October 2002

6th October 2002

Bowie wows with forgotten classic

JUST seconds before, I had mumbled to my designer friend Mike Nichols that my other chum, Philip Sallon, would walk up at any moment and say, "I'm bored". You know how it is, when you've known someone for more than 20 years, you get to know their habits and the breadth of their tolerance.

We were in different arenas of the David Bowie concert at the Hammersmith Odeon and, predictably, as I was sneaking a quick cig in the lobby, he minced over and announced:

"It's boring and the audience are all members of the WGU Club."
"What's that?" I enquired.
"We've given up."

True, the crowd was made up of old rockers, some in Phil Collins T-shirts, but my possee and I were dressed up to the nines. Philip's suggestion that Bowie should have ascended to the stage in a spaceship was interesting but hardly practical. David has done it all in the "look at me, I'm here" stakes, though at bit of sparkle on his costume might have been good.

But, as ever, he turned it out on the musical front. I had no idea that he had never publicly sung the obscure but essential Bowie classic The Bewley Brothers and it was orgasmic to hear it. As ever, the show's set listing was unpredictable and Bowie just seems to decide on the night what he will pull out of the bag. When you have so many classics you can't do them all. The important thing is that Bowies's voice was a at full strength and he sounded fierce.

After the gig, it was off to the club Nag, Nag, Nag to swing it with the freaks and it was a relief not to see a Phil Collins T-shirt. I will be singing at Nag next Wednesday but it's a small place and you won't get in if you don't look ridiculous. You have been warned.

Mind you, why do people pretend they don't have a clue who I am and then say: "What are you up to at the moment?" Life in the Isle of Wight may not be completely inclusive but the cute boy at the bar who sidled up to me and made the inquiry clearly knew who I was. As did an aggressive woman who gave me the finger and shouted abuse as I tried chatting to my accountant in Westbourne Grove.

I mean, if I saw Bowie on the phone in the street, I would not go right up and stare in his face and then get lary if, on intrusion, he said, "Excuse me, I'm on the phone".

Looks like I'm over the stage of being polite and available to everyone at any time. I have been quite snappy of late but then, having been possessed by the spirit of Leigh Bowery in my musical Taboo, I have been trowelling on the make-up and digging out my most outlandish frocks and heels. My credit card had just been declined in a make-up shop and I wasn't feeling friendly. Oh, no one's perfect.

LAST week, we said goodbye to punk stalwart Nils Stevenson, the photographer and biographer who passed away unexpectedly at the tender age of 49. Nils was a familiar face at punk gigs, worked alongside the devilish Malcolm McLaren during his Sex Pistols days and was one of the sweetest and most handsome chaps you could encounter. It's weird for me because I've known him since I was a snotty, cynical kid and he just seemed to be everywhere. He was always polite and he will be missed by everyone who knew him.

WHETHER my one-man protest at last week's Mobo Awards will be broadcast is anyone's guess but I jumped on a chair as L.L Cool J did a link and exposed my "Eminem Screws Gays" T-shirt. It was only fair to support my protesting sisters on a similar mission outside who did not have tickets.

13th October 2002

Big in Japan, tiny in Bournemouth

IT IS a common joke in the music business for artists who are down on their luck or out of fashion to tell you they are "still big in Japan or Outer Mongolia". However I've been hearing that Pete Burns and his band Dead Or Alive, are still massive in the land of sushi and I can confirm it's true.

This week I had a meeting with a Japanese production Company to discuss a documentary covering the early eighties and what's going on now with the Electro Clash scene which is blowing up in the UK, America and Germany. They confirmed that Ms Burns is still hot property in Japan. They love a bit of drag, and Pete, who came to Taboo recently with bells on his ankles and (fantastic) could be heard backstage, clanging away, is the queen - no, high priestess of weird.

I'm afraid I can't say that I'm big in Bournemouth because, the other night, I played to about seven people on a chilly Thursday night. Another promoter, who shall remain nameless, halved his drinks prices and offered free entry that killed off our gig. Unfortunately we were half way there before our promoter called to say it was going to be a disaster and we went anyway. After all, those that showed up deserved some kind of value for money, but trying to get a half full disco going is like pulling teeth. This does, I'm assured, happen to everyone and even top Radio 1 DJs have played to fewer people than were at their first birthday. Sometimes the gods are against you and you and you have to shrug it off. I suppose its called professionalism?

