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1st April 2001
Delicious Moments Among Rotten Fruit
I am here in Miami for the annual Winter Music Dance Conference and I am all but bored senseless. Luckily, I am staying with friends which means I can avoid the drunken (and Lord knows what else?) masses.
I never understood why they called it a Winter conference because it's March and it's boiling. I realise now that the chill factor comes from the fact that the "con" ference is all about buying and selling. It's basically a market stall for electronic music and those with the biggest chequebooks would, frankly, be better suited to selling fruit and vegetables! Maybe the fact that every single person I've encountered in the last week has asked: "Can I take a photo with you?" has put me on edge and I have started to feel like a cardboard cutout mobile Pope!
It's not the photos that bother me but the verbal pretence that proceeds it. "I just want to tell you how much I love and respect you I'm your biggest fan." Click! I guess I'm just not used to so much relentless attention it's that damn hat and eyebrows and it's turning me into a modern day Greta Garbo.
The other big problem is that I'm useless at networking and the MWC is all about schmoozing. I don't know if I was ever that good at networking and I'm thinking of taking one of those empowerment courses that they advertise on US TV.
To be fair, there have been a couple of delicious moments, such as the Paradise Garage party where soul legends such as Loletta Holloway and Linda Clifford belted out classic dance tunes to an arm-waving, whooping crowd of old school dance devotees.
Holloway kept demanding more volume but the speakers were already quaking under the strain of her mountainous voice and the stage was a little nervous too!
Also on the bill was ex-Shalamar vocalist Jodey Watley, who was seriously dressed down and seemed lost in all the diva-licious mayhem.
For those who don't know, the Paradise Garage was a notoriously funky in club in New York back in the Eighties and for many DJs and producers it was a dance music Mecca. I used to troll through there and hang out with the great but sadly deceased DJ Larry Levan but had no idea how hip I was being.
The club spawned the early house sound and singers such as Linda Clifford, Holloway and Jocelyn Brown. It was a thrill to be taken back to a time when DJs weren't afraid of vocals and melodies.
Mixin' And Bitchin'
One rather successful gig I had was at a huge gay club called Crobar, where I played alongside Madonna's fave remixer Victor Calderone, who was apparently miffed that I was on the bill because it was his album launch. Well, drama-lama! Anyhow, Mr. Calderone approached me at another bash and said it wasn't true, so maybe it wasn't.
I'm afraid the Djing world is far bitchier and more competitive than fashion but there are so many parties going on that we all need a little extra help to pull in the punters. One chap who needs no help is Danny Tenaglia, who played for 17 hours (is he mad?) on Tuesday night and had them banging from the rafters.
I also went to see Pete Tong at the Opium Garden and stayed out until 6am and had to creep home in the blazing morning sun with smudged eyes and my hat under my arm.
The guys are gorgeous but so are the girls, so one doesn't really get a look in. It's not that I'm blending into the background. I'm the only one in full make-up, a hat and a wool suit. I wonder if that's adding to the tension? Heat is, after all, the enemy of drag!
I think next year they should hold this function in Alaska or Iceland then I might not send back such a frosty postcard.
8th April 2001
Quiet night in with a few old friends
Without a doubt ID Magazine is still the best quirky loopy fashion bible in Britain. On Tuesday night, I DJ'd for its photographic retrospective at the very trendy art gallery-cum-eaterie called Wapping. The setting for what was supposed to be the coolest party of the season, could not of been better. Industrial machinery mingling with cool modern art and a select posse of top photographers, stylists, hairdressers and premier fashionable freakies.
Sadly the people who run the gallery hired a sound system that had the power of a cheap hairdryer and then kept demanding the volume be turned down. Apparently, the residents were complaining, the police were outside and the noise pollution people had arrived. I was half expecting the SAS! You could barely hear the music with your ear stuck to the speaker but despite this, the groovy crowd swayed to old punk, electro and Gary Glitter (a controversial choice) and the night was half saved.
The main picture gallery was housed in the basement and you got to walk on a carpet of photograhic negatives and look at a stunning array of larger-then-life photographs. As Quentin Crisp used to say "All the old lags were there : the cream of the champagne and peanut brigade." I kept bumping into faces from the past which is always interesting and shocking. I saw the lovely Cleo Rocos, brandishing the biggest red lips, (pure scatter cushion) and she offered me a gig with the Sultan of Brunei while muttering something about a million pounds. For a brief second I thought I was hallucinating but then the record jumped and it was 'Panic' by The Smiths with its rousing chorus "Hang the DJ".
Pointless closure
Such a shame to hear that the police have shut down Home, one of London's most popular clubs. Apparently drug dealers were caught on video openly selling drugs. But this is Soho! Why don't cops do something about all the strip joints where punters are conned out of cash and marched to cash dispensers by burly thugs? Doesnt this stink of hypocrisy?
