The first pair of American-made jeans I ever owned were a complete accident. I was twenty-two, broke as hell, and had stumbled across a pair of raw selvedge Cone Mills denim at a secondhand store in the East Village. They were stiff as cardboard, at least one size too small, and cost more than I’d typically spend on an entire week’s worth of meals. But there was something about that little red selvedge line peeking out from the cuff that I couldn’t resist. The fact they were made in North Carolina—according to the tag that I studied like it contained the secrets of the universe—seemed impossibly exotic to my young, fashion-obsessed brain.
I bought them, of course. Wore them religiously, washed them rarely (sorry to everyone who had to sit next to me on the subway during that particular phase), and watched with something approaching religious devotion as they faded to match the exact contours of my life. When they finally gave out—a catastrophic crotch blowout while I was bending to pick up a coffee mug in front of an important editor, because the universe has a sick sense of humor—I genuinely considered framing them.
That was fifteen years and God knows how many pairs of jeans ago. In that time, I’ve watched American denim production go through a renaissance, a boom, and now what feels increasingly like a last stand. The closure of Cone Mills’ White Oak plant in 2017 felt like a personal affront to every denim head I knew. Texts flew between my friends in the industry—”Did you hear?” “Are you stocking up?” “Is this really happening?”—like we were discussing a death in the family rather than a fabric factory shutting down.
Which, in a way, it was. For over a century, American-made denim represented something fundamental about our national identity—hardworking, authentic, built to last. The fabric of America, both literally and metaphorically. Yet one by one, the looms fell silent as production moved overseas, lured by cheaper labor and fewer regulations. Finding jeans actually made in the USA became increasingly like hunting for vinyl records in the age of Spotify—a niche passion for purists and nostalgics.
But here’s the thing about Americans—we’re stubborn as hell. While mass production has largely left our shores, a dedicated group of brands, artisans, and enthusiasts has kept the flame alive. These are the people who refuse to believe that American denim is just a nostalgic concept rather than a living tradition.
I’ve spent the past six months tracking down every American jeans manufacturer still operating domestically. I’ve visited tiny workshops in Los Angeles, converted warehouses in Detroit, and even a former tobacco processing facility in Kentucky now humming with the sound of vintage Union Special machines. What I found was both heartbreaking and deeply hopeful—an industry simultaneously on the brink and on the cusp of reinvention.
Let’s start with the old guard. Though Cone Mills’ iconic White Oak plant closed, their parent company, International Textile Group, still produces some denim in their remaining US facilities. It’s not the same as the hallowed selvedge from the vintage shuttle looms, but it’s American-woven fabric nonetheless.
Then there’s the last true giant of American production: Texas Jeans. Operating out of Asheville, North Carolina since 1977, they produce approximately 2,000 pairs per week—all cut, sewn, and finished domestically. Their aesthetic isn’t exactly fashion-forward (think classic straight cuts that wouldn’t look out of place on a construction site), but their commitment to American manufacturing is unwavering. I spoke with their production manager, Dave, who’s been with the company for 31 years. “We’ve had opportunities to move offshore,” he told me, leaning against a cutting table the size of my apartment. “Turned ’em all down. That’s not who we are.”
The mid-sized players are where things get interesting. Brands like Round House, operating continuously since 1903 in Shawnee, Oklahoma, represent an unbroken lineage of American workwear. Their factory—which I visited on a blisteringly hot day last summer—looks practically unchanged from photos taken in the 1950s, right down to the wooden floors polished by decades of work boots. “We never left,” James, their fifth-generation owner told me, “because we never saw a reason to chase profit at the expense of our community.”
Meanwhile, All American Clothing Co. in Ohio has built their entire brand identity around domestic manufacturing, sourcing their denim from the remaining American mills and making every pair in their Arcanum facility. Their jeans use a tracking number system that lets you see exactly which American workers helped create your pants—a level of transparency that feels almost radical in today’s global supply chain.
But it’s the new wave of American denim brands that really gets me excited. These are the idealists, the craftspeople, and yes, sometimes the slightly insane perfectionists who are reimagining what American-made can mean in the 21st century.
Take Detroit Denim, founded in 2010 amid the city’s economic collapse. When I visited their workshop in an old stove factory, founder Eric Yelsma walked me through their process, which combines industrial sewing machines with hand details most companies abandoned decades ago. “We’re not trying to compete with jeans that cost a tenth of what ours do,” he explained while hand-hammering a rivet. “We’re trying to create something that couldn’t exist any other way.” Each pair passes through the hands of eight different craftspeople—all Detroit residents, many hired through local workforce development programs specifically created to rebuild manufacturing skills in the community.
Over in Los Angeles, Freenote Cloth operates one of the few remaining full-scale denim operations in what was once America’s jeans-making capital. Their sewing floor employs techniques virtually identical to those used by Levi’s in the 1960s, down to the chain-stitched hems and hidden selvedge details. “We’re preserving craft knowledge that nearly disappeared,” co-founder Matt Brodrick told me while showing me their collection of vintage Union Special machines. “These skills used to employ thousands of Angelenos. Now there’s maybe a hundred people left who know how to operate these machines properly.”
