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1st July 2001
Ziggy Wig Makes a Good Impression
It's nice to know that I'm not the only strung-out human with a finger in a thousand pies. The other evening, I was visited by top hairdresser, shop owner and candle priestess Lisa Eastwood, who whizzed by to cut me a Ziggy Stardust wig for my performance on Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes.
Yes, I have agreed to appear as my idol David Bowie and am taking the whole thing rather too seriously. Having persuaded my friend and genius make-up artist Paul Starr (he paints and has worked with Bowie) to fly from America to give me the full Ziggy paint I was desperate to get a wig cut - and that's where Ms. Eastwood came into the picture.
The wig was a cascading Duchess of York number but after just 45 minutes of chopping, it looked like a Glam Rock dream and now I couldn't care less if I win or lose because it's all about getting the look right.
Usually, when one appears on Stars, they prepare both costume and wig in-house but being a fussy old nelly, I had to call in the experts and now that I have my bona fide Bowie wig, I am quite sure it was the right move. I have been seeing an acting coach to learn how to speak like David Bowie.
When I was 13 I impersonated Bowie for the first time. My Aunty Jan had cut my hair, using a picture ripped from my teenage pop bible, Jackie magazine, as a guide. I really thought I looked the bee's knees, until I arrived at Lewisham Odeon for my first Bowie gig and came face to face with an army of perfectly turned out Bowie clones who made me look quite pathetic. This time, I've lopped off my eyebrows (mum wouldn't let me first time around) and though I'll look like King Edward potato for about six weeks, it's worth it.
To add to the spookiness of it all, I've just been over to Milan for a Versace extravaganza and the show was a tribute to Bowie. I had to prepare a soundtrack, mixing vintage Bowie with urban grooves, and the models sauntered down the catwalk with big Bowie quiffs and box shoulder jackets with nipped-in waists and smudgy eyeliner. It was a tribute to the Eighties Bowie look, circa the Thin White Duke, but it's all good practice. Wouldn't I be chuffed if, in 20 years, Versace paid tribute to my sound and style - platforms crossed and all that!
At the after party, I span a few tunes for a select bunch at Versace's massive stone townhouse and the very sexy young actor Heath Ledger was responsible for getting the precious throng on to the dance floor, bless him. Halfway through my set, the sound system broke down and the police arrived because someone had complained. I couldn't help wondering why Donatella didn't just bung them a monkey and say scurry. It seems even the very wealthy and powerful can't buy off the neighbours.
On that note Jay Kay, the very famous and equally wealthy singer from Jamiroquai, tried to pummel my dear friend Philip Sallon at London's trendy Met bar last week and the bouncers had to pull them apart. Apparently, Jay is still fuming that Philip turned him away from his legendary Mudd Club back in the Eighties.
Dear me. If every punter who had suffered rejection from Philip's parties sought revenge, he'd have to employ round-the-clock security. Luckily no punches were landed but there was an awful lot of verbal abuse and Philip went home shaking. Ironically, Ms. Sallon is a huge fan of Jay Kay and is always raving about his "lovely voice". But he never buys records so a ceremonial burning will not be required.
8th July 2001
Hedwig Movie is simply a Triumph
Anyone who was around in the punk rock era will recall a gutter-mouthed and frankly delicious transsexual singer called, first, Wayne and later, Jayne County.
Well, if you have a picture of him/her in your mind, add to that a hint of Farrah Fawcett, a dash of Bowie and you will end up with Hedwig. Who's Hedwig? You may well ask. Well, you could call him a rock star, a poet, a performance artiste or an actor because he is all of these things. He is John Cameron Mitchell to be precise and is best known as his alter ego, Hedwig. After years of touring his rock opera, Hedwig and The Angry Inch (don't ask!), he has finally made a movie of it and it is exquisite.
Last week, I managed to get a private viewing of the movie and, after seeing it, I am raving. Hedwig And The Angry Inch is about a young boy who has a sex change to escape East Berlin but don't let me simplify the story, which has more twists than Chubby Checker on helium. Mr. Mitchell's bent for self-deprecating humour is only matched by his ability to act, direct and star in a movie that is brave, shocking and depressingly original.
There's not one second of bad acting or clichéd language and the songs, all original, would make Ziggy Stardust beam. If David Bowie was offended by the movie Velvet Goldmine, which was more than loosely based on his Seventies incarnation, he will have much to be proud of when he sees this.
Hedwig And The Angry Inch is a triumph and a tribute to any man who has walked in heels and plucked his eyebrows, but I also know it would make my mother laugh and weep. I had the pleasure of performing with Hedwig in New York on Millennium Eve, but I was too busy putting on my own make-up to witness his performance. Frankly, I'm gutted but honoured to have the chance of seeing it again on celluloid.
Talking of prose, my language has been less than poetic this week. Anyone who has read my interview in this month's Attitude magazine will know what I'm getting at. I have been worried sick that I might have gone too far when commenting on Madonna, a favourite obsession, but it was poor Elton John who got the wrath of my loose tongue.
