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1st September 2002
Glam is back - so get used to it
I WARNED you that the next musical revolution would be female-led, with the odd quasi-androgynous geezer thrown in for good measure, like Fischer Spooner, reportedly signed to the Ministry of Sound dance label for a couple of million pounds.
However, back to the ladies. Canadian singer Peaches (whom I wrongly called American, which is apparently an insult) gave a superb performance at Pop Stars at London's Scala club. It was like being 15 all over again. To be an Electro superstar, you need your own "gimp". Remember Pulp Fiction, where the scary man in a rubber suit and chains was pulled from a box? Well, Peaches's gimp (servile dependent, perhaps?) is called Mignon. Though how she will take to being described as a gimp is anyone's guess.
At a certain point in the show, Mignon appears with gaffer tape across her mouth and bound in rope, rolling around. Peaches lovingly spits blood over her as they duet and pogo like leftover punks.
The kids loved it. I haven't seen such an enthusiastic and dressed-up crowd for years. Peaches looks rather like Sandra Bernhard crossed with Jamie Lee Curtis and a dash of Patti Smith. So the big question is, who's a better influence - Peaches or Britney Spears in school uniform? I would always opt for the edgy avant garde over the squeaky Spears.
You won't hear Peaches on the radio unless she tones down her language, so she remains one of pop's best kept secrets.
Then you have Miss Kitten, DJs like Jo Jo Le Freak and the Ping Pong Bitches. Someone get them on Top of the Pops now.
When will the music industry start being pro-active as opposed to reactive and stop serving up puerile pop? Anyway, I have always found myself drawn to ball-busting chicks and I say, bring on the girls - or is it ghouls?
Perhaps Blur were on to something with their rousing chorus: "Girls who are boys, who like boys to be girls, who do boys like they're girls." Or Garbage chanting "Boys in the girls' room, girls in the boys' room" on their hit single Androgyny.
Clearly it doesn't pay to be ahead of your time but at least this new (you know what I mean) sound has not been swallowed up by the corporate fat cats. I keep reading dance mags dissing Fischer Spooner because of his high-camp visuals and Electro beat, but it's fine for every band on the planet to constantly reference the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Get over it, drag's back. Fight it at your peril.
NO PEACE for the wicked but when asked to sing at the Cafe de Paris for a Thursday night spot called KLR - Kitsch Lounge Riot - reserved for West End stage performers, who could refuse? So after a Taboo performance, it was back to make-up and off to throw out a few ditties.
Our current Marilyn, John Partridge, and Paul Baker do turns there weekly and the songs range from highly theatrical to planet pop. The crowd are well up for it and sing along to every word.
IT'S BEEN a theatrical week because on Sunday I raced off to Dulwich to see the aformentioned Paul Baker, who plays the Wizard of Odd in Taboo, doing a selection of show tunes, which were gorgeous. He was followd by the equally brilliant Renihan Sisters who were hysterically funny, sending up the theatre world and throwing in the odd serious number in case anyone forgot they're the owners of two very fine voices.
It's easy to forget how handsome Dulwich is. But then, I only remember it from my dad's builder's van as he raced from site to site.
8th September 2002
It's a close shave for brave Julian
LAST Thursday I had the delightful company of Mr Julian Clary shadowing me (a theatre term, dear!) and watching, in occasional horror and disturbing calm, the process of applying war paint.
We were aided by a couple of bottles of champagne, sneaked in for what was undeniably a special occasion, the highlight being the vision of a freshly-shaven (bald as a badger in fact) Julian. Understandably, the innately funny chap, with eyes like "rubies in a black man's ear" to quote Joni Mitchell, was a little hesitant about going bald but when he takes over this Monday as a slightly svelte version of Leigh Bowery in Taboo, he sadly won't be able to get away with a bald cap.
It's all about the "Latex", one of Leigh's more complicated looks, that can't be achieved by half measures. Some years ago, I had a similar predicament while shooting a video for my single Funtime. I was going to opt for a bald cap but thought why not? I got my hairdresser chum to shear me like a sheep. I did the deed away from a mirror just in case I found myself screaming and in floods of tears but I discovered that not only did I have a nice shaped head, it was quite liberating.
Mr Clary looks 10 years younger shaven and, to his surprise, he has a nice shaped head too. What a relief! No point doing anything by half measures.
THE dubious honour of being given a life ban by Radio 1 has inspired me to pen a protest song. Protest? Boy George? Like Quentin Crisp, my whole life has been a protest but unlike the great redhead in the sky, I don't turn the other cheek. To quote Quentin on a good day: "Perhaps my very existence is a form of importuning."
The best way to purge one's feelings is in song. So, God bless Adam Longworth, XFM DJ and Leigh Bowery understudy, for playing my new song, Radio 1, which kind of speaks for itself.
Most of the music industry detest the power that the publicly-funded Buckingham Palace of Pop wields. Who would say it out loud? If you run a big record lable, it would be like drilling a hole in a boat that's sinking. Well, I have other balls to juggle and dont' rely on the hideous Radio 1 for a living. If I did, I'd live in a tin hut. Anyway, the acoustic version of the song will be available free on the XFM website and on trustthedj.com - so download.
