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7th January 2001
New Year That Sent A Shiver Down My Spine
Talk about timing! New Year 2001, Miami had the coldest weather in 95 years and I was booked to perform at an open-air gig on the beach. One does not expect to freeze in Miami but freeze I did. I went on stage in a cashmere scarf and have decided to stick a temperature clause in my contract. Apparently Whitney Houston has one and I'm beginning to think she's got it sussed.
Apart from being hideously cold, the sound stunk and I sounded like a strangled cat. Never mind, it was New Year and those who attended must be applauded for sticking it out. At midnight, I was joined on stage by the B52's and we toasted the New Year as our teeth rattled.
My poor agent, Tony Denton, was hobbling around on crutches because he had broken his leg, falling off stage at one of my DJ gigs two days before - more bad timing. He was carted off to a grim hospital and made to lie on a cold trolley while doctors and nurses ridiculed a man who had overdosed on drugs. "Bet you're having a good party now" and "Happy New Year, idiot" they joked as the freaked-out bloke screamed hysterically. It really gives one faith in the US medical profession.
I have to congratulate Tony for braving the broken leg and venturing out for the New Year celebrations. The human spirit is so resilient.
Thankfully, my second New Year gig was in a warm stadium packed with screaming homosexuals. I'm not sure how they felt about having the disco grooves interrupted for Karma Chameleon but, as they say over here, "Tough".
To be honest New Year was a nightmare but I hear my wounded agent is going to introduce the promoters to his good friend "Sue". I'm having a veiled Philip Treacy hat knocked up for the court case.
Hungry Like The Wolf
My old eighties rivals , Duran Duran, were in town this week and played a sell-out night at the Level nightclub in South Beach. Apart from loving the nostalgia and finally being able to admit that I know quite a few of their lyrics - oh! the shame - it was interesting to witness a current Duran Duran crowd. They attract a much straighter bunch than Culture Club (sexually speaking) and they have a much higher quota of rock chicks. I haven't seen so much tight PVC since the late seventies.
Simon Le Bon was in fine voice, though far too low in the mix, and they played a healthy selection of classics, ending with Ordinary World, my fave Duran ditty. Nick Rhodes was slinking over the keyboards in a black tuxedo with shimmering trim and was working that shock of blonde, highlighted mane to full effect.
Whatever one says about Duran Duran - and I've said plenty in the past - they are a proper pop group and they know how to write anthemic, stirring tunes. They chucked in a couple of new songs and they fit like old comfy jumpers. Even if Simon, like yours truly, has the rhythm of a brick, they were fabulous.
My friend Amanda Ghost went decked out in Eighties-style drag and we branded her "Rio" for the evening and I bought a t-shirt. Sad, proud and hungry like the wolf!
Stop me being a loser
My New Year promise to myself - forgive my lack of originality - was to chuck my cigarettes down the toilet. I'm down to my last pack of English cigs and once they run out, my love/hate relationship will finally be over. I can struggle along with Marlborough Lights, which are the closest to my usual brand, but they don't quite do it for me. In fact, I hate smoking and have done for longer than I care to mention, but it's a drug and while I've kicked harder drugs, it's a really insidious drug.
Those of you who know how, please send positive vibes, chants, prayers and crystals in my direction and badger me to quit the nasty losers' pursuit that we call smoking.
14th January 2001
Nice to be home after muscling in on Miami
I arrived in freezing cold London on Thursday, after a bumpy flight back from Miami but my motto is, "Never let the weather ruin a day". It's always good to see Blighty. I have one of those pathetic lobster tans because Miami was overcast and I'm a restless queen who can't sit still in the sun. I jumped on an earlier flight because my best friend's boyfriend was flying back with me and the only way I could get him an upgrade was to pretend he was my boyfriend.
After we slugged into central London in hideous traffic I realised I had left one of my bags, full of duty free, on the back of the trolley in the car park. Someone got a nice New Year prezzy. This is the second time in two months I have left a bag of shopping in a public place. Am I going senile, or what? I suspect it's simply overdue Karma from my teenage years of shoplifting.
