September 2003

7th September 2003

Drawing clouds in NY's crowds

I'M a Gemini, what can I say? I become my surroundings. If I'm on a beach, preferably a deserted one, listening to gently crashing waves, I am the Zen master. In a dreamy city I can forget almost anything that might be gnawing away at my brain. In a crazy place I become a madman. And New York City is all things at all times.

My apartment looks down on a busy street but inside is like a French cloud and you would never know you were in the Big Apple. Outside you are assaulted by other humans pushing through you, cars honking and colourful shops and eateries tempting you inside.

I've been here four days and have been through every possible emotion. The thrill of being somewhere new that you know will be your home for some time. The aggravation and aggression that is the very lifeblood of New York. Some New Yorkers embrace you in a manner that is so un-British and makes you blush; others snap at you and make your blood boil. I was trying to use my British mobile phone and kept getting put through to an American operator. I tried to enquire what I was doing wrong and before I could finish my sentence I was told, "Call your British cell provider" as the line was cut dead.

Then I got lost and wandered for miles in the sticky heat and rain, cursing and wanting to be home with familiar things. Well, I did my first press junket with Rosie O'Donnell, who is a human tornado.

Her confidence that Taboo will be a huge success is both encouraging and terrifying. I keep hearing my mum saying, "Don't count your chickens", but in America success is celebrated and they have a proactive attitude. One picture of Rosie and me which appeared in The Daily News was captioned "The girl and the ghoul" (referring to my Leigh Bowery styling); another described me as a "vanished icon".

AFTER only a week here, it has dawned on me that I am here to work and that it will be tough. My choreography is basic in the show but have you ever tried to teach a duck to salsa? This highly strung theatrical type has an aversion to designed rhythm but our choreographer Mark Dendy is keeping it simple for me.

But it's the small, insignificant moments which stick with us and there have already been a few. Watching our costume designer Mike Nichols have his portrait done by a sidewalk Picasso is tops so far. Mike is a handsome chap but even Tom Cruise would look strange with displaced ears and a wider face. Then of course there was the drama when our make-up lady Christine moved into her room at my apartment. Our small, friendly Japanese landlady asked Christine if she liked the bright yellow paint job in her room. Christine said no. Suddenly a rather handsome Spanish builder was up a ladder assaulting the walls and a love story has developed.

The builder is crazy about Christine and is constantly ringing the apartment trying to woo her. I did think of putting myself forward for a hot romance with him but he was adamant he preferred "mature women".

Getting to know all the characters involved in the show is a circus, and great fun. Jennifer, who used to work for the New York Dolls, is high on the popular list. Paul, my assistant, asked her if you could get white A4 paper in New York (we can only find mustard) and she said dryly: "Sorry, I'm not in stationery."

Everyone's favourite is Lori Seid, associate producer and fixer of all dramas, and of course Rosie, who has brought us all here and invested her own cash. I would call her mad, but there's nothing wrong with a bit of character.

14th September 2003

Empty Saga of drugs and death

THE IDEA of Macaulay Culkin playing a notorious drag queen may seem farcical but that is what he does in new film Party Monster. It is based on the brief reign of nightclub freak Michael Alig, which resulted in the brutal death of a drug dealer. Back in the Eighties a club scene developed in New York attempting to mirror London's Taboo nightclub environment. At the helm were Alig and his friend James St James. They threw colourful parties at the Limelight club and dressed like Leigh Bowery. Their nights and days were often spent consuming hard drugs supplied by a young man called Angel who was desperate to be part of the cool club scene.

Alig ran up a huge bill with Angel and laughed when he demanded payment. During a row about it one night, Alig and a clubber bludgeoned Angel to death, chopped up his body and put it in a box off which they snorted drugs before leaving it in their apartment until the smell became too much.

Alig even went on TV to brag that he had killed Angel as the search for the missing man intensified. He told St James of his part in the slaying and the latter turned him in to the police.

Party Monster is cleverly shot and Culkin puts in a fine performance but the script is hideously shallow and I felt no sympathy for anyone, least of all Angel, victim of this hedonistic trip to hell. James St James’s book Disco Bloodbath, on which it is based, is a better account and gives those involved a bit of heart.

The picture ends with a mock phone call from Alig in prison during which he brags: "Prison is great. I get all the sex and drugs I want." The reality is that Alig was brutally gang-raped in prison and, more tragically, the film forgets that Angel had a family who put up posters throughout New York while trying to find him.

On the night I saw it the audience seemed to laugh at inappropriate moments but they could hardly be blamed when they were served up such a ridiculous depiction. It seems that Alig was indeed a vacuous and innately vile creature but he must have had a certain charisma to create such a legend. Party Monster suggests that those who dress up and live a nocturnal existence are devoid of morals and compassion. It centres far too much on the drug taking and does little to explain how Alig became so famous or why he was so vile. The only person who seems to have had a hint of compassion was St James, who begged Alig to turn himself in.

Back in those days we used to joke that the New York club kids had got it all wrong and believed far too much in their wardrobes. The same must be said of Party Monster, which is this year's Velvet Goldmine. Indeed it looks like it and sounds great but it lacks truth or substance - other then those being consumed.

IT SEEMS that great legends are dropping like flies and after the sad departure of Nina Simone a while back we now say goodbye to Johnny Cash. Even in his latter years, Cash managed to keep a cool edge and even play at the Glastonbury Festival. His music was an edgy mix of country and rumbling blues, which always sounded individual and was delivered with a smirk.

Most artists who stick to a sound tend to become dull and predictable but Cash never suffered that fate. He will be remembered for classics like A Boy Called Sue and A Thing Called Love but his musical legacy was immense. His exact age was never clear but he always looked weathered and a bit like a barnyard Goth.It's safe to call him a one-off and - to abuse a cliche - he will be greatly missed.