Whether we approve or not, most of London's - and the world's - clubs are riddled with drug dealersand users and it seems pointless to target one club. No club owner or promoter wants drug dealers running around there premises but as long as clubbers demand their evening to be fuelled by narcotics it will carry on and on.
Most clubs have a severe search policy but crafty dealers and willing users have become very inventive at hiding contraband. Only the threat of an airport-style search complete with rubber glove, will do the trick.
Lean times for Geri
Glad to hear Geri Halliwell is not only a fan of macrobiotic food but smokes like a chimney. I'm also impressed with Geri's penchant for keeping herself on the front pages.
It was extremely brave of her to approach the crowd outside the premiere of Bridget Jones's Diary and ask: "Who's my biggest fan?"
The problem with courting the media (I should know) is that once you get hooked you rarely get a day off and the media always has the last word. Geri seems to be suffering from what I call " the panic of thin" and the downside is you can never be thin enough. Being thin and neurotic is pretty much the same as being fat and neurotic.
I mean, if you were told you had to spend the rest of your life in a cell but were promised three deliciously healthy meals a day, you'd hardly rejoice. Thin doesn't always equate with healthy and being a cherubic can be rather sexy.
Now if only I could find someone who agreed with me. Pass the chips and aioli mayonnaise.
15th April 2001
When will Crowes take off over here?
On Tuesday night I was off down to the Scala nightclub and theatre in London's King's Cross to see the huge US rock combo, The Black Crowes, who have yet to hit the big-time in Britain. Quite why they have never won over the masses here is beyond me because they sound like Rod Stewart's Faces back in their Seventies heyday, with a hint of Rolling Stones and a smattering of American blues and soul. Sadly Chris Robinson, the snake-hipped lead singer, may have given up his fetching eyeliner and feathered hats for a kind of Status quo (if they were camp) look but he still knows how to work a stage. His blues flavoured voice has a slight Robert Plant vibrato and many of their songs sound as if they will segue into rock classics at any given moment.
The Crowes are like a well-worn favourite jumper that you want to keep for ever. They have toured more than your top US evangelist and are just as well versed at putting their message across. They were joined on stage by Noel Gallagher, who played guitar and this briefly raised a cheer and a finger click from brother Liam, who kept shouting "Rubbish" after every song. I swear that boy has the devil in him but I don't believe he meant a word of it; he just wants the world to love him. Some of us comply for love, others kick and scream but it all amounts to the same thing.
It was refreshing to hear some proper gut-wrenching blues-rock and the guitar sound alone was worth the visit. Some schmuck in the front row was moaning about the level of the vocals so Robinson halted the show and snapped: "You got in free, the bubbles are free, get a life man." Robinson is proof that to be a true rock deity you have to be bone thin, have the kind of thick hair that makes women weep and a rubber band body. The boy's got it all.
Fries Surprise
Can you believe that McDonald's uses beef flavouring in its chips! Apparently, it used to cook them in pure animal fat until it was harangued by the Vegetarian Society and now it uses only beef flavouring. How thoughtful! Oh yeah, and the chips are impregnated with sugar.
I am appalled because, in moments of desperation, I have purchased chips at McDonald's and I have been "poisoned" with meat juice, ugh! The other twisted piece of information is that it is the biggest investor in children's playgrounds no doubt because it wants to hook kids on its food while they're still young and impressionable. You can read about this and other shocking facts about the fast-food empires in a new book called Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser.
Plus, I recently discovered that an Asian flavoured food chain, which promotes a natural food policy, uses monosodium glutamate and sugar in some of its dishes. How do I know? I asked and was told so. I got up, grabbed my coat and went home and made some soup.
Slave to the Slavs
It has been a real Slavic month, what with my trip to Bosnia and now Moscow. I have been here an number of times and it's changing rapidly but it is still the most tourist unfriendly city in the world. There is a quaint new café in Red Square which is a tourist haven but not a British menu in sight. We just about managed to get a cup of tea. One can usually struggle through foreign menus but in Russia it is a visual assault course. On the plus side the architecture is stunning and so are the men. I am a sucker for high cheek bones and full lips.
George also wrote a full length feature on Bosnia for the Sunday Express. Read it through the Cyber Chameleon news page.
22nd April 2001
Bridget Brings Out The Woman In Me
As I had heard so many confusing reports about the Bridget Jones movie I was almost terrified to go to the cinema. Panic over, it was genius. Quite possibly the best adaptation of a book I've seen on screen to date. Of course, I totally identify with Bridget. In fact, she is me and I am her, hairy chest and one or two organs aside.
Lovely to see Renee Zellweger pull off a good British accent. And as for various deluded friends, comments about bad direction, too soppy, extended pop video accusations, I can honestly say that they must have watched too many action movies and are as romantic as woodchip. Very struck by Hugh Grant's pumped up pecs and for the first time ever found him quite arousing.