We were invited to a house party afterwards but settled for a quick bean burger and chips, from some dodgy all-night kebab shop. I know it ain't good for the hips, but it's comforting.

THIS has been a nuts week. The day before I was standing in the window of Harvey Nichols, dressed as Leigh Bowery and scaring tourists. Next I was lured to the Orange nightclub, which opens at 5am, scurried out at about nine and went on a mad cleaning spree at home.
Then I had a strange altercation - verbal not physical - with some gorgeous boy I had rowed with weeks back in Balans gay cafe. He and his mates were making anti-gay comments and when I retorted they got upset. He started on me again and called me fat. If that's the worst he could level at me, I suppose life goes on! Nothing worse then a boy for whom you'd climb a hill backwards in roller skates being vile to you - but as Morrissey said, "the more you ignore me, the closer I get". Indifference is such an aphrodisiac.

APOLOGIES to the reader who wrote to inform me that I don't know my Buju Banton from my Beenie Man - and yes it is correct that I used Beenie Man's tune on a recent mix. I liked it. However the queens in America are convinced that Beenie is a homophobe and they are upset with Janet Jackson for duetting with him. I guess if I were Moby, who was dissed by Eminem on record, I might be flattered. As I've said before, years ago, some wannabe called Dominic made a tune called Favour Boy George. I liked it, except for the objectionable line: "Aids is a disease, me na wanna catch it". I would of played it out, if not for that. One can't say I don't have a sense of humour about these things, but there's a limit.

There is a strength in embracing a form of music that condemns you. Which is why I have always been fond of reggae. Freedom of speech is clearly a wonderful thing if it works in your favour: But to answer the reader; no, I won't stop spouting off. Minor details, dear.

20th October 2002

Why I'm proud to be a Great Briton

OF COURSE, it's a great honour to be included in the list of Great Britons and when I was wakened by my editor at some ungodly hour to see if I would respond in writing, how could I refuse?

I write from the Royal and Fortescue Hotel in Barnstaple, Devon, after a night of spinning records. Well, I know for sure that when it comes to the final countdown of the top 10 on BBC2 tonight (what is this, a high-brow Pop Idols?) that Angry of Essex, who was screaming at me in the DJ box for refusing to give her my full attetnion, won't be voting for me. "I've been a fan for 20 years," she yelled. After I explained that I was working, she walked off ranting: "That's it."

So, one thing I've learned is that you can't please everyone and why would I want to?

I consider myself Irish. My mother, after giving birth to an illegitimate child, was sent packing to London at 18 when most guesthouses had signs that read "No Blacks, Jews or Irish." I would have been born in Ireland but for that twist of fate, but that does not diminish my love of Great Britain.

At home, I'm called a "plastic paddy", a "junkie sodomite", so again one realises that not everyone is going to love you. Am I proud to live in what Margaret Thatcher so wrongly called "a nanny state"? Well yes, proud as punch. You see, unlike many of my fellow musicians, I believe you only need so much money and moving to another country to save cash, bled from the pockets of the hardworking masses, is hideously immoral. I strongly believe you should give back of what you take. I feel it should be against the law to run off with your bloated purse.

Clearly, there are many people who think highly enough of me to elect me as one of the greats but, as I take this in, I remember my headmaster's final words as I was kicked out of school: "You'll never amount to anything." Or my father, constantly telling me to shut up. As you see, that was a fatal error. Or the fact that Radio 1, which runs off our taxes, refuses to play my music. Hello! People like me and - like me - they pay your wages.

I'm no businessman. I'm an ideas man, a cultural sponge. I don't and never will watch from the sidelines. There are many things I loathe about the country I live in. The current Government, well! It's neither fish nor fowl. And the way my beloved music industry has turned a great art form into the cultural equivalent of pre-packed meat.

