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4th August 2002
Prejudice is alive and well in pop
TOMORROW, I release U Can Never b2 Straight, my first studio album since 1995's Cheapness and Beauty, which was my first attempt at being - how do I say this? - less veiled or ambiguous.
My first attempt at ever stringing a tune together was the schoolboy poetry entitled The Eyes Of Medusa. It was 1981 and Culture Club were aimlessly trying to secure a recording contract, and had been offered a studio session by EMI records.
The success of Adam Ant meant that anyone with a big hairdo and eyeliner was being courted. Of course, I believed that my band was more than just a big wardrobe, but looking back we had a lot to learn in the songwriting stakes. For example, I didn't know then that you couldn't sing "he". The engineer stopped me mid-flow and said: "Excuse me mate, it sounds like you're singing he instead of she." I wish I could say the world has changed - but here we are, 20 years on, and on the face of it we have a more liberal society.
This week, a Tory MP has come out as a homosexual, and Will Young recently reached the No 1 spot as an openly gay Pop Idol. Even George Michael is causing controversy with his latest release, Shoot The Dog. But it looks set to bomb and Will's career seems to be dwindling.
I have watched George Michael's interviews and while I want to be with him - not as a fellow fairy but in my hatred of war - I just can't get past the street posters. They depict him in cartoon form and he looks like a Seventies gay clone. My first reaction was: "Where's the rest of the Village People?"
I'm one of those sad folk who actually listen to lyrics and George has lifted the melody and lyrics from a Human League tune - "I believe in truth, I believe in love, but I know that there's no Lord above." Having destroyed my own career by singing "War, war is stupid and people are stupid", I realise that one is on dodgy ground when involving oneself in politics, as George did when he released Outside.
I'm not suggesting that pop singers or artists have no right to speak out or be political, but Shoot The Dog is - like my own ditty, The War Song - hardly Bob Dylan. Perhaps a song like Careless Whisper, sans the fake girlfriend and directed at the true love of his life, would be more advisable.
I care more about personal politics than party ones because the injustice in terms of pop music is that we can't sing about who we love. I feel cheated and insulted as a member of this open, all-embracing world that endorses the anger of Eminem but won't touch songs about gay issues. Love - not sex.
This is a war I'm up for. Radio One broadcasts Tim Westwood's clearly homophobic rap show and is about to start a black music station. I'm not saying Tim, whom I like, is homophobic, but rap music and black culture are by no means liberal when it comes to alternative lifestyles. I'm not talking about Destiny's Child or Tweet, but if I hear another rapper using the word "fag" or a ragga tune dissing "batty" men, I will explode.A black station is great for struggling black artists - but does it not further ghettoise the art form? This is not America, where different cultures only meet in shopping malls. Wouldn't it be better for Radio One, whose audience is dwindling, to open the floodgates and be more open-minded?
We are in danger of putting music in boxes that separate and discriminate. Yeah, Amcerica is fond of freedom of speech, and for that I applaud George. However, he - like Elton John - needs to venture out of his cultural bubble and take a few bus rides. So does Radio One.
11th August 2002
A bright star is dimmed forever
THE other night, after treading the boards at Taboo, I found myself in a Chinese eatery and in conflict with some disturbed chap. After a mild joke, something like: "Are you Boy George?" - response: "No, I'm Randy Crawford" - he started to scream at me: "AIDS carrier."
The assumption that to have it was some sort of crime would have made me punch him but as I'm being sued by the last person I floored - and I want to get to Broadway next year thanks to the fabulous US talk show host Rosie O'Donnell's support - I kept out of an altercation.
The tragedy is that the next morning I woke up to hear that my friend Burnell had passed away from the "non-discriminating illness". So you can imagine how those abusive words resonated. In fact, I feel so sad that it's hard to put into words. Burnell, or Transformer as he was known down the discotheque, was one of those rare colourful characters. You would see him dressed in the most gravity-defying costumes such as a giant sunflower or a self-made cupboard with drawers and cuckoo clocks on his head. One evening, Burnell was wearing that cuckoo clock at a party at Browns nightclub for the singer Prince. The paranoid munchkin had Burnell dragged into a corridor by bouncers and stripped because Prince had got it into his head that Burnell had snuck a video camera into his hat.
