There are those places around the world which just reek of glamour. When I started this blog a couple of years ago I had just got back from St Tropez. That's the real deal. Proper superstars, everything beautiful (and expensive) for a series of very good reasons: the location, the climate, the surrounds. It all makes sense. Hence the reason for having a Dolce & Gabbana boutique (and many besides) in the town . I've also been to Capri and that fulfils all those requirements too (with bells on). However, on Wednesday I went to another of those places, but it did not past muster. This was Puerto Bañus, the supposed diamond in the rough of the Costa del Sol. Let me say now, it was much the latter than the former: far more paste than sparkler.
Above is one of my more flattering photographs of the place, but the reality was rather different. Despite being surrounded by the architectural equivalent of gold bath taps, the port was filled with fantastic hardwear, but the usual nautical glamour which these powerboats confer on their harbour did not quite stick. St Tropez (or even Puerto Portals on Majorca) would never have allowed the series of ghastly, tacky restaurants on the front. It's madness! Precisely the power-dressing, gold-dripping, bouffant-coiffed, money-spending, Roberto Cavalli-loving customer this place desperately needs would be sent reeling in stiletto-skidding horror by the specimens who chugged down beer in the British Pub I saw there... just a few doors down from Chlöe. Quite extraordinary.
I'm sort of wondering what the second lady along was doing there...
Oh hello. I'm in sexy Andalucía. The picture above was taken yesterday evening in a place called Ronda which is about an hour from where we are staying. Given the name of the place, I was sort of hoping a statuesque black lady with a huge afro would have shown us around - Tours of Ronda by Ronda, anyone? Just a thought.
As it happens, there aren't too many statuesque, willowy types around here, unless you count the stringbean kids on mopeds zipping around the streets risking life and limb in the pursuit of... something or other. As for me, I am in pursuit of calm and downtime and have found that in abundance. Admittedly not necessarily in Ronda, where I did a whistlestop tour of the bullring then had a really fairly sensational dinner, but thus far my week has been very subdued. We've arrived, sat round, eaten, jumped in the pool, spent a lengthy afternoon trying to jump in the pool and catch a ball simultaneously. It's really been arduous.
But, all change: the beach beckons today. I think I need to clap my eyes on some Spanish seaside tackorama towerblock hell.
My trip to Spain beckons and as is traditional, I have been beavering away creating a series of in-car CDs for my main gays to keep them diverted and attract attention from envious (hysterical?) passers-by. Though, unless the occasional goat canters past, I think we can pretty much flood the valley we are staying in with throbbing disco and nobody will notice.
The music is divided into four (!):
1. Summer 2008 pop (though it doesn't all have to come from '08) 2. Summer 2008 club (a) 3. Summer 2008 club (b) 4. The trashiest Europop anthems of all time
We'll start with number one, shall we?
Valerie Mark Ronson Black and gold Sam Sparro Disturbia Rihanna Closer Ne-yo No substitute love Estelle Come on girl Taio Cruz Destroy everything you touch Ladytron The journey continues Mark Brown and Sarah Cracknell Into the nightlife Cyndi Lauper When you touch me (2008 club edit) Freemasons Wow (CSS mix) Kylie Minogue Disco lies (Spencer & Hill remix) Moby Back to zero Robbie Rivera Baby when the light David Guetta Stamp your feet Donna Summer This boy's in love Presets Nothing but a heartache Freemasons & Sylvia Mason-James Call the shots (Tony Lamezma mix) Girls Aloud Work (Freemasons Remix Radio Edit) Kelly Rowland
Number two is as follows
The one (Freemasons Vocal Club Mix) Kylie Minogue Piece of me (Bimbo Jones Club Remix) B.Spears Fascination (Bimbo Jones Main) Alphabeat We break the dawn (Karmatronic Remix) Michelle Williams Who's that girl? (Seamus Haji Radio Edit) Robyn I know UR girlfriend hates me (Soulseekerz Radio Edit) Annie Fa fa fa (Miami Horror Remix) Datarock Uninvited (Full Length Extended Version) Freemasons American Boy (Soulseekerz Club Remix) Estelle Keep on rising (Vocal Mix) Ian Carey Tiny dancer (Moto Blanco Remix) Marco Demark Don't hold back (12" mix) Potbelleez
The others to follow in due course... but what started as an overflow/ugly sister to the second compilation above has turned into a shining jewel, a disco spectacular. I also tend to think that putting together *four* CDs of fun good quality stuff is a slight achievement. I'll take a round of applause, though perhaps one of my own making...
None of the songs on the second compilation have videos, just those rather tiresome 'videos' where someone has a photo and the music playing underneath. That won't do for me. So here's a bit of a 'most listened to' from this Spring.
Last night a DJ saved my life - and his name was Vince Clarke.
