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2nd November 2003
Love's path paved with good advice
SOMETIMES, in the midst of conversation, I hear myself say something wise to a friend and wish I could heed my own advice. Sadly, most of us are expert at imparting wisdom, but can rarely use it to help ourselves out of a hole. The latest of these conversations was about relationships, love and its endless complications. I am a bit of a Kentucky Freud when I'm not in a relationship and can be so level-headed when friends come to me for advice.
A dear friend was talking about her current relationship: a transatlantic scenario, which allows her the freedom she craves, but feels like it's going nowhere. It sounded rather like one of my favourite Joni Mitchell lyrics, "we love our loving but not like we love our freedom". I always turn to music when I am battling love's complications or disappointments and even if the song only allows me to wallow in misery and confusion without offering a solution, who cares?
"I just want him to make a decision and stick with it," lamented my friend. But why do we always expect the other person to make the decisions? It the person who came up with the lunatic concept of love had managed to patent it, he or she would have left his descendants one hell of a financial legacy. My shrink tells me that to make a relationship work you must first decide exactly what you want from it. Sound advice, but how do you know if the object of your desire wants the same thing? Even when someone tells you that they can't live without you.
Often when people profess undying devotion they are being true to how they feel at the time, but that's no consolation when they announce that they no longer feel that way. Don't get me wrong, I actually believe in love and making sense of it (or trying to) is my favourite pastime but I do feel that it is becoming more and more impossible to define and bold on to love in this speedy world.
I FIND getting increasingly impatient with friends who are in what seem to be perfectly good relationships and yet keep saying "this isn't working". When I'm not involved in a relationship I fool myself that I have finally reached an emotional plateau that will make loving me like walking on rose petals. The ugly truth is that as soon as love rears its head, I turn into an insecure, axe-wielding lunatic. The upside of being single is that you get more done and, you get to offer brilliant advice to those in the thick of it.
My conversation with my friend never actually reached the point of resolve and we ended up talking about what she should wear to her office Hallowe'en bash. I had much better advice to offer in that department and it briefly stopped me fixating on my current obsession. No one close to me can understand why I've taken such a shine to one of the stagehands backstage at Taboo. For a start he seems to be terminally heterosexual but flirts with me constantly and makes going to work a pure thrill. Watching me struggle out of a tutu and paint on a big clown mouth doesn't seem to put him off. With all the confused sexual and emotional collisions occurring on stage, there is a sense of art reflecting life.
So you see, much as I dismiss love as a distracting nightmare, it has as much of a hold on me as it ever did. The trick is to remove it from the social constraints we attach and take a risk. Someone once said to me, "stop waiting for the window to fall in and smash and grab". If you don't ask you don't get, and if you ask and don't get, at least you have some kind of idea of where you might not be heading.All aboard the love boat!
9th November 2003
Offstage drama as we try out Taboo
THE IDEA of drama itself being an integral part of the dramatic arts is not such a loopy concept. Taboo, New York has not even reached opening night and already the knives (well, pens) are out. Someone in our midst - who loves to gossip or is receiving a bit of cash - has been playing the media with tales of mayhem. lt's true the New York production has been put together using unorthodox methods and at times we have all felt despair. But I suspect most shows have peaks and troughs.
New York Post theatre critic Michael Riedel seems to have a one-man vendetta against the show and is printing whole pages about so-called dissension and tales of bitter battles for control between me and our producer, Rosie O'Donnell. On Wednesday we had some of the worst press yet and the cast seemed to be deeply negative about it all. Once on stage and in character it was back to business and we had the best show yet.
We are in preview, which means that scenes and lines change more often than Cher switches costumes in concert. What you see one night may have no bearing on what you see the following. Of course negative press is given, and theatre critics can be the worst because there is an element of snobbery which is steeped in arrogant authority.Those connected to the theatre feel strongly that they know what's best for it and they resent outsiders. The reception we got from critics in London ranged from enthusiastic to hate-filled. Here in New York it's very cloak-and- dagger, with cast members allegedly having clandestine meetings with the press and other directors. The word is that Rosie wanted to bring in a new director and that a couple of our leading actors are in cahoots with the man in question. However, in the past two days Taboo, New York has come together like a dream and I feel good about it.
Reading Mr Riedel's response to a letter I sent to the New York Post after his last scandal report only proves that we are here to bolster his self-importance. The plot outside the theatre has lots of twists and turns but it is predictable and undeserving of real attention. The final word must go to the crowds showing up every night and standing up to show their appreciation. All this negativity does weigh down on morale but you have to focus on the job in hand and remember that there are people working harder in jobs they hate for far less money.