This made me both question the sanity of the purple one and despise him in equal measure. You see there are rules with drag. First, you never pull a drag queen's wig or hat off or interfere in any way with their costume or frock. It's a bit like going up to a spruced up female and tearing off her dress. So yet, another vision of colour, another face about town, has departed to the packed disco in the sky. Sadly, this column is not an interactive affair becuase there would be tears rolling down the page.
Burnell was hired by clubs all over the globe just to run about looking fabulous. I once saw him skipping around Ibiza's Pacha club. We were the only ones fully painted and overdressed. Heat is the enemy of drag but like yours truly he defied sun and melted for his art. I guess after Leigh Bowery's death he took up the mantle of "Freak about town" but he did it with aplomb. London will be a less colourful place without him and he will be missed. Clearly, the Lord wants him for a sunflower.
Bless the Daily Star for running a poll to decide if Michael Jackson was prettier than moi. Obviously, he has a more ardent fan club than me but I think the pictures of him running around with three Sony executives with the slogan "The good, the bad and the ugly" speak for themselves.
Mr Jackson has spent the past few years making himself whiter and whiter. Inverted racism perhaps? Don't get me wrong, I admire him but there is no way he is prettier than me. My nose is permanent, aerodynamic and could get you to New York and back in under four hours. More importantly, my chin is not stuck on. The picture of me printed next to Jackson was a bit Orson Welles in drag but then half those paparazzi don't even look while they are taking a photograph.
18th August 2002
Corsican morals are such a drag
18 Aug 2002 column courtesy of 100% Boy. Thanks Stuart!
GREETINGS from Corsica, the lush green island off the coast of France. It is one of the most gorgeous places I have been to spin records and it's full of stunning men and women - but they're all straighter than Garry Bushell.
The club was huge and clean (even the toilets) and British clubs could learn a lot from Corsica, but one would hate to be queer in such a place, which is allegedly run by a kind of mafia and brimming with things you desire but can't have.
The men here are rather like the Cypriots - too much gel in their hair, groomed to high heaven and clad in tight T-shirts that no self-assured heterosexual male would don in Blighty. Mind you, the postcard selection is all of toned blokes in the nude. It's the kind of place where you can look but not touch.
Being the perverse chap I am, I find places such as Corsica, or anywhere Mediterranean, very queer. For a start, there are more men on the street than women; most of the girls are from Italy or wherever, but I feel like warning them: "The men will never love you like they love themselves." Any man who works that hard on his tan, is always down the gym or going through the arduous process of deciding which white vest or pair of jeans to wear is more camp than the Brazilian Mardi Gras. A drag queen can get dressed quicker. Under pressure, I can stick my face on in 20 minutes and, at a push, 10.
We arrived late, after being stuck on a British Airways plane for an hour and 15 minutes - take-off had already been delayed by 40. I fell asleep and thought we had landed, only to discover we hadn't even left. After a quick spruce up at the hotel we were taken - well, paraded - around a busy square, full of people who either looked on in amazement or asked for autographs. There is zero gay culture in Corsica (except in the mirror) and not a drag queen in sight.
I always find it nice to spot at least one "trannie" - there was even one in Banja Luka for heaven's sake - but any drag queen worth her heels would wilt here under the heat and overbearing masculinity. Having said all this, I am glad I breezed through. The crowd at the club seemed vibrant and my new "ragga" version of Karma Chameleon went down a treat. Well, one feels obliged to wind any crowd up in this age of strict genres and dance codes. I recommend Corsica for its lushness and its chill-out heaven, but don't come looking for friends of Dorothy.