Yazoo were a little before my time. I've seen Alison perform Only you at G-A-Y and loved it, but back when they were recording as a duo, it was in the period just immediately before I became aware of pop music. Even now I don't really know the album tracks - for some reason I have never owned those records. But when the opportunity to see them reunited came up, I didn't really think twice about going. Neither did good friend SM, who came with me to the Hammersmith Apollo. It just seemed we needed to go and witness this combination of such a great singer and the man who made all that Erasure music for so many years. A funny way of looking at it perhaps, but boy am I glad I went.
They did not bother new material or cover versions. They didn't remix or re-swizzle any of the songs. Perhaps Vince lightly tweaked the arrangements, but overall, what came over was a precise, crisp re-enactment of great pop songs originally recorded a very long time ago, being performed perfectly. A few things had changed since they last played live. For starters, the stage set was completely modern and 2008. Vince had his corner, Alison had hers, but the dangling video tubes behind them were one cinema screen divided across two box stages. It was very clever, simple and beautiful. I did wonder if they had seen the Pet Shop Boys' Cubism tour and been influenced by that - the neon reminded me somewhat. They had moved on the concept somewhat - it a simple, light-based set with the video then a clever multi-layered light ceiling hanging above them. Truly they seemed to be in their own space, and when Alison sat in an armchair and sang In my room, we might as well have been back in their 80s bedsit, albeit with somewhat more fabulous illuminations.
The show was book-ended with their hits. The opening number was Nobody's diary, greeted rapturously. In fact, almost immediately it became clear that Vince and Alison had the home team on board. I saw Darren Hayes waft past beforehand in the bar and I wondered who else notable was in the crowd. If they had been, it would have been nowhere near me. We managed to get our seats when there was just one date on the schedule, and were high up in the Circle above the breathless gays in the front row. However, what was lost on proximity was gained on overall perspective and the atmosphere was as electric as the music. For many it was perhaps rather like meeting someone one had shared something, a letter, email or in this case a piece of music, with many times but never seen in the flesh. Strange, then, that two rows behind me was literally someone I have often written to but never met - Worrapolava Phil! So it turned into an evening of dual significance.
The final three numbers were pop gold. After all the album tracks, which were giddily received, suddenly we had the big guns... Situation and Don't go had every person on their feet, even the 'slightly older' gentleman with a thatch of white hair in front of me. But their single-song encore, the encore to end all encores was Only you. The audience bellowed every word like a football anthem. Alison must have sung that song hundreds of times over the years, yet this one was the one - it was positively moving. 'We are Yazoo, good night!,' she said. Immaculate, perfect.
Time for a before and after (or the other way around, in this case):
She descended from space! Yet more sub-par / largely useless concert photography. But, forgive me, getting the digital camera charged up and sorted out after the weekend I had was just not happening...
Before I had left the house that evening, I spoke to my neighbour, CC. Where was I going on a Sunday night? 'To see a Swedish popstar,' I said. 'Oh my - there is nothing gayer than that,' she said, and to be honest, she wasn't far wrong.
So, the Astoria on a Sunday night. Controversial. To be honest, I did wonder if because of the high number of gays in attendance at the Sam Sparro/Robyn show, one or two had just stayed put from the previous night and slept in corners and eves of the building, seeking sustenance by licking the corners where sticky semi-dry patches of cider and black lingered beyond the reaches of whomever mops clean the floor of that place. I assume someone does clean it sometimes. For me, the wrecker's ball will come not a moment too soon. I just hope they don't find any gays screaming for rescue when they start to tear it down.
But on to Robyn. Or more accurately, Sam Sparro, for it was he opening the evening.
To be honest, when he was booked, he was probably seen as an outsider nobody with a bit of promise. How things change. Black and gold has, after all, made him a mini-star, even if it was his debut single and he still has a lot to prove. But the omens are positive - he was fab. Engaging, funny, with a much more powerful singing voice than I had expected. The gays (and mahhnnny lesbians) loved him and there were many yells of 'go Sammmmmmmmmy!' and so on. He was dressed most peculiarly however. The boyfriend stylist needs to check on this because he was wearing some gigantic oversize football-style tee shirt that could have been used as a family tent. It was so ugly. Surely he's insanely hot and lean underneath all that fabric? Would something a little more close-fitting or elegant been out of the question? Just asking.
Robyn arrived to howls of adulation and did not disappoint. She looked incredibly elegant with huge sparkly pink eyelashes and super-styled hair and ran through her set which was about as highly polished as they get. Excellent, strong songs from a hit album - what's not to like? She has been performing for so long that it almost came off as effortless. It was also a delight to hear a full show from her, rather than a festival set, but looking back at the post I made of the last time I saw her, it made me realise just how far she has come (in the UK, at least) in twelve months. That's what four or five hit singles and relentless promotion will do, I guess. Not one song was imperfect or excessive, every one delivered with snap and panache. With every heartbeat was a knock-out of course, but the major high point was Handle me which seems to be her signature song with the fans - the crowd sang every single word of it, loudly, particularly the 'I saw you at the station! You were there with what's her name' bit. If she can achieve this, it's clear she also could go a lot further - I was reminded of that line that Samantha says to Smith about his career, 'first the gays, then the girls, then everybody else'. Not that everybody else really needs persuading at this point: she approaches the threshold of greatness (internationally) and a superb new album is all she needs to seal it.