Perhaps my favorite discovery was Darkas Denim in White Bird, Idaho—possibly the most remote jean maker in America. Founded by former Levi’s pattern maker Daniel Marcellus, who left the corporate world to create an almost obsessively perfectionist version of American jeans, Darkas produces fewer than 500 pairs annually in a converted barn. When I asked why he chose such a remote location, Daniel laughed. “Land was cheap, and nobody bothers me while I’m working.” Each pair takes him approximately 11 hours to complete, using denims from the small-batch American mills trying to fill the void left by Cone’s closure.
Speaking of those mills—they’re another essential part of this story. While Cone Mills’ White Oak plant may be gone, smaller operations have emerged to continue the tradition of American-woven denim. Vidalia Mills in Louisiana has installed some of the original Draper X3 looms from White Oak, continuing to produce selvedge denim on American soil. In Maine, Maine Denim has converted part of an old paper mill to produce small-batch fabrics with locally sourced cotton. The scale is nothing like the industry’s heyday, but the quality and attention to detail are unmatched.
The hard truth, though, is that American-made jeans simply cannot compete on price with imported alternatives. The math is brutal and unavoidable. While overseas factories can produce jeans for as little as $5 in labor costs, American production starts around $35-50 per pair just in labor. Add in the higher cost of American fabric, complying with U.S. environmental and labor regulations (all good things, mind you), and the economics become challenging.
This reality is reflected in the retail prices. Entry-level American-made jeans typically start around $150, with the small-batch artisanal brands easily reaching $300-400. For most consumers, that’s simply not competitive with the $40-70 imports that dominate mall shelves.
So why bother? Why do these brands persist in making jeans domestically when the numbers seem stacked against them?
Every maker I spoke with eventually circled back to the same core reasons: quality control, ethical production, and cultural heritage. Being close to their production means they can monitor every step, adjust quickly when problems arise, and maintain standards that would be difficult to ensure from thousands of miles away. The ethical component matters deeply—fair wages, safe working conditions, and environmental responsibility all ranked high in their priorities. And then there’s the preservation of a uniquely American craft tradition, something many of them spoke about with genuine emotion.
“I could make more money doing almost anything else,” Roy Slaper of Roy Denim told me in his one-man workshop in Oakland, where he makes each pair of jeans entirely by himself from start to finish. “But then who would keep this knowledge alive? Who would show that Americans can still make things with their hands?”
For consumers, the question becomes whether these values are worth the premium price. I’d argue they absolutely are, though I recognize my position comes with sizable privilege. I’m fortunate enough to be able to spend more on fewer, better things—a luxury not everyone can afford. But even approaching this from a pure value proposition, American-made jeans typically outlast their imported counterparts by years, not months, bringing the cost-per-wear down significantly.
My own oldest pair of American-made jeans—some Raleigh Denim workshoppers I bought eight years ago—have been repaired three times and still serve as my weekend go-tos. At about 400 wears and counting, they’ve amortized to roughly 60 cents per wear. The European fast-fashion jeans I foolishly bought last year? Blown out after 25 wears, making them actually more expensive in the long run despite their lower initial price.
There’s also something profoundly satisfying about wearing jeans made by people whose names you might actually know, in factories you could actually visit. It connects you to a production chain that’s become increasingly abstract for most consumer goods. When my Raleigh jeans developed a tear, I didn’t trash them—I sent them back to the workshop where Victor, their repair specialist, patched them with beautiful handwork that added character rather than detracting from them.
Is American-made denim a growth industry? Probably not in the conventional sense. Most of the makers I interviewed have deliberately chosen to stay small, focusing on quality over volume. But is it sustainable? Surprisingly, yes. Nearly every brand reported steady or growing demand, primarily from customers who prioritize quality, ethics, and a connection to how their clothes are made.
“We’re never going back to making millions of jeans in America,” Eric from Detroit Denim acknowledged. “But we don’t need to. We just need enough people who care about the story behind their pants to keep the craft alive.”
And that’s really what we’re talking about—the preservation of craft, of knowledge, of a particular way of making things that values durability and human skill. In a world increasingly dominated by algorithms and automation, there’s something rebellious and necessary about jeans still made by human hands on American soil, carrying forward techniques pioneered by Levi Strauss and Jacob Davis nearly 150 years ago.
As for me, I’m wearing a pair of American-made jeans as I write this—heavy 14oz selvedge from a small batch produced in Tennessee, sewn in a workshop in Kentucky. They weren’t cheap, but they’ll be with me for years, perhaps decades, getting better with each wear. In a disposable world, that’s something worth paying for. And every time I see that little selvedge line peeking out from my cuff, I’m reminded of that first pair I found by accident, and how they set me on a path to appreciating things made with care and built to last—a quintessentially American ideal worth preserving, one pair of jeans at a time.
Leave a Reply