|
|
 |
| |
3rd June 2001
Message of Hate Shames Rappers
If anyone asks me the bravest thing I've done this year, I will reply that it was going to see rap diva, Missy Elliot at the Brixton Academy last Wednesday.
On arriving in Brixton, I got the jitters because the streets were brimming with police and hordes of angry black youths who jeered "Dirty Batty Boy" and shot the air with imaginary guns. Some of their other comments were too vile to print but you get the vibe.
The atmosphere was no sweeter inside. I caught a glimpse of Missy glittering on the stage, searched for my friends and said: "Let's leave." My big queer heart was pounding and for the first time in years, I felt unsafe and alienated in this gorgeous city. Luckily, my friend was driving and I jumped into the back seat under another barrage of abuse.
One can't blame Missy or other rap artists for the crowds they attract. Some, like Eminem, encourage hatred and ignorance but it would be nice if others attempted to educate their fans. Surely black artists like Missy realise that they have white gay fans, even white gay popstar fans and no doubt a few black gay fans. The hostility towards homosexuals from the rap community and its audience is shameful. How can you sing about prejudice yet turn a blind eye to the suffering of other minorities? Twenty minutes before, I had been watching the Pet Shop Boys musical, Closer To Heaven, with Elton John, and the contrast was like chalk and Gorgonzola. Now do you see why dueting with Eminem was a bad idea, Elton?
Bittersweet Classic
Earlier in the week, I went to see Mouth To Mouth at London's Albany Theatre, starring Michael Maloney who plays a gay man living with HIV and a guilty secret that is both shameful and wickedly erotic. The play has so many unexpected twists and it is reminiscent of Mike Leigh's classic Abigail's Party.
At first, Maloney's character comes across as the kind of dithering queen you want to slap with a wet cod but you soon discover that all is not what it seems when he drops to his knees in a pantry to check out the tattoo on his best friend's son's thigh. From that moment a dark cloud is thrown over the beige livingroom...
Mouth To Mouth is brilliantly acted and written. The most touching moment is when mother and son do a tango around the reclaimed wood floor and she accepts that he has become a man. Just how far he has gone she never really discovers but that is the genius of the piece. Nothing is resolved and by the end, you are praying that it never will be. Sound familiar?
Well-Hidden Talent
I had to laugh at Heathrow the other day while catching a British Midlands flight to Belfast. The check-in girl said: "Excuse me sir, can you go to another desk? I am just checking in these VIPs."
I took a look at them but couldn't tell you who they were. They must have been the latest boy band or members of Survivor or rejects from Big Brother. I was tempted, as a joke, to exclaim: "Don't you know who I am?" but I just slipped outside for a last-minute smoke. A baseball cap is clearly not as effective Phillip Treacey fedora but it's fun to watch from the outside and see how ridiculous we all are.
10th June 2001
Kim Brings Hope To The Lost Generation
Looks like I really did start something. The Eighties Revival, which has gone on longer than anyone expected, is about to rear its back-combed head again. Eighties songstress and gardening expert Kim Wilde and a host of other acts are to embark on a nationwide nostalgia extravaganza-organza or will it be polka dot? tour this autumn.
This time I won't be joining in but I may swish along to ask Kim why my house plants keep wilting. Of course, I won't go empty handed. I shall take her a copy of my new Karma Cookbook, which hits the shops this week, and I might even chuck in a portion of sugar-free apple crumble.
I keep getting asked why there is still such interest in the era which was once the most hated decade, and I still haven't come up with a logical response. With the current pop scene being so calculated and cynical, maybe the lost generation who are careering towards middle age, who don't have flat stomachs and can't dance to order, are just desperate for a good old-fashioned knees up under a cloud of hairspray.
These nostalgia tours always attract an interesting bunch. You get the diehard fans for whom life does not exist beyond a certain tune and those who just want to see how the dinosaurs have weathered.