Miami is a spooky old place that is all about facades. Everywhere you turn there are pumped up muscle boys and slender chicks and you are fooled into thinking that everyone is manically health conscious. But finding a vegetable in Miami is like trying to find Tofu on the M1. Vegetarian restaurants are thin on the ground and the only juice bars are the kind frequented by body builders who think sugar is a vitamin.
And the cold weather was a bit of a plus because it meant I could dress up at night and not looking about looking like a roasted pig in drag. Heat is the enemy of style.
In Miami, I was invited to the home of songwriter Desmond Child, currently famous for penning Latin pin-up Ricky Martin's worldwide hit, Living La Vida Loca. We attempted to write a song but my mind wasn't on work and Desmond's schedule is absolutely Loca. Mind you, just seeing the three houses was thrill enough. It was very "James Beyond" with boats on lakes and antiques dripping from every nook and cranny. It made my three-up, three-down Gothic pile seem like a tin hut but what the hey, it's home!
Catwalk Composition
I have been working on selections for the next two Versace catwalk shows in Milan but have not been able to provide the miracle for my favourite fashion diva, Donatella. Some months back, I managed to blend You're So Vain by Carly Simon with a modern track by Daft Punk but it really was a fluke. Since hearing that stroke of genius, I have had some bizarre requests from the Versace camp but, try as I might, I cannot get Adam Ant to blend with UK garage.
Working on fashion shows is always a test of one's patience and imagination but it beats working for a living. The biggest buzz is watching the pretty people mince down the catwalk to a soundtrack you have toiled over but it's rather like sex and rock 'n' roll, you spend more time talking about it than doing it.
It's a queer world
Talking of sex. I managed to check out the US version of Queer As Folk, which is causing a storm across the pond and is far better in the acting stakes. Of course, it focuses far too much on the sexual aspect of gay culture and the actors can't seem to raise an eyebrow or order a coffee without engaging in some gratuitous sexual act.
The Yanks have added more than a hint of sentimentality and have cast Cagney & Lacey actress Sharon Gless as a gay-friendly mum. This is cheating because seeing Gless warms your heart and you find yourself screaming: "Look it's thingy from the cop show," and you're won over. I still have major reservations about Queer As Folk but if the US series gets broadcast here, I might be converted yet.
21st January 2001
Beautiful boys put me in a Milanese whirl
Last weekend was a double Versace whammy, with music to prepare for the Versace collection and their funkier offshoot Versus. The Versace show was very Monte Carlo or bust, with touches of what looked like real fur (tut, tut) and lots of white and shimmering gold. Draped in the front row, were Irish racing driver Eddie Irvine, Eagle Eye Cherry (brother of the lovely Neneh) and the glorious Missy Elliot, rap diva and genius producer: Oh! and my ex-friend Rupert Everett, who has now redeemed himself.
Some months back, you may recall, that Rupert made some hateful jokes about the size of my artichoke. I went on the defensive in this column and delivered a similarly scathing retort. Well, Rupert was on my flight to Milan and not only did he saunter on last, he had a full-on barney with the stewardess when it was announced that the flight would be delayed an hour. I was fuming too but Rupert was doing such a fine job ticking them off, I left him to it. I must say airlines are very one-sided when it comes to delays. They get all huffy if you turn up late, but when it's their fault they are completely blasé. When we landed, Rupert was very sweet and apologised for dissing me in the press and, because I hate to feud, I accepted.
So, back to Missy Elliot. I sat next to her at the aftershow dinner in the Romanesque dining room upstairs at the Versace headquarters. At first it was a little awkward - but once we got onto the subject of music she came alive. Missy was eager to know who were the top remixers to supply pukka club mixes for her forthcoming album and who were the big stars in the UK. I listed a few names - Steps, A1, Bob the Builder - but they drew a blank stare.
We exchanged numbers and I promised to bombard her with a flawless list of records and producers, while wondering if the ample diamonds around her neck were mighty real.
I moved across town for the Andrew McKenzie party, which was pure urban anarchy. McKenzie is a Welsh designer who is currently steaming. The place was full of strapping Italian boys, drag queens and fashion junkies. Anaemic looking champagne was flowing. I ended up legs akimbo and had to be whisked back to the hotel. There was another scene going on in the hotel bar, which was brimming with male models, the type that could never love you more than they love themselves. Still, there's no harm in looking even if you are destined to end up alone in bed with a good book.