IF I COULD put into words how much I detest the Sun journalist (choke) Dominic Mohan, I would. I sent him an e-mail after he called me Mr Blobby because I turned up at London's Institute of Contemporary Arts (ICA) dressed in one of Leigh Bowery's spotty looks. I don't expect fellow Irishmen to be nice or supportive of their own hut he makes me ashamed to be a "plastic paddy". I am quickly turning into a much bigger fan of the Scots.
Our hacks should take a lesson from the Japanese, who simply reported on the unveil-ing of a sculpture of myself as Leigh Bowery by the artist Ruth Elia. Mind you, the head of the ICA, now renamed The Institute of Contemptuous Art (who cares what his name is?) couldn't even be bothered to get off his bottom and join us for the event. No matter that I got up at some hideous hour two weeks ago to open Fergus Greer's photo exhibit.
Being an old-fashioned kind of girl, I expect a degree of manners from those who have degrees, unlike yours truly who was sent packing from school at 15. The ability to consume information does not make one intelligent or polite. Often, it just results in a kind of arrogance.
25th August 2002
I am so proud to be a great Briton
IT IS a real honour to be voted one of Britain's top 100 creatures - more satisfying than being offered a medal or title from the Palace. But why - not meaning to be bitter - does it not translate to record sales?
My latest, U Can Never b2 Straight, has been out for two weeks and I have never in my long, twisted career had better reviews for a record. The biggest joke (since the record is as gay as Graham Norton in a tutu) is that the worst write-ups came from gay critics. Of course, as I've pointed out numerous times, us poofs don't all live together in a big pink house and think, feel or enjoy the same music - but still, you would expect a bit of a leg up from your sisters.
On my Internet site, www.boygeorgedj.com, I've been fighting with queens and some breeders about my intense dislike of Eminem. They accuse me of jealousy, being "big-headed", "rude" and insist that he is a genius. To clear this up once and for all, I think Eminem is talented but the reason he is not one of my top 100 artists is becuase he uses his obvious skill to abuse one of the last minorities it's still excusable to hate or mock.
Some of those who have logged on say I go on too much about being homosexual. Well, the majority - and Daily Mail writer Peter Hitchens - have always been blinkered when it comes to the plight of the Mary.
Last week, I was officially served a lifetime ban from Radio One because I said I wanted to burn it to the ground. Of course, I would warn the crew of Radios Two, Three, Four and Five because they share the building and are a supportive bunch. I was being spikey. I am not a pyromaniac, nor do I own any Pyrex dishes. But I do not apologise. I hate Radio One and will soon make it known on disc.
Nor will I stop attacking those critics who attack me. Gary Mulholland, from discerning (retch) music rag Mojo, called my record "too bland to stand" and referred to one of my songs as "Westlife (don't you mean Pond Life?) on a bad hair day".
In their dreams could they touch me as a writer. And since I am as popular as Alfred the Great and Queen Elizabeth I, I should send him to the tower to be beheaded. Clearly Queens don't have the power they used to.
ONLY a gay man, read and weep, can get a female pop icon to take off her knickers in a nightclub and present them as a souvenir. The lady in question was Peaches, the crowned queen of "New Beat Electro", who was over from America.
The sordid but delicious encounter was at London's Nag, Nag, Nag, which is full of pretty young things who have discovered that the golden rule of style is more is more.
Johnny Slut, who spins the tunes, sent me a text the following day to demand to know what I had done with Peaches' panties. Don't panic dear, they won't be up for sale. They will join my Posh Spice signed photo, my Warholesque pin-up of Ivana Trump and my Pam Greer framed autograph. You see, even official icons (or is it eyesores?) get impressed.
Not so for the grumpy old dame who came to Taboo last week thinking she was going to see Culture Club and was outraged that there were women in men's pants, bad language and that the bloke dressed as an emu dripping in Latex was not me. When I found her to whisper that it was me, her response was: "I know - and you're spoiling yourself."
The show is about a bunch of dysfunctional freaks who, after being ostracised from civilised society, created an alternative one. I think if we have the grace to welcome those back who showed us the door, they should be gracious and take some responsibility.
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