I ALSO note that Oscar Wilde is not on the list but Robbie Williams is. He who had me kicked off the bill of a show recently for jokingly suggesting that he was a bit gay. In fact, I'm the only gay man on the list but that's perhaps because I choose not to live in an exclusively gay bubble and because I think we are all sexually confused and that without heterosexuals (bless them) there is no gay.

I'm honoured to be below Sir Winston Churchill, who would have upset Angry from Essex with one of his genius put-downs. And yes, I think Johnny (Lydon) Rotten deserves very much to be on the list because he had the guts and audacity to poke fun at the cold hierarchy that is at the base of our culture.

Thumbs up, Princess Diana, a good girl who was nice to my mum and exposed the Royal Family for the slapped bottoms they are.

But, if I had too choose one Great Briton (by default), it would be my mother who raised six kids and has suffered more family tragedies than the Kennedys. I raise the flag to her because, without her, there would be no one - and I'd give up being on the Radio 1 A-list of Great Britons to let her know she did a great job and that she should be more than proud.

27th October 2002

Poetic justice for Ministry of Sound

SADLY, the Ministry of Sound, the dance lable for which I made a small fortune, despite one of its executives telling Radio 1 that I was a "crap DJ" eight or so dance albums later, has now started dissing me on a regular basis in its magazine.

This month, in a series of poorly written poems, it also insults such top DJs as Tall Paul, Steve Lawler and Paul Oakenfold, which is biting the hand that feeds you. The poem about me ends with the line: "I'm a lardy arsed, pointy nosed jerk". Well, clearly tabloid style journalism (I use the term loosely) is all the rage and those who write for Ministry magazine are taking their lead from all the sad rags that think school playground style writing is clever.

Misery of Sound, as I call it, would get a big surprise if every DJ it slated boycotted its mag and club. That may teach it the lessen it richly deserves.

Even more disturbing is the fact that the mag's new editor, Ollie, is female. Does this mean women, instead of learning from the mistakes of the sad male, are becoming worse? The idea of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" has never worked for me. It's more a case of beat 'em and refuse to join 'em.

This DJ won't be picking up the next Ministry mag and I hope others join me. To read my far wittier response, log on to www.trustthedj.com - there's a place for crudity and it's not in this classy tome.

LAST week, I went to the Gianni Versace tribut at the Victoria and Albert Museum to support my friend Donatella. It was a touching and colourful tribute and then we all went off to the chic restaurant San Lorenzo, where I dragged one of the young museum staff, Adam. It was hysterical, as I was sharing a table with Chelsea Clinton and a host of fashion bigwigs.

Donatella asked me: "This is your boyfriend?" "No dear, he's 17 and I just met him," I told her. I then proceeded to walk around and get autographs for the lad from everyone and put him in a taxi home.

I just think how much I would have loved it if someone famous had dragged me into a dinner and paid for me to get home. See, some of us are well brought up. Cheers, Mum.

Adam, who was busy looking over my shoulder for someone more important, was an Aries and did not care for the delicious Italian grub but he had a certain charm. "I'm more of a McDonald's type," he told me. Well, I should assure him that Ronnie Wood's daughter, Leah, would not appreciate a date at that eat-and-run joint but it would probably do her the world of good.

NEXT it was off to the Oxo Tower for a tribute to NY designer Marc Jacobs and ex-Bananarama chick Siobhan, who was spinning records. She was caught playing her latest track, which is rocking the "Electro" circuit.

I bumped into Duran Duran's Nick Rhodes with Anita Pallenburg, whom I had seen at two parties that week. We could not help but blush. "Do we ever stay in?" I asked, as we sailed up the lift. The phrase "going to the opening of an envelope" sprang to mind but why stay home when you can go out and swing it? I go out in the name of research and, unlike Nick, I'm not hooked up with a gorgeous leggy babe. Mica Paris once sang: "Nothing ever happens till you show your face around." I'm with her all the way.

I ain't ready for the slippers and pipe yet. Ruby slippers, perhaps. Click your heels, Dorothy, here comes another plate of canapes. My latest, Geoff, did a Lord Lucan and I ain't sitting home crying into my green tea.

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