21st September 2003

Curse of personal space invaders

I AM DOING my very best to keep a low profile while rehearsing for Taboo in New York. I'm pretty unrecognisable as I dart around in my most unglamorous clothes - but someone always points you out to someone else and before you know it...

Americans have a bizarre attitude towards fame. They respect it more than we do but they also have higher expectations. They don't like it if you run away when they ask to take your picture. And they talk about you in close proximity - stuff like: "Is that him, really, oh my God, he looks so different."

Trying to photograph anyone when they are clearly trying to look scruffy and nondescript is bad manners. So is asking "Are you really Boy George?" in a cafe when you have seated yourself in a corner to avoid such questions. I have found a great way to get rid of people who approach me with pointless questions. Well, what possible difference does it make who I am? A question should have a purpose and if they only point is so you chuckle and point, well, don't bother.

The best thing to do is to look grumpily at the person opposite, they say to the person who is about to pounce: "Excuse me, my friend and I are having a row." This works a treat because New Yorkers do not like to get involved in personal wars. Those cheery types who ask, "How are you today?" have no interest in knowing how you are. You should see their faces drop if you reply: "Actually, I'm having a really bad day." Their training for charming customers does not help them in these instances.

The customer service on which America once prided itself is a thing of the past - but tipping is still demanded. Cab drivers, who used to exude character and charm, have been replaced by a bunch of old women who say: "Can I drop you here because the traffic's bad?" Between four and six the cabs change shift and you can't get one anywhere.

New York can be exasperating and you can see why people lose their cool. The smoking ban has emptied many bars and restaurants and political correctness is horribly rife.

I asked a cashier in an art store why they couldn't open the numerous empty tills since there was a huge queue of customers. "Don't talk to me like that", he replied. "You should ask to see the manager." A big security guard started moving towards me but I was out the door before I could be wrestled to the floor for making a sensible suggestion.

To counterbalance this you have great bars like Beige, which attracts all of the city's glamorous freaks and pretty boys. I also had the thrill of watching Karen Finely, who is currently doing a new show at Fez in Tribeca. Ms finely is a fast-talking politican satirist who tackles emotional and controversial subjects like 9/11. She was joined on stage by a dozen Liza Minnelli look-alikes who make her social commentary all the more surreal. Liza, I guess, represents the showbiz trouper and that part of the human spirit that can high kick through the eye of any catastrophe.

DAVID BOWIE's LP Reality, I am glad to impart, is a thoroughly good album, which I have already worn out. One review accused it of being "overproduced and too Eighties" but it a very loose recording and full of classic Bowie vocal styles that hint at all his finest recordings and make sad, old, diehard fans like me salivate.

Critics don't stop to think how damaging their observations can be, but I assure Bowie fans that it is a fabulous record. On bad days I hide away in my gargantuan abode with its French furnishings and listen to music. On good days I am loving the alien that is New York.

28th September 2003

No longer together in electric dreams

NO ONE likes to be at the mercy of machinery but, in this day and age, most of us are. Technology is a glorious thing - computers speed up the process of doing fiddly things that once took forever. What could be better than an inanimate object that doesn't answer back or wear cheap nail varnish?

We trust our computers. We entrust them with valuable documents, even secrets, only to discover that they are frighteningly human - and, just like humans, prone to mistakes. Yes, you guessed it, my lovely, expensive, "it's the latest model" computer decided to crash the other day and it was worse than any romantic bust up.

Once I had got over the news that most of my pictures, music files and other important treasures had been lost, I had to deal with the repair shop. Well, my assistant Paul actually took the gadget in for some TLC. "This is a computer," they told him, "not a battering ram," suggesting that I did not look after it.

Aside from a recent trip to New York, my computer has rarely left my Hampstead kitchen, and I treat it like a queen. It was a bit like the baloney you get from car mechanics in dodgy garages as they strip your vehicle of perfectly fit parts just to bump up the repair price. I seriously wonder whether computer companies deliberately set computers to crash after a given number of months, so they can fix them for a small fortune, and glibly inform you that they can retrieve your lost files for a further king's ransom. The repairers kindly offered this service for just under a thousand dollars, which made me gag; they obviously had the facilities to do it on the spot for free.

Once I had contained my rage, I discovered that it would have been best when purchasing a computer to have enlisted the services of a computer expert who could be at my beck and call for a mere £7 a month. Of course, with the time differences between New York and London, there is no guarantee that your allotted expert will be awake, or in the mood to be stirred from his slumber.

When I was seduced into buying the contraption some months back, I happened to be having a whirlwind romance with an IT expert. It was he who advised me on the best system to purchase, and watching him set it up was a marvel. Not only was he gorgeous, but he made it look so easy. Unfortunately, he was just as quick to make an exit from my loving arms, but we stayed friends and I have called him on occasion for advice.

MAYBE I let too much time go by before calling on his expertise, because this time he was very official and offered me the £7 monthy support contract. The only downside is that he won't fly to New York or make any visits unless essential. Most computer problems can be sorted via other computers. Some of these experts have gadgets that can locate lost information in seconds, and provide you with a printout that looks like something from Tutankhamun's diary.

Failing that, you could find one of those children who can press one button and solve a major technical problem in seconds. I remember when computers were introduced into our revolutionary language laboratory back in secondary school. We treated them like a joke, because it seemed a far-fetched idea that one day these silly boxes would rule our universe.

Sometimes a pretty box of paper and a quill pen seem romantic, but there's no turning back. I doubt I will ever post a scented note to anyone again, or use a wax seal. As for my IT ex... it seems it will be a case of "I only have computer-eyes for you".

Back to the Express Main page

Back to the Main page