|
|
 |
| |
5th August 2001
Keeping A Straight Spine with Cyndi
I wasn't planning to show up at MTV's 20th birthday bash in New York but when Cyndi Lauper rang to ask me to be her date, I could hardly refuse. Both Ms Lauper and myself were there when MTV was a struggling entity and we did our bit to promote it by exclaiming: "I want my MTV," loudly and proudly.
Of course, these days we are only viewed by the MTV empire in the past tense but in the world of pop, it's better to show your face and keep your spine straight.
Arriving at the bash was rather like going to an old school reunion. The cameras flashed and inane questions such as "How does it feel to be back?" were catcalled to veterans such as Billy Idol, Joan Jett, Huey Lewis, and my date and I. We dutifully did the rounds for the paparazzi - Cyndi played good cop, I was cranky cop, telling them: "MTV is a musical version of the stock exchange, it backs winners."
I couldn't help myself because all day long I had to endure MTV's visual disc jockeys telling me how "ground-breaking" the station is. Sure, back in its day, it was a colourful postcard to parts of the world where some folk had never seen a boy in lipstick or a gravity-defying hairdo. But watching it now is like being tortured.
When MTV works for you it is a genius concept but, rather like Radio 1, it is now too enamoured with its own power. How MTV can claim to be a music station is beyond me, when most of its airtime is taken up by game shows, dating programmes and now even wrestling! How many times do you need to see an *Nsync video to work out which one you fancy?
Bitterness aside, I enjoyed the event, despite myself. Hanging out with Cyndi was a blast and I got to meet Busta Rhymes, who is possibly the most charming man in rap.
I spotted Tommy Lee, ex-lover of Pamela Anderson, and blurted out: "I've seen your manhood and it's pretty special." Well, I was slightly cruder. He blushed and ran away muttering "thanks". Tommy and Pam are living proof that you can survive almost anything with enough tattoos, cleavage and lip gloss! If anyone put out a home video of me making whoopee, I'd hibernate.
Billy Idol, who is looking much better these days, took to the stage for a rousing version of Rebel Yell, which was pure cartoon but had the crowd punching at the air in a wave of nostalgia. The highlight of the evening was a rap session featuring the very unfriendly Run DMC (walk that way) and Salt 'n' Pepa, whom I adore.
The party continued until 3am but I had to escape to DJ at a friend's birthday party downtown. There's only so much nostalgia a girl can stomach in one sitting. While I was spinning, for free, an annoying chap approached the DJ booth and asked: "Do you have any Eighties stuff?"
"Sorry," I replied. "Just dance music."
"Well, why are you here?" he cheekily asked.
"Not to please you," I replied.
Some fools can't tell the difference between a human being and a jukebox but one must soldier on.
The pressure was removed briefly by New York producer and DJ Scott Harkiss, who only popped in for a drink but was ordered to spin a few tunes. He dropped a stunning tune called "Lord knows we feel it" and I ran to the booth to find out who it was by. On discovering it was something he'd "just knocked up", I was forced to beg for a copy and it worked.
Having a radio show must count for something. I now have a treasure in my record box and can't wait to play it on Kiss.
12th August 2001
Bowie still holds a sprinkle of stardust
How excited I was to receive an invitation to dinner in New York from David Bowie and his lovely wife Iman! My nerves were at me all day. Silly, I know, but you have to understand how much I admire the man, so forgive me.
Once I decided what to wear (casualŠ camp?) OK, camp, be yourself girl - then I had to choose carefully who to take as my guest. I opted for a dear actor-musician chum who is equally fanatical, Michael Cadavis, or Lily of the Valley as he's better known - lead singer of the New York band Bullet. "Be cool," I said when I called to tell him. "Oh no," he replied, "I'm getting straight into my Ziggy drag right away."
Dinner was at IndoChine. David, Iman and two chaps from Christian Dior were already seated. As soon as we sat down, the conversation flowed and I felt relaxed, David is super-smart and deeply charismatic - no less than I expected. Iman, who I've met several times, is very real, and they are so comfortable and affectionate with each other.
