An iconic image of the seventies was keyboardist Rick Wakeman, spreadeagled between banks of keyboards, wearing a long sequinned cape. Or the drummer of the Backwell Comprehensive School rock band, also wearing a cape - but smooth red, and waist length.
Or a cloak. A friend once told me that he saw a chap with long black curly hair walking the streets of Cambridge wearing a full-length black cloak; and he followed him back to a college and peeped in the window. His room had a massive portrait of King Charles II, and was indeed set-up as a shrine to that Merry Monarch.
My belief is that Wakeman's garish cape was a remote, degenerate but lineal descendent of Gandalf's cloak - and indeed the cloaks of Tolkien generally. Any impressionable adolescent who loved Tolkien nursed a secret desire to wear a cloak - and sometimes that desire became irresistible.
I personally never had the nerve; although I did make myself a Gandalf staff - from an ashplant cut from a hedgerow (I still have it) - and later discovered that Stephen Dedalus (in James Joyce's novels) also affected an ashplant staff.
My friend Nikolas Lloyd has made a pretty popular video describing exactly why 'cloaks were really good'.
Yet still I have never got any closer to wearing a cloak or cape than wearing my academic gown in degree processions (the MD version of which which is more like Wakeman than Gandalf - being satin-like, scarlet and 'Palatinate purple'*); or one of those long Antipodean waxed cotton riding coats in the daily drenchings of Glasgow, when I lived there+.
Note: Actually, the year I lived in University College, Durham (i.e. Durham Castle) I wore (as was compulsory) a plain black 'stuff' academic gown to all meals, over whatever I happened to be wearing that day. Some fellows wore the gown over T-shirts, with bare feet, or I think pajamas... Anyway, that did provide an excuse to sweep around the place with (in effect) a cloak flapping in the breeze of my progress.