No matter how many hits you've had, the punters are always waiting for the one song that has been the bane of your existence. Every band or solo artist, has a song that glues them to a moment, but there's always one fan (bless Œem) shouting for some obscure B-Side that you've forgotten the words to. (yes George, when are you going to sing Don't Go Down That Street again?)
Kim will be headlining the nostalgia-fest, but also on the bill are Go West, who I toured Japan with some years ago (who's counting) and Haircut 100, with the compact Nick Heyward, who judging from the official press pictures has been making regular visits to the gym. Don't tell me a "Perfect Pecs" is on the way? Oh well, beats working for a living.
Back To The Future
Who's next? That was the big question on Thursday night as fashion students showcased their work at a huge graduation show in London's East End. The show, sponsored by the Prince's Trust and Top Shop, started more than an hour late and sadly I didn't get to see every designer, but what I saw was refreshing.
Alexander McQueen, looking tres trim, was there to present an award and it was obvious many students had been influenced by his snip and stitch. The other big influence was Hussein Chalayan and, of course, the mistress of it all, Vivienne Westwood.
There was a heavy Eighties feel, with lots of dropped shoulders and ruffles and boys in heavy eye make-up, looking moody to a soundtrack of Marilyn Manson. One of my fave pieces was a pink jacket emblazoned with a photo of Barbara Cartland and diamantes. There were a couple of male models who caught my eye too!
I wish I could name check some of the best designers, but the programme only credited the colleges and I didn't have my professional journalist note pad and pencil with me. Anyhow, it looks like fashion is bucking up its ideas a bit and getting more colourful.
There didn't seem to be much in the way of interesting male designs, but the boys (surprise, surprise) seemed to have more fun designing for the ladies. It's reassuring to know that the queer position in fashion and soft furnishings is safe.
17th June 2001
Roaring into my 40s with a swells party
I was once told that when anyone tells you how good you look for your age, they're merely reminding you how old you are! A tad cynical methinks. My favourite muse on getting older is that at 20 you have the face God gave you, at 30 the face you've created and at 40 the face you deserve.
If that's true, I must be honest and say that I'm not too worried about being 40, which happened, all of a sudden, last Thursday. The plus points are, I don't have a poisonous sneer or a cat's bum mouth, all pinched with bitterness. I am quite content with my ageing expression. Other people are much more concerned with my getting old. They ask: "What's it feel like to be 40?"
Age is something that happens while you sleep, eat, dance, dream, but I can't tell you what it's like to be 40 because it feels like another day, which it is. Ask me when I'm 45 and I might have an idea. It's foolish to suggest that one day in a year can sum up how you feel, you need time to soak in it.
The fact that I decided to throw a lavish party is my way of admitting it's a bit of a milestone but the organising, or finger pointing, was left to my dearest friend Philip Sallon who throws the best parties, or at least ones you don't forget in a hurry. He was helped massively by my personal builders, Ray and Paul (The Nobbers) who did all the toiling and making good, not forgetting lovely Sara Loftus, who threw her interior design skills in and worked night and day for love. It took a week of scrubbing and plastering but it ended up looking passable, with a few yards of muslin draped over the rough spots.
The invitation clearly stated "Dress dandy or courtesan" and listed a whole bunch of style references for those lacking in imagination or who had never seen a picture of Oscar Wilde. Some celebrity guests - Babs Windsor, Kylie Minogue - didn't feel like dressing up but if my mum can thrust herself into a bustle dress and a powdered wig, there's nada excuse.
Not surprisingly, it was the guests with the least cash who threw themselves into the spirit head first and boy were there some top freaks. A friend said: "I love it, it's glamorous but not too OK!" Vanessa Feltz, Jonathan Ross, Ralph Little from the Royle Family and artist Tracey Emin were in full costume, proving that not every "face" is too cool to muck in.