While we were enjoying our meal, a young guy approached the table to request that we sing for his girlfriend's 21st birthday, but we declined. I was amazed, but David was very cool about it and the intruder slunk away.
It was a rare pleasure to spend two hours in his company talking about everything from popular culture, the death of musical history and Mrs. Merton. I'm very excited to hear he is about to work with long-time production associate Tony Visconti. After such a long and often teeth-pulling tour, it's safe to say it was the highlight of my trip. It's always scary to meet someone you have hero-worshipped since your early teens, but he was inspiring and still worth every inch of my adulation.
Slightly kookier was my interview with comic and songstress Sandra Bernhard, who is now hosting her own chat show in New York. I was thrilled to meet actress Pam Greer, who starred in Jackie Brown and is so much like her movie character - sassy and down to earth. We were both guests of the steely-eyed Sandra, whose latest trick is intimidation through song.
At one point, she asked whether I would care to sing, and her pianist started playing an obscure show tune called Next Time. I didn't know the ditty (it was apparently from the musical Gypsy) but before I could speak, Sandra was clasping my hands and serenading me.
I don't think of myself as typically British, but my stiff upper lip began to twitch and my spine went as straight as an ironing board. I enjoyed our chat, but the expression on Sandra's face during the rendition was quite unsettling. I was expecting the cast of Sesame Street to appear, but they didn't show.
Kelly Jones, the pint-sized cutie from the Stereophonics, was apparently disturbed by hordes of homosexuals swooning over him on a recent trip to San Francisco. Well, why be in a rock group if you don't want attention from both sexes? I get more offers from females than I do from males. I guess it's just Sod's Law.
Fear has an uncanny habit of poking you where it hurts, and like it or not, Kelly, you're a bit of a "fag magnet". It might be those big, swooping eyelashes, the tight jeans and the cropped leather jacket. Or is it because you're a boy called Kelly? Don't go changing just to displease us - we love you just the way you are!
19th August 2001
Bacon deserves a grilling of his own
You'd think the Big Breakfast's Richard Bacon would have learnt humility, having managed to survive a drug arrest and media assassination. If I remember correctly, I was one of the first to say "give him a break" - but after watching his interview with the pop group Liberty on Friday morning, I want to be the first to say "give him a slap".
His interview technique is smug at the best of times, and he takes great pleasure in humiliating his guests and making them feel small. Taking a pop group such as Liberty, with no TV experience beyond appearing on Popstars, and making them feel worthless is hardly a feat in TV journalism.
As one of the "hilarious" skits, ordinary people were filmed asking Liberty questions about how it feels to be second best. Who doesn't already know Liberty as the band made up of the contestants who didn't make it into Hear'Say? Well, not only do I think their single Thinking It Over is good but I remixed it with my mate Kinky Roland under our Kinky-Boy guise.
In fact, my remixing work has offered up a truce with the manufactured pop world. Before remixing Liberty, we did Let's Dance for Five. We were, of course, handsomely paid for our work but we put the same heart and soul into the mixes as we would for a Madonna remix. (She hasn't called yet, but she will).
Back to Flaky Bacon and his on air bullying of innocents. Why doesn't he get me on the show and try it? I'd love to fry him in a pan, stuff him between two slices of Wonderloaf (not that I buy it) and shove him in the canal to cool down.
Richard, those cruel traits, reminiscent perhaps of your (public) school bullying days, only serve to make you look uglier and less amusing by the week. Oh, and tell your Irish (traitor) sidekick that my musical, Taboo, has not been dropped unless this past week's worth of auditions have been in vain. We are working with top producer Adam Kenwright, who is a man of honour, and Taboo will most definitely be bigger than your next career. Hiss.
The second person I'd like to run at with a cold, wet cod is the Welsh-baiting, pitbull-charmed, ginger-haired Anne Robinson.