POPBITCH, the Internet gossip service that tells us lots of things about celebrities that really don't change our lives, has printed the details to my "Gaydar" profile. Gaydar is a website you can join to meet other gay men for friendship and whatever. I imagine they did so to be unkind but it has had the reverse effect. In fact, I'd like to thank them because I haven't had so much attention since signing up. There have been one or two unkind responses, like, "Why don't you kill yourself on TV and become immortalised?" but most mesages have been sweet and suggestive.
The thing about Gaydar is that if you don't like a message you can just click once and it's gone. If only you could do that to suitors in real life. I suspect that Popbitch assumed I would be embarrassed but why would I be on the site if that's so? My closet door is so open it's virtually hanging off its hinges. When people log on there is no doubt who I am but I still get idiots saying, "Are you Boy George?" No, darling, I'm just using this face until the new one turns up.
Ia fact I changed my profile heading to "Pop Bitch offer of the week". No point to be anyone else because I know I am an acquired taste.
16th November 2003
Forget the critics, listen to my Mum
SOME things in life are predictable. It is a given that I will probably wear eyeliner until the creases around my eyes become like ditches for witches. And I will always be drawn towards clothing that will have me described as mutton dressed as trout. I will continue to dress up in an attempt to stick one finger up at the authority that says one should age gracefully. I realised a long time ago that, if you are going to be damned, you might as well do it in high heels.
Early in my career I was always being called upon to declare my sexual status and now I see why so many public figures prefer to cower in the closet. Even open-minded journalists - who claim to champion freedom of sexual expression - will turn on you when you start being too gay. Once out of the closet, you cease to have arguments and have hissy-fits instead; your fists turn into handbags. The bitchy humour that was designed to protect you from years of abuse becomes tiresome and yet remains essential, especially if you are foolish enough to venture into the performing arts.
This wisdom is not news to me as I read the New York reviews of Taboo, which are sadly predictable. One headline says "Boos for Taboo" but the crowd was up on their feet cheering, not throwing fish. I should be grateful because I apparently managed, in my role of Leigh Bowery, to convey a sinister edge which was far removed from the Boy George of old. His beautifully structured costumes were described as the kind of thing you might see at a Hallowe'en drag parade. A closer look would reveal just how clever his work is but who cares about attention to detail?
At the after-show bash I came face to face with Michael Riedel, who has been battering my show in the New York Post for weeks. He seemed a little nervous but was proud that he had managed to sneak into the party having been banned by our producer, Rosie O'Donnell. "You wrote a brilliant score," he told me, so I asked him why he called it "OK" in print because clearly there's a difference. He didn't explain but said: "Oh, it's showbiz nonsense." Perhaps it is. Mr Riedel has now invited me on his cable TV show for a battle of wits. I will try to take him up on his offer but I worry that I will simply bolster his already deluded ego.
Another journalist who read my letter to Riedel in the Post called me a bulldog who couldn't take criticism. I won't deny it irks me but that's because it's so relentless and often misses the point. Every single musical that's opened on Broadway recently has been slated. Can every single production be so terrible? If so, why don't they knock down all the theatres and chuck up a few more car parks?
POLITICIANS lead us to war and critics to bad taste but we only have ourselves to blame for giving them the power to do so. The main attacks on Taboo seem to centre on a dislike of our producer, Rosie, who was a fierce champion of Broadway for years and made a number of shows huge hits by raving about them on her TV chat show.Now the community has turned on her but I shall put my trust in the best critic of all, my mother. "I'm so proud of you, son," she said after opening night - and trust me, she doesn't mince her words.
Underneath one scathing review was a small piece suggesting I might be a contender for a Tony award for my score - whatever. Ticket sales were the highest ever after the reviews so perhaps Mr Riedel will have to wait for his chance to say: "I was right."
23rd November 2003
New York Youth Culture is Stifled
The Limelight Club in New York, like the one on London's Shafestbury Avenue, is in the belly of an old church. I used to frequent both but I always felt it was weird to be clubbing in a church - probably Catholic guilt but it seemed more unholy if you knew the things that went on there.
New York's Limelight is more notorious because it was the place were "club kid" and killer Michael Alig held his drug-fuelled, debauched bashes in the Eighties. It all came to an abrupt end when Alig was arrested for the murder of a drug dealer called Angel. Alig's rise and fall is documented in the movie Party Monster, starring Mccaulay Culkin.
In a sense, Alig's arrest killed club culture, or at least the exotic side of a club culture, in New York because anyone who looked freaky was tarnished. It happened around the time that New York's Mayor Giuliani decided to clean up Manhattan, For a long time, alternative club culture went underground and there were laws brought in to stop dancing in many smaller gay bars and clubs.
Last week I went to the Limelight, or tried to, for a party to celebrate the release of photographer Patrick McMullan's book on the Eighties nightlife. It has been refurbished and renamed Avalon but after my treatment at the door it is clear a darkness still emanates from its crypt.