It will be released uner the moniker of THBC, which stands for The Hampstead Bowie Clone. Mojo magazine has attempted to belittle my worship of the man who fell to Earth. As I already said: "That's an insult?" In fact, if they called me the Nana Mouskouri of Hampstead, I wouldn't give a damn. After all, to quote Dame Edna Everage: "Nana made face furniture popular." I'd be more upset if I was called a Beatles clone. In fact, on my next long player, I have written a song called Yoko Saved The Beatles From Mediocrity.
Of course, it's not completely complimentary. After all, some years ago, the diva requested me to call her at a particular hour. It was New York time, so I had to be precise. Her assistant was very curt and said: "Yoko's busy right now, call back later." Of course, I did not. Likewise with Radio (no fun) 1. The best reply is through melody. How dare she.
I have a life too and despite being a huge fan, I find the vault of fur coats slightly dubious. She was A New York Woman. See, I even know most of her lyrics. Maybe I'm the Hampstead Yoko clone? No, I don't eat grass-eating creatures and though I bought my mother a fur coat in the heady Eighties, I repent. Mum refused to hand it over during the fur amnesty, despite the fact that it was never worn. Who can argue with Mum?
15th September 2002
Making a splash in new Shanghai
AFTER a long but smooth flight on Virgin Airlines, and copious amounts of coffee, I am here in China at the city of Shanghai. It's my first time in mainland China and it's not quite what I expected. Well, the whole world is turning into a cultural mess.
Shanghai, in its attempt to introduce a dash of capitalism while holding on to its communist roots, is rising like an American city. Buildings that wouldn't be out of place in New York are shooting up from the streets. What did I expect? Call me old-fashioned, but something slightly more Chinese.
After a quick snooze I intend to swish around the city and see if I can find something other than corporate signs peppered with Chinese writing. They're all here - McDonald's, Sharp, Coca-Cola. No sign of Pret a Manger, but give it a while.
You see, I'm not one of those travellers who likes to go to other countries and watch MTV and eat fish and chips. After I landed in China, the British-born promoter of the festival at which I'm playing asked me: "What's wrong with your jacket?", to which I replied "What's wrong with your shirt?"
The jacket in question is splashed with paint, and perhaps he thought I'd had an accident on the flight with a bowl of soup. But what will he say about my DJing outfit for the gig, which is part of a weekend festival that will include Brazillian dancers. Let's hope they give it humungous plumage and sequins and I can blend in. As if!
I brought a couple of my Eminem Screws Gays t-shirts, just to spread the message that enemy starts with an E. The airport was very calm and I didn't get rubber gloved or quizzed about my appearance, especially my "Boy George for President", "Bitch" and "Queen" (not the rock combo) badges, but what's wrong with a bit of irony? More from China next week.
THE family of the poor chap, Stuart Lubbock, who was found floating in Michael Barrymore's swimming pool, announced last week: "My son would never kiss a man." You'd be amazed at how persuasive celebrity power - call it what you like - can be in that area. Without wishing to disrespect their grief, the point is not whether the deceased chap kissed a man but how the hell someone so young and fit could be found dead, with allegedly serious anal injuries.
It has been said that Barrymore will not face drugs charges, so we find ourselves asking if this is another case of celebrities getting preferential treatment, as with the Gary Glitter scenario.
A drug dealer gets years and an international 1970s hero gets four months and his wig back for downloading pictures of kids who are not making an informed choice. You could, of coruse, point out that someone overdosed on drugs in my home - and it's true. But I put my hand up to drug use, despite never being found in possession of heroin, because my sorrow at losing a friend was too much to run away from. Barrymore might feel a similar sorrow, but the look he gave me at Heaven nightclub recently, as he stood surrounded by young, impressed gays, could have stopped a train. It was a look of disgust, coldness and contempt.
This idea that you can be gay and "normal" makes me sick because it's those who try to blend in that are riddled with self-disgust. The man next door is not normally riddled with body piercings or sporting pink dreadlocks. It's those that try to assimilate whom I find most scary.
To misquote singer Morrissey, normality, not September, spawned a monster.
22nd September 2002
Sweet revenge as the Armada sank
APART from missing Morrissey, that great unsigned British treasure, who played for two nights, it has been a fierce week. Childish, I know, but ignoring the oh-so-trendy dance combo Groove Armada at the Unicef benefit at the new Marquee Club in north London was a plus.
See, I worked with them before they were big and then they called me "fat" in the press. The idea had been that we would collaborate. They had written the song and, me being polite, I did what they asked. Anyway, it wasn't one of their better tunes and no one heard it - but, as the saying goes, elephants never forget.
The gig at the Marquee was for charity, and we all played for free, so when Groove Armada turned up late (manager screaming), I had no guilt about not hurrying up my set. So they played to 10 people. It's humbling, don't worry.
Before that, I was down at The Borderline to see C33X, my mates who are a sort of girl rock band - fronted by two sisters but with a few guys roped in for good measure. They finally have a permanent drummer and sounded raw and awesome.