The book in question is Waiting, by Ha Jin, which is described as a tragic comedy. I'm almost to the end and while brilliant, it ain't slightly funny. I suppose you could describe it as black comedy, which rather sums up my weekend. There is, I feel, a kind of irony in the fact that models, especially the boys, wouldn't be seen dead in most of the gear they are paid to parade. They quickly comb out their Nancy hairdos, slither out of the tight, gold crotch-killer pants and slip on battered 501's and white t-shirts. True beauty doesn't require box shoulders or Lycra but they sell us the illusion of perfection and we lap it up. Those who work backstage at the shows seem horribly jaded by all the beauty. I was salivating over some blond but my top hairdresser chum Guido, who has a great book out called Heads, simply arched a brow and said: "I'll have a Long Island Iced Tea."
I doubt I could ever become cynical about male beauty but I wouldn't mind the chance. I can just see myself surrounded by bored studs with a comb in my teeth.
Unfortunately once you hear a group of male models talking you discover that the conversation is all about which campaigns or big shows they are doing. You feel a brow arching involuntary and a voice not dissimilar to your own, screaming: "I'll have a Bloody Mary."
28th January 2001
Dragging around town with the Bowery boys
Only bizarre and surreal things could happen at a Leigh Bowery tribute evening. |The late and positively weird fashion designer, performance artist, musician and freak about town was remembered by an assortment of colourful characters at London's premier drag joint, Madame Jo Jo's in Soho on Wednesday night. The evening was being filmed by Charles Atlas for a French TV documentary and the promise of being caught on camera lured every transvestite and fashion junkie out from under their rocks.
On stage paying tribute to Leigh were some seriously "avant no regard" types, who sang (or was it "howled"?), read poems, danced, or simply did nothing. Ceris Wyn Evans, who has an exhibition at the Tate, staggered on stage and lay down on it while the sound of a toilet being flushed rang through the speakers, then picked himself up and left the stage while a voice screeched gibberish. Aidan Shaw - porn star, musician and poet - didn't take his clothes off, which disappointed a few folk. He opted instead to read a poem called Perfect List and looked spookily like Richard Gere.
The highlight of the night, apart from Lola Hola's strange drag cabaret, was a poem by choreographer Les Child, which was for me the most sincere and honest moment and got the biggest cheer. Leigh would have enjoyed every last desperate attempt at limelight stealing and would have said, in that exaggerated voice of his: "Soo genius, the more tragic the better." Top marks to drag monster Stella Stein, who compered the event and was the eyeliner on the one liner.
In the crowd I spotted Matt Lucas alias George Dawes, fashion designer Michael Kostif and film director Jonathan Harvey, who has just written a film about Leigh Bowery. What with the movie, the musical and the documentary, it looks like being a big year for Leigh. Anyone who didn't know about him soon will. He'll be grinning down from the clouds.
Chucking out time
Next it was off to the Titanic Bar with a gang of freeloading drag queens and the odd pretty boy. I found myself kissing a selection of boys, girls and boys dressed as girls. It was all very school playground but delicious fun. One of my drag chums - called Lofty because she towers above most mortals in her slingbacks - got rather sloshed and insulted the manager. After being politely told: "You can stay but your friend..." we moved on to China White but it was so crowded I slipped out and into a taxi bound for Hampstead.
Thursday is my therapy day and I like to get a good night's sleep. When I said I had therapy in the morning, I was greeted by a chorus of "What for?" It was pointless trying to explain, even though most of them so clearly need it.
I wish I had gone to therapy in my teens - I could have saved my mother so much anguish and myself so much energy. Unfortunately most folk turn to therapy when they are up to their ears in it but better late than never.
Patron of the arts
Then I trolled off to see an art exhibition by Trademark at the Millennium Gallery in Chalk Farm. Trademark is well known on the London gay scene for his horny pop art paintings of naked studs and glamorous icons. There is a slightly Warhol-ish style to his work but it is all done by hand and not screen-printed.
Some months ago I bought a huge painting of Leigh Bowery by Trademark and it was included in the exhibition with a note that read, "from The Boy George Collection" which made me come over all arty and proud.
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