttoned silk shirts. The overall vibe of “I might break your kneecaps, but I’ll look fabulous doing it.”
My first instinct, naturally, was to call my dad. Not because he’s ever had mob connections (he’s an accountant from Montclair who gets nervous returning items without a receipt), but because he was obsessed with The Sopranos during its original run and forced me to watch the entire series during my junior year of high school, much to my teenage chagrin.
“Dad,” I said when he picked up, “why is everyone dressing like they’re about to whack someone at Satriale’s?”
There was a pause, followed by the kind of deep, satisfied laugh that only comes from a father whose cultural reference points have suddenly, improbably become relevant again. “You’re finally appreciating quality television,” he said. “This is the proudest day of my life. More than your college graduation.”
“I’m serious,” I continued, watching a woman stroll past my apartment window wearing a velour tracksuit that was giving me intense flashbacks to both 2002 J.Lo and Adriana La Cerva. “It’s everywhere. Track suits. Gold chains. That specific shade of mobster burgundy. That particular type of striped short-sleeve button-up that screams ‘I’m comfortable at both a backyard barbecue and a money laundering operation.'”
“It’s called a gabagool shirt,” my dad said, which I’m pretty sure is not the technical term but feels spiritually accurate.
After hanging up (and spending an hour going down a Reddit rabbit hole about Sopranos fashion), I decided to investigate this trend professionally. As someone who has spent the better part of her career trying to understand why we wear what we wear – beyond just “the vibes” – I needed to know why we’re suddenly taking style cues from fictional criminals from a show that ended almost two decades ago.
My first stop was Sal, my friend who works at a vintage store in the East Village that specializes in “curated nostalgia” (his words) or “overpriced old crap” (my words, but with affection). Sal confirmed my suspicions: track suits, particularly in jewel tones, have been flying off the racks. Gold chains, the chunkier the better, are being snapped up by customers who definitely weren’t alive during the show’s original run. Signet rings – once the domain of old money WASPs and actual mob guys – are now being worn ironically by art school students and tech bros alike.
“It’s been building for about a year,” Sal told me as he arranged a display of vintage Fila that would have looked right at home in Tony Soprano’s closet. “At first I thought it was just another 90s/2000s revival thing, but it’s specifically Sopranos-coded. People are coming in and literally asking for ‘the Christopher Moltisanti look.'”
“But why?” I asked, fingering a gold chain that cost more than my Con Ed bill. “The show ended in 2007.”
Sal shrugged with the weary wisdom of someone who’s watched trend cycles long enough to know they don’t always make sense. “Streaming. Pandemic rewatches. TikTok discovering the show. Plus, haven’t you noticed fashion is having a general ‘fuck it’ moment? Everyone’s tired of looking polished and perfect.”
He’s not wrong. After years of Instagram-optimized outfits – those sanitized, minimalist looks designed to get likes but not necessarily turn heads – there’s something refreshing about clothes that are unabashedly brash. Soprano style is loud. It’s unapologetic. It doesn’t care if you think it’s tacky because it’s too busy enjoying its plate of spaghetti and its pinky ring.
To dig deeper, I consulted Dr. Rebecca Chen, a cultural anthropologist at NYU who specializes in the connection between media and fashion trends. She wasn’t surprised by the Sopranos revival.
“There’s always a 20-year trend cycle,” she explained over coffee at a spot in Nolita where, I couldn’t help noticing, the barista was wearing a gold chain over his white t-shirt. “But it’s more than that. The Sopranos aesthetic represents a kind of masculine authenticity that feels nostalgic now. These characters dressed to impress each other and their community, not for Instagram.”
She also pointed out something I hadn’t considered: “There’s a comfort in these clothes. Track suits are essentially acceptable adult pajamas. Gold jewelry makes you feel special even when you’re just sitting around eating cold pasta straight from the fridge. After years of restrictive fashion, people want something that feels good.”
The Tony Soprano school of dressing isn’t just for men, either. Women are embracing their inner Carmela with French manicures, chunky gold jewelry, animal prints, and body-conscious silhouettes that celebrate curves rather than disguising them. The slicked-back “mob wife” hairstyle – pulled tight at the roots with volume at the ends – has replaced the beachy waves that dominated the 2010s.
I decided to test the trend myself, partly for journalistic integrity and partly because I’ve always wondered if I could pull off a track suit without looking like I’m either headed to the gym or having a personal crisis. I borrowed a burgundy velour number from Sal’s vintage store, added gold hoops that were definitely too heavy for my earlobes, and slicked my hair back into a high ponytail that screamed “I might key your car if you cross me.”
The results were… not terrible? The track suit was surprisingly flattering – the subtle sheen of the velour caught the light in a way that made it look intentional rather than lazy. The gold hoops framed my face dramatically. I felt like I should be ordering people around at a nail salon or making gravy (sauce, for you non-Italians) while discussing family business.
More importantly, I felt comfortable. There’s a certain freedom in embracing an aesthetic that’s so specific, so character-driven – it’s like costume as fashion, allowing you to step into a different version of yourself. I strutted around my neighborhood with more confidence than usual, making direct eye contact with strangers in a way that my usual New York self would never dare.
My experiment continued at an industry dinner that evening. I didn’t go full track suit (even I have limits), but I kept the gold hoops, added a silk shirt unbuttoned one button lower than I’d normally dare, and finished with a vintage Gucci belt that belonged to my mother during her Studio 54 days. The look was less “I might be wearing a wire” and more “I definitely know where they buried the body.”
The reaction was immediate. Three separate people asked if I’d done something different with my hair. A designer I’ve been trying to interview for months suddenly had time to chat. The bartender gave me a heavier pour than usual. It was as if the simple act of embracing a slightly flashier, more confident aesthetic had changed how people perceived me.
Of course, there’s a fine line between appreciation and cosplay. No one wants to look like they’re in Halloween costume, and there’s something deeply uncomfortable about glamorizing a show about criminals, particularly when divorced from its context. The Sopranos wasn’t celebrating this lifestyle – it was examining it, often critically. Tony wasn’t a style icon; he was a deeply troubled man whose choices destroyed him and everyone around him.
This is the contradiction at the heart of fashion’s Sopranos obsession – we’re aestheticizing a world that, in reality, was brutal and deadly. It’s similar to how people romanticize the flapper era without acknowledging Prohibition violence, or how they love Viking-inspired decor without thinking about the actual pillaging.
But perhaps what we’re really borrowing isn’t the moral universe of the show, but its visual candor. In an era of filters, careful curation, and personal brands, there’s something refreshing about clothes that announce themselves without apology. The Sopranos characters didn’t dress to disappear or to look like everyone else – they dressed to be seen, to show exactly who they were and what they valued (even if what they valued was sometimes deeply problematic).
As I walked home from the dinner, still feeling the unfamiliar weight of large gold earrings, I passed a group of twentysomethings outside a bar. They were all wearing some version of the look – one in a full track suit, another in a gold chain and white tank, a third in the kind of printed shirt that would make Furio Giunta proud. They were laughing, gesturing widely with their hands in a way that seemed both exaggerated and natural.
For a moment, I saw fashion doing what it does at its best – creating community, allowing people to signal belonging, giving them permission to try on different versions of themselves. Maybe the Sopranos trend isn’t just about aesthetics or nostalgia; maybe it’s about reclaiming a kind of unfiltered expressiveness that feels increasingly rare.
Or maybe we all just look really good in track suits. Either way, I’m keeping the gold hoops.