Terri, a long-time fan of mine who over the years has moved on to being a friend, had the pleasure of appearing on the American version of The Weakest Link and took away $75,000. Of course, it was no easy ride and Terri, a young mother, had to explain her obsession with "a faded pop star". Terry sweetly defended me and informed the anorexic battleaxe that I am a very successful UK and US DJ.
"I'm sorry, but I was in London very recently and Boy George is most certainly not successful," was Robinson's retort. If that were true, I wouldn't be sitting around worrying. I'd be off promoting my Karma Cookbook and my Clubversive dance roadshow on both Kiss and Galaxy's regional radio network. I certainly would not be hosting a TV quiz show that is the modern equivalent of a public hanging.
The cult of TV shows, such as The Weakest Link, Survivor, Dog Eat Dog and Big Brother, demonstrates how heartless and mentally retarded TV has become. Maybe it's a reflection of the political mood. We have a "socialist" government who are basically Tories. Socialism is about the group helping each other out.
You could say it's just life but we all have a huge responsibility to make life better. Don't be the weakest link.
26th August 2001
The Best, but not The Cream, of Food
The attempt to fill my body with organic macrobiotic food goes on, whether I'm trudging through the US, Bolton, or staying on the tiny island of Ibiza.
If you can be bothered to look around, you might be surprised at what you uncover. Just down the road from our rustic villa in Ibiza's Santa Eulalia, I have discovered a health store and I'm salivating. You name it, tofu, organic veg, tahini, they stock the lot.
But before discovering this haven, I had to enlist the help of my friend Amanda during a recent trip to an Ibizan supermarket. I rang her in London from my mobile phone after hijacking an assistant during my search for an essential cooking product. I then made Amanda talk to the rather confused Spanish lady.
They banded about words such as "sesamus" and "sesamadus" and after 10 minutes, they ascertained that the shop did indeed stock sesame seeds but not the creamed version that I wanted. I later discovered the health food shop.
Ibiza has changed dramatically. Once upon a time, it was just British pubs, expensive restaurants for the glitzy crowd and a couple of Chinese emporia. At least now there is no excuse to munch on bread, cheese and crisps. My fridge is sporting a very healthy glow.
Not so healthy was the scene at a busy seafront bar in the resort of Es Canar this week, when a bunch of us (not including yours truly) descended on the place to watch Manchester United play Blackburn Rovers. The majority of the clientele, in what was clearly a licensed bar, were around 14 years old, some even younger.
During the 90 minutes of football viewing, the said children guzzled a multitude of alcoholic drinks, smoked, and drank rounds of shots, all while dressed way beyond their years in the skimpy and revealing outfits that are usually reserved for the older clubbing fraternity on the island.
One cannot help wondering where their parents are while their offspring are propping up the bars. And what are the bar owners thinking of? I am unclear as to what the licensing laws are in the Balearics, but surely this is wrong?
It appears that the only way to fly direct from London to Ibiza is the cheap and cheerful Go, which flies out of Stansted at an unearthly hour and arrives in Ibiza at the even more ungodly hour of 2:35am. The fact that these flights are only marginally one step up from the holiday flights that arrive en masse at around the same time, packed with families and clubbers raring to go and let their hair down, doesn't seem to put people off.
Because we are staying for a longer than average break this year, frequent trips to the airport to collect friends are now routine for my colleagues Andria and Eileen. This week I decided to tag along for the ride.
I was bored silly sitting in the house on a night off and I'm glad I went. Sitting behind my sunglasses and sipping my café con leche, I spotted celebs from all walks of life trotting through the arrivals hall with Go luggage tags this week. On one flight there was Minnie Driver, complete with Gucci luggage; Radio 1 DJs Seb Fontaine and Fergie; various TV presenters and several top DJs.
Sitting in Ibiza airport waiting for that flight has now become a social event for the promoters and musicians who flock to the island each year to make a living for the summer. If the flight is delayed, then all the better: more time to bitch and gossip.
I never realised that one flight arriving at an airport could be so entertaining.
| Back to the Express Main page |
| Back to the Main page |