Then we all trudged off to Unicef, which was a kind of World Music fest and was full of a multitude of exotic groups and dancers. Of course the tickets were tres expensive, which meant the audience were not that musically discerning. You know, rich, lacking in humour or irony - and my set was anything but sensible. And there's always someone drunk and boring asking for something they can dance to.
With it being a corporate affair, I brought all my various boxes - the cool upfront, the party set and the seven-inch singles. What's wrong with being unpredictable. And if it winds up un-Groove-y Armada, who cares?
HAVE I hit on something? Is the demise of Radio 1 imminent - or is its recently announced shake up just some kind of strategic cabinet reshuffle? It seems, though, with Zoe Ball being lured to the Capital Radio-owned XFM, that the punters are using their ears to say, "Laters".
I rejoice in the news that Radio 1's listening figures have hit an all time low. Don't forget that it is a publicly funded institution and maybe it's time to stop modelling its style on the hideous American concept that market research and demographics are a cure for art.
With Steve Lamacq's evening rock/indie show axed, what will give Radio 1 the credibility it so craves? Remember, young audiences are fickle and most grow up, have kids and rarely have time or interest in the radio or what's new in the charts. It's a bit like my meeting with EMI, which owns Culture Club's back catalogue. "Remember, we're aiming for a 35-45 audience," I was told.
It's like the old rock cliche that says a song should get to the chorus in 16 bars. Imagine all the great songs we would never have heard - epics such as Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, or any late Beatles or Rolling Stones, the bricks and mortar (like it or not) of British pop.
By the way, the group Girls On Top have been signed to EMI, so that's good news. For those who don't know, they have a knack of getting the most incompatible songs to meld. The Sugarbabes sampling Gary Numan - they're calling it the pop hit of the year! - had already been done ages ago by GOT.
In a musical jab at the radio station, I've recorded a track called Radio 1 under the name THBC - The Hampstead Bowie Clone. I won't cry if the station's loss opens up the airwaves for more competition. They have had it their way for far too long.
29th September 2002
Outrageous Janet should know better
THE very naughty Janet Jackson (go to bed with no dessert!) has sent the American gay action group OutRage into a tizzy because she has recorded a duet with reggae singer Beenie Man.
Some years back, Beenie sat at the top of the reggae charts for 16 weeks with a song called Boom Bye Bye about gunning down homosexuals, which proves that the "wind and grind" fraternity are homophobic to the extreme. When Beenie Man and Shabba Ranks appeared on the now defunct music show The Word, they were united in their hatred of gays. Shabba ruined his career by saying: "All gays should be crucified." Forgetting, perhaps, that listening to his music was pain enough.
Hosting The Word was Mark Lamarr, who recently assured me that Beenie had become righteous - meaning he has fully embraced his Rastafarian religion and sings of love for Jah, his god, and not songs about killing poofs.
Shabba repented after his record sales plummeted and disappeared into the abyss, despite publicly apologising. Beenie, as far as I know, showed no remorse but grew his hair and picked up an acoustic guitar. Not good enough, is it? It's a bit like Saddam Insane saying: "These missiles are actually oversized Havana cigar cases."
OutRage are calling on Janet's fans to bin her records in the same way that Donna Summer was hounded out of the pop scene in the Seventies for allegedly saying: "AIDS is God's punishment of gays." She denies the statement to this day. Of course, I must go back to Sir Elton John's ill-advised duet with Eminem. Then, ageing rocker Neil Young said that if a "fag" served him a meal in a restaurant, he'd spit in it and send it back.
I once caught Glen Campbell dissing my sexuality on Breakfast TV but it didn't stop me loving his ditty, Wichita Lineman. I just felt a bit sad because how can you work in the music industry without bumping into a poof or two? For a start, many stylists, make-up artists and dancers are homosexual. Janet Jackson might owe much of her fame and style to the team of queer stylists and warpaint-mongers, and should know better.
However, I've met her and she is, I assure you, a twit of the highest order. She exudes a fake sincerity that makes my skin crawl. One can have more respect for a proper redneck because they are raised on hatred and bigotry, but a musician who embraces ignorance has no excuse. Perhaps Janet and her mate Beenie could give the proceeds of the record to an AIDS food chain. After all, it's the African nation that is suffering the biggest AIDS crisis.
WAS I hearing things when Geri Halliwell asked a contestant on Popstars: "Do you think you can actually sing?" She of voice like thinning hair must surely be jesting! Had the unfortunate contestant been tapping into the ESP of the nation, they might have heard the thunderous laughter and replied: "Never leave home without your brain."
Even my niece, who is four, can sing better than Geri and she has barely been potty-trained. As for that arrogant Pete Waterman, Lord knows what he imagines gives him the right to question anyone's musical ability. You might as well have a panel of donkeys judging these desperate-to-be-famous-for-the-sake-of-it dimwits who should be chased with a large stun gun on to the next ferry leaving Dover.
Surely there must be more than a few kids out there with heart and soul and range in their voices. As for that Louis Walsh: "Get up the yard, there's a smell of hay on ya," to quote my blousy grandmother who was a master of the one-liner. As for moi, I am the eyeliner on the one-liner. All I need to say is "desist".
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