Being, or trying to be, a Buddhist, I know that words can be powerful and brutal and I wish I could practise what I preach. I'm actually seriously fond of Elton, who reads this column, and I guess what I'm trying to say is, SORRY. Apart from singing with George Michael and Eminem and not moi, he has never done anything offensive to me. Unlike Madonna, he always says hello and is always a gentleman. I realise that I should take deep breaths between sentences because whenever I'm bitchy about anyone I feel awful for days.
It's not that I'm a bad person, just a big-mouthed bitch sometimes and I hardly ever mean a word of what I say. I would send flowers, but Elton has them on tap. So I'll send round my masseur.
After performing as Bowie on Stars In Their Eyes, I have one regret. I shaved off my eyebrows. They will grow back but in the meantime I'll have to practise painting them on from scratch.
I had to DJ at a corporate bash the other night and kept getting them wrong. Even my make-up artist buddy, Paul Star, couldn't help because we kept dissolving into laughter.
I've been advised to rub good old petroleum jelly on them every night and am chanting for their swift return. Ever heard the saying: "Every picture needs a frame?" It's true.
15th July 2001
Bank on the Swiss for a Dressing Down
I flew to Zurich for last weekend's Zuri-Fest, an event that happens every five years and allows the reserved Swiss to let their braids down. The city centre is closed to traffic for three days and spruced up with special benches, fruit and graffiti, plus food stalls, a fairground and music.
My job was to warm up for the Amazonian Eve Gallagher, a long-time friend. Of course, my decks weren't erected when I arrived because, at rock festivals, DJs are not treated with the same respect as "proper" musicians.
But I kept my cool and eyed up the talent. Swiss men, especially the security guards, are very handsome.
The gig, which was rammed, went exceedingly well, despite having dreadful sound. Ms Gallagher ripped it up and then we stood and watched the fireworks. I couldn't help remarking: "They're destroying the ozone." Call me a killjoy but I've never understood the concept of fireworks.
The following night, a bunch of us went for dinner at the Hotel Grande, which is poncier than Ballenciaga wellingtons. We didn't know that jackets were de rigueur but even though mine was trimmed with safety pins, I passed. My companions, who were much more conservative, opted for pressed shirts but were collared by the maitre'd, who marched to the table with jackets and dressed them at the table, which I found rather rude.
In their haste, they slipped an oversized jacket on to the thinner chap and a Norman Wisdom number on the stockier gentleman. The result made us the centre of attention for 10 minutes.
I don't understand the jacket policy. You could just as easily be a mass murderer or a car theif... and some of the most stylish types like to slob out occasionally.
Sinead O'Connor's latest album, Faith & Courage, had somehow slipped my attention until I was driving through Provence last week and a friend chucked it on.
One tune, Daddy I'm Fine, a pornographic protest anthem, had me almost pogo-ing on the plush leather seat. Apparently the album has received critical acclaim but barely a spin on the radio.
I realise Daddy I'm Fine contains some lewd (but inspiring and invigorating) lyrics but a bleep here and there would do the trick. If Eminem and the like can receive relentless radio play for their brattish spoutings, then why can't Ireland's only living She Devil get a look in?
As you know, I constantly bitch about the level of musical dross forced into our ears, so when I hear something brilliant, I simply have to salivate. Buying this album was as exciting as spotting restaurant reviewer AA Gill in a cropped leather jacket and a swarthy tan the other night. Things that make you go hmm!
I arrived back in Blighty to the depressing news that the venue we had lined up for my musical, Taboo, has fallen through. Casting, set design, budgets, the lot have been kicked off. But we are desperate to find an unconventional space for the show. I am tempted to knock down a wall in my house but I don't think the neighbours would approve. If you own a decent-sized emporium or a crumbling theatre, please drop me a line!
I went through similar dramas trying to find a venue for my 40th birthday bash and I'm suffering hideous déjà vu.
22nd July 2001
A case of Canada dry for teetotal DJ
As a rule, I don't like to fly anywhere abroad and work the same night. But this time it was unavoidable. I havne't set foot in Canada for several years, due to my past dabbling with narcotics - and the Canadian authorities are tough, to say the least. Despite arriving with all the correct papers I was held up and asked to detail every substance I'd ever taken. I was tempted to just jump on the next plane home but I kept quiet and let my calm tour manager d othe negotiating.
The last time I was in Toronto was to sing so I was greeted by an audience that preferred to ogle rather than dance. As a celebrity DJ (I loathe that term), I have to accept that it's going to take time for the rest of the world to assimilate the idea. I guess I have to take some responsibility for confusing my audience. They must constantly wonder "what is he?"
I hate the fact that I have to become my job or whatever religion that I show an interest in. What will they do once the Karma Cookbook is released over here? Will I become ex-singer, junkie, DJ, cymbal-bashing Hare Krishna, Buddhist, fallen Catholic, radio jock, celebrity chef?