Big, hunky, Eastern European thugs stood by the ropes and treated me like a dog at Crufts, insisting that I walk along a red carpet when I was already close to the door. I had gone along to DJ with my old friend Johnny Dynell and I was doing it for free after appearing in Taboo.
Eventually a woman appeared and we were allowed in, where we were greeted by more aggression and I decided to leave. I am not interested in being in a club that is left in the hands of aggressive bouncers. If Avalon thinks this is the way to attract a new crowd, it should make them feel safe and respected.
Firstly, it should be intellingent enough to know that some bloke with latex dripping from his own crown is not a security threat. The only security threat at Avalon is the security. It should also have someone to take invited guests inside and help them avoid hassle. It was a shame to have to left my chum Johnny down but I left him a message explaining why.
Perhaps Michael Alig left a bad energy inside the club or maybe churches are not suitable places for nightclubs. You rarely get such aggression at smaller venues but on the whole N.Y. bouncers are a charmless bunch. I return to the sad fact that youth culture has not chance of blooming whileAmerica's laws prevent anyone from drinking before 21 and force them to carry ID cards. In fact, America probably has more in common with Russia that it perhaps realises.
I hear bad press about Taboo New York has filtered home but the reports are not entirely correct. The larger papers were scathing after opening night but there has has been tremendous support in local papers and on TV. Our sales have risen eight per cent and the crowds have been warm and enthusiastic. For gay New Yorkers it has became a political issue as many felt the reviews were homophobic. Websites are full of rants from queens discussing the media coverage. Oh, well, its nice to know I can still cause trouble. But once you hit the stage it's business as usual.
Every time I release a new album, the critics say, "Oh, there's no Karma Chameleon or Do You Really Want to Hurt Me on it", forgetting that those songs were panned in their day. I guess the success of the worst of one's work can be vindicated by time. Short memory syndrome, or what?
30th November 2003
Into TV battle to defend Taboo
ONE hates to be mean-spirited but, frankly, the much-rejoiced holiday Americans call Thanksgiving was the dullest day of last week. A real case of thanks for giving us absolutely nothing to do. It was selfishly held on my one day off, every shop was closed, and then my printer ran out of ink so I couldn't even work. It's on days like these I get very Joan Crawford - or is it Joan of Arc?
I used to hate Sundays as a child because it meant the weekend was over and school or work was looming. In fact it's hard to put the depression I felt into words. These days (obviously a sign of ageing) I adore Sundays and love to slob about on my sofa watching TV and eating lots of things I shouldn't.
Thanksgiving was held on Thursday but it felt like the old, grim Sunday of my youth and the only thing that could have snapped me out of my hideous mood would have been Tom Cruise appearing at my door in boxer shorts, holding roses. Surprise surprise - no Tom and the day just dragged along like a slug carrying a house brick. In the evening I met up with some friends for a Japanese feast, which brightened my spirits. Then it was off to a ritzy new gay club called XL for a quick whiskey and soda.
At the weekend, starting Friday, we did eight shows in succession and it was hellish. The show itself is not arduous, but running up and down two flights of stairs and scrubbing one lot of make-up off to apply another is testing. I could have had a dressing room closer to the stage but I needed the exercise and if all goes to plan I will have legs like a long- distance runner by the end of it all. Also, I wouldn't want the rest of the cast thinking I was being a diva so I'm staying in my room at the top. One of our stars, Liz McCartney, has just left us for a brief spell to have her first child. Liz has been avoiding the stairs for good reason -and she hits notes that are so robust it's a wonder she hasn't given birth on stage.
FOR the opening night we flew in all the live creatures depicted in the show and it was quite a riot. Marilyn missed his flight and has been plaguing me with abusive messages because he wants to see the Broadway version of Taboo. However, my mother, who is in her 60s, and my youngest niece of four got their flights - but when did Marilyn, logic and time-keeping ever collide?
We are still receiving nasty press, claiming that we are playing to a half-empty house but this is a lie. As my faculties fade, my eyes are still sharp and I can see how many people are on their feet during curtain call. I also took time out to appear on Michael Riedel's TV show Theatre Talk to discuss his constant attacks on Taboo. He was, as expected, charming and even said on air that we have the best musical score currently on Broadway. He refused to tell me who his informer was but Riedel was not the challenging adversary he threatened to be.
On the other hand, I was not the bitch he was expecting me to be. As much as I can turn on the bile I felt some important stuff needed to be said. Theatre Talk airs next week and I am looking forward to seeing how edited it will be. I'm enjoying the madness, with almost everyone asking questions and spreading gossip. Strangers ask: "How's the show going?" in a tone that suggests it is the "car crash" Riedel predicted. This is not true and I would be honest enough to say so if it were.
I'm still loving New York, which has the strangest weather that chills the bones one minute and bakes you like a pie the next. It plays havoc with one's wardrobe but there's a great surplus store down the block so I'm well covered and it is reliably cheap.
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