I was amazed by how many people got into the mood. The best thing was having there my one and only schoolfriend, whom I call Miss Carter, dressed as one of the Bloomsbury set on acid, carrying a book of Oscar Wilde quotes. How sweet. Angels, the costumiers, gave us seven gorgeous period costumes for free and I was touched.
George Michael was a no-show, which was a shame because I thought an older and wiser moment would have been a perfect time to bury the hatchet. Whatever, it was mostly old friends, DJ Rusty Egan, make up artist Leslie Chilkes, milliner Stephen Jones and towering drag queens who made the party swing. I stayed sober because I'm on a nine-week, macrobiotic clean-up, but that didn't stop everyone trying to ply me with alcohol. With the Karma Cookbook on sale, I feel it's time to put the principle into hardcore process and after five days of feeling like a train wreck, I am now feeling Buddha-esque.
If I had drunk at my party, I would have been snarling at the handful of guests who brought cameras and wanted me to pout with their best friend's cousin's cat. I smiled and said calmly "It's my night and I am choosing to enjoy it." It seemed to work.
24th June 2001
Unlicensed Means Unsafe and Unfare
Anyone who frequents the nightclubs or bars in London's West End and stays until the bitter end will no doubt have encountered or even jumped into one of the multitude of unlicensed mini cabs that loiter without good intent on every curb.
I have no problem with anyone making a living with or without a licence, but I do wonder how they get away with charging so much. A black cab ride of about four miles from Soho to Hampstead costs about £8 but it's not unusual for an unlicensed cabby to demand up to £40.
I always say: "You must be drunk" - and will quite happily, on principle, stand for 20 minutes until a proper cab shows up. It's not that I'm tight but I cannot bear anyone taking a liberty. Worse still, most of them have no clue where they're going and drive like maniacs. There are odd occasions when one of them will quote a bearable price but on the whole they are a bunch of pirates.
Isn't it time the authorities cracked down on these robbers? After paying through the nose for drinks, we insomniacs have the right to a safe and reasonable-priced ride home.
The police and Westminister Council seem happy to badger the homeless and hound poor prostitutes for advertising their popular trade. If they can't force them to have meters, then they should make them provide warm tea, biscuits and a Valium. Yours, angry of Hampstead.
My Macro Miracle
As I mentioned last week, I am on a major macrobiotic clean-out and I am now 10 days in and feeling less like a train wreck. For those who think a macrobiotic diet is just cardboard and cabbage, let me explain. Macrobiotic (or macro-neurotic) is a diet, sans meat, dairy products or anything processed, including sugar. White bread is the devil and sugar is the neighbour of the beast.
If this sounds like hell, think again - right now I am eating like a king. My meals are being prepared by lovely macro-whizz, Dragana Brown, so I have a slight advantage. The most interesting aspect of this clean out is how it has affected my mind. I haven't been this focused for years.
Macrobiotic eating is closely connected to Feng Shui. It's a kind of internal version and it seems once you start eating the right food, it affects every aspect of your life.
One of the main rules is to eat at regular times and chew each mouthful 30 times. The chewing but is tough as I come from a big family, where you ate quickly to get second helping. I am overcoming the urge to rush my meals, I am sleeping better and my old clothes are whistling at me from the closet.
Having just released The Karma Cookbook, I feel it's important to show people what can be achieved.
In four weeks I'm off on an extensive DJ tour of the Americas, where I will be accompanied by another macrobiotic chef. I know it's a bit Michael Jackson, but at least I'm not sawing off chunks of my body and mincing around in a gasmask.
Listening pleasure
If you're having trouble telling them apart - every song sounds the same - give yourself a break and buy Hotel by El Hula. Anyone who worships Bowie, has a soft spot for Scott Walker and likes a man to be true to his inner peacock, will love it. Jonathan Ross isn't convinced but now he's walking around dressed as me, who can take him seriously. A proper album, whoopee.
| Back to the Express Main page |
| Back to the Main page |