More like a jack of all trades, master chef or none.
I haven't consciously decided to live such a multi-faceted existence but, if I relied on music for entertainment, I would go mad with boredom.
It's not that I like working hard - I'm jsut a girl addicted to adventure, one who can't say no.
My second gig was at Newtown in Montreal, a very posh club owned by French racing driver Jacques Villneuve and it was (shame) a promotional event for a cigarette firm. Not entirely ethical but forgive me, I am both a smoker and a fag!
Luckily, the cigarette in question was not my brand but I've still been puffing away on my ever-dwindling duty free. I haven't touched alcohol on this trip, which makes it exactly two months on the wagon.
Finding good quality veggie food - oh, that subject again - has been trying. I got very excited by the sight of broccoli and watercress soup on the hotel menu but it was poisoned with chicken stock. Now that I know my way round a kitchen I can assure you there's absolutely no need to jazz up broccoli or watercress. A bit of sea salt is quite sufficient.
My first trip to Calgary, way up in the furthest corner of this vast land, was simply smashing. You wouldn't know it was such a rocking, beat craving spot if you minced around the streets. It was deathly but, obviously, all the night monsters were busy putting on their gladrags to descend on the Escape club...
The crowd were so young, energetic, handsome and pretty that I got cramp in my neck and my mouth got stuck in a permanent grin. It was heaven for a bisexual but, sadly, I am only bi in theory.
I must give huge respect to the resident spinner, Cary Chang, who was a far swifter DJ than I and very nice. There was none of the the usual snidey, competitive, nastiness that one often has to encounter and his music was refreshing, funky and not even slightly obvious.
I'd love to go back to Calgary because they have the right spirit. A young, beautifully painted Goth clubber told me: "You saved me from this redneck town, God bless you." I wanted to say: "Pity those that hate you because, spookily enough, they hate themselves much, much more."
I imagine that it can be quite butch in Calgary but I felt quite at home.
29th July 2001
My Freedom Goes Up In Smoke Again
When the female traffic cop approached me outside Minneapolis airport and told me: "Put out your cigarette, sir," my hackles rose. I wanted to quip: "Do you eat meat, Ma'am? Because I don't and I find that offensive!"
Of course, I kept my big mouth shut and moved along to door six, where you could smoke freely. I understand rules that make sense, but since when did the American authorities own the sky? The US is going overboard with this whole anti-everything mentality and it's getting on my nerves.
I was travelling with my friend and macrobiotic chef-ess, Melanie Waxman, and we were wondering (dream on) if there would ever be a meat-free section in American airports. It's not something I want, but you get my drift.
I'm quite sure that most folk I encounter on my travels have differing political, sexual and social views to my own, but live and let live. I have to sit on planes with people gorging on slaughtered animals but I never complain. Smoking, as stupid as it is, is an informed decision, but animals don't ask to be electrocuted and served up between two slices of rye.
I thought this bonkers "You can't smoke in the street" rule was just a quirk of Minneapolis but on arriving in Dallas there were also No Smoking signs outside the airport but luckily no cop.
Minneapolis, home of the shy pop guru Prince, was not the most brimming gig but those who came danced vigorously. In America, the idea of dancing to a DJ is controversial but they are slowly coming around.
Dallas, a city I love because it's so butch that it's camp, was great fun and I got to sign two pairs of breasts, one real and the other purchased by a striking Thai (ex)male who could confuse an ardent heterosexual.
I managed to pull a healthy-sized crowd midweek and I was in such a good mood afterwards, I stuck around to sign breasts, bras and sweaty T-shirts.
Los Angeles was also a stonking gig and I got to play with Miss-Stress Barbara, an up-and-coming female DJ who dresses like a classy executive but plays tough grooves.
The only annoying aspect of this tour is that you can't get my latest DJ mix album in most of the cities I have visited, but we have been selling them ourselves and I've been customising T-shirts to sell. Am I a one man cottage industry or what?
The album has sold about 40,000, which might not get Michael Jackson excited but I'm quite pleased. The last big record I had in America was the Crying Game and I get the impression the punters would prefer to hear me sing. They might not have to wait long because I intend to record a new album later this year. In the meantime, I have recorded a new song with Radio One DJ Judge Rules and talented Irish dance-meister Paul Masterson for their Hi-gate project. To dip my toes back in the recording pool I have also lent my vocals to a new tune by Dark Globe. For now, though, I must focus on the job at hand... Next stop, Ohio.
On the food front I have been eating very healthily. Ms Waxman, the priestess of the scented wok, has been cooking, and very successfully, in the hotel room on a tiny camping stove. It's amazing what can be achieved with enough will and skill. We've been getting some surprised looks as we dig into soba noodles and vegetables on planes, but you should see the veggie options. It's pure rabbit food. A plate of dry raw vegetables is not enough for a touring boy who lives between meals.
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