Too bad they made so little of Bridget's famous gang of friends because they are essential to both hilariously funny books and they were sadly demoted to a side dish. Whatever, loved every second of it and can't wait for the sequel.
Leave it to Graham
I wish I could say the same about BBC Choice's rather embarrassing new programme, That Gay Show. It looks like it was made on five pence and depicts homosexual men as utter fluffy goons.
American comedian Scott Capurro walks into a gym in San Francisco, approaches two gay men, who are clearly lifting weights and says: "Hey guys, what you up to?" Er, fishing? Then there's a fashion section called Lifting Shirts (ho hum!) which is a sad attempt to portray gay men as regular guys who can fill minutes of precious air time discussing the merits of a pink T-shirt.
OK, not every gay man is interesting but why make a programme about gay men who just want to fit in? Every single segment has some stupid sexual innuendo in its title and there was even a sexiest barman in Birmingham bit.
I have a much cooler idea for a gay programme, a queer cookery show called "Tranny Craddock". It would feature a loopy drag queen and her sidekick, Johnny, (get it?) and could be all about endless ways to cook sausages. Why do we need a gay show? It never works, it's always patronising, and it annoys homosexuals and their straight friends and is pointless when Graham Norton is covering all camp corners so brilliantly.
Fashion's Dark Side
On behalf of my Hindu chums, I must take great umbrage with The House of Fraser who have insulted the Hare Krishna movement in their latest attempt to sell their Linea knitwear brand.
The offensive ad is a huge picture of a group of joyfully chanting devotees and says: "If I wasn't a chanting, cymbal-banging, easily-led nutcase who'd been brainwashed by some loony religious sect, I could be wearing a Linea sweater and jeans." Imagine the uproar if they insulted Moslems or Christians. Excuse me, but what is fashion all about if not some cynical attempt to brainwash fools to part with their hard-earned cash for the promise of fitting in or being more cool?
Devotees of Krishna Consciousness are making a huge style statement and for my money they are spiritual punk rockers. It's always bad karma to insult another's faith and to see these ads in fashion magazines is an absolute joke. In this month's Face magazine where I spotted the spiritual slur there's a huge spread on Hear'Say now let's really talk about brainwashing.
Pass the saffron sick bucket.
29th April 2001
Clubs are too grand for their own good
Groucho Marx once said: "I'd never belong to a club that would have me as a member," and I know what he meant. It seems Britain and particularly London is full of ritzy "exclusive" members-only bars and each is more snobby than the next.
Take Abigail's Party, a small bar in London's Soho that takes its name from Mike Leigh's camp Seventies play about a demented but lovable housewife with delusions of grandeur. The other night, I tried to swish through its doors to escape from the rain and entertain some American chums. "Sorry, it's members only," mumbled the brain-dead doorman.
So off we trudged to the Atlantic Bar to recover from the rejection. Mind you, the doormen there weren't that friendly and eyed us with suspicion as we slipped past the velvet rope. Inside, it was as empty as my bed and I couldn't help thinking they ought to be grateful that anyone wants to grace their premises and pay through the nose for a glass of bubbly.
OK, I wasn't wearing any slap or a hat but who can be bothered mid-week?
When these places open, they trade shamelessly on celebrity clientele, but one must accept that it's a one-way love affair.
The champagne socialist in me is repulsed by such snobbery because you should never judge a man by his appearance. After all, an arms dealer in a suit, with a black Amex card, is still an arms dealer, as is a racist thug in Paul Smith.
Sold on my Advert
I have just finished a TV commercial for Sony in which I was seduced into parodying myself. I was told I would be simply walking into a lift that morphed into a computer. But, when I arrived on set, it was decorated like an Eighties pop video.
My manager had agreed for me to lip sync I'll Tumble 4 Ya, a high-pitched Latin tinged ditty from my misspent youth, and to dance like a happy fool. I was livid, but once I saw how glamorous they had made me look, I felt guilty for throwing a fit.
It turned out to be a very pleasant experience and the old saying: "If all the world's a stage I demand better lighting," sprang to mind. Most pop video sets are very low budget and that's why you never look as good as you would like. But there's no expense spared on adverts and when it comes to lighting, it's true that you can never spend enough.
Few Grains of Truth
Good news for vegetarians. McDonald's informs me that its chips are certainly not cooked in beef fat only rapeseed oil is used. I am relieved to hear it. But so many good food outlets lie by omission and it's hard to know what we put in our bodies. For instance, "no added sugar" isn't always true because ready-made ingredients can be full of sugar or chemicals, and food producers are not forced to reveal such important details.
I am reading an interesting book called Radiant Health, by Brian Scott Peskin, which says that processed carbohydrates are the devil. Hence my new saying: "Wheat is murder." As much as I like bread and pasta, they sap my energy and I'm trying to eliminate them from my diet. It's almost summer and we all know the pressure it brings. It's all about home cooking with organic produce and coriander is the new cocaine.
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