Honestly, I had never really seen the point of visiting the Channel Islands. They are lovely, to be sure, but if I am flying somewhere, I am sort of inclined to go further south. Somewhere a little more cosmopolitan, maybe? A city break? That sort of thing. That said, once I had a reason to go, in much the same way as when I had a reason to go to South Africa, I couldn't think of a good reason why not to see what was going on down there. So, that is where I was at the weekend, and where the above photograph was taken. I'm definitely in need of Summer, since London so far has had the May heatwave, but it's been a little ho-hum since. Not that I am complaining. It's not like the monsoon of last year, he says, not wanting to speak too soon.
So, Jersey. Land of cream and potatoes. I had lots of the latter, none of the former. They were waxy, buttery, flavourful. you almost wanted to have them as a meal all on their own. Who knew it was possible or desirable to opine gracefully about the humble new potato? It was possibly just as well I consumed them, to be honest, since they had a great deal of wine to soak up. I was down there at the behest and invitation of friend JL whose parents live on the island. We, a small group of four, were treated like visiting nobility. The red carpet was well and truly rolled out. It was desperately civilised. Fabulous booze flowed freely. Buttery spuds were consumed by hungry usually no-carb gays with the same abandon a chocoholic goes at a jar of Quality Street.
Of course, one of the great joys of being on an island is seeing it from the sea. It's one thing I have never done enough of in Majorca, another great British ex-pat haven (of course, if you live on Jersey, you aren't exactly an ex-pat but it's a pretty close run thing). So on Sunday JL took us out on a whizz along the bay we had walked to the day before, above. The picture below is of Nigel Mansell's house, apparently. And lucky old Nigel - that is worthy of Grand Designs - you can't really see what is house and what is rocky outcrop. I saw a lone figure walking along the headland. Perhaps a 24-hour security person, perhaps the moustachioed racing legend. An all-stone house was surrounded by elegant trees. It was a particularly choice spot. Who knew Nigel had such good taste?
One of the other things about living on Jersey is how quickly one is back on the mainland. All told, I was practically whisking along amid the brine one moment and stepping off the Gatwick Express the next. Something to recommend a return visit, I thought.
It's been a little while since I hauled the suitcase out of the basement and hit the road... three months in fact and that is just waaaay too long in my book. But in order to travel and take a break, it proved necessary to actually do something worth taking a break from. Yes, I've been working my ass off the last few weeks and things are getting pretty serious around here. It's a nice feeling. Mind you, this particular week has been almost awe-inspiring. Never have I had to prepare three separate design presentations for different clients in entirely different industries in one five-day period, but it all 'happened' much to my amazement. I even got a freelance guy in to see if working with him would make things easier or the end product better, but in the end was persuaded that this was a symptom of laziness (it didn't feel like that at the time, believe me). Besides, doing everything myself is quite a rewarding feeling. I just hope the nice people I am pitching to tomorrow agree. That's the big one.
At three thirty this morning I lay awake with eyes on stalks staring at the ceiling worrying whether or how I could possibly get it all done. But it's strange what one can do when you put your mind to it. After I actually got into work, the sheer nervous tension and pressure of it all carried me through till around 7.30 this evening when I thought I might just die if I spent a second longer looking at what I had done. It all seemed so daunting at five this morning when I had to tramp round my kitchen making tea and toast just to pass the time and hope that was thing that my body required in order to resume slumber. It worked, eventually, but despite getting back off I felt like I had been dug up when I eventually woke a couple of hours later. The after-effects of that alone require a weekend of savage downtime.
Anyway, as I was saying, it is a good moment to get a little sand between my toes - I am about to embark on a mini-European tour (he says, though this is not strictly true) starting tomorrow and finishing at the end of August. Admittedly I am not away for all that time - I wish - it will be two weekenders to glorious destinations and first next weekend I am off to Southern Spain for a week then in a couple of months, Majorca beckons again. The Spanish place we are heading to is new to me and looks pretty spectacular in the photos, so enthusiasm is running high. But first, another new destination. Tomorrow is my debut trip to the Channel Islands. I am off to Jersey with three likely lads to see what all the fuss is about in a tax exile. The iPod clothespeg is charged up and filled with disco to road-test my Summer holiday playlists before they get some really muscular exercise poolside in España. But first, before we get to all that, check out this little diamond I dug up earlier...
Kylie and Dannii Sisters are doin' it for themselves
Y'all know I love a major diva. The year started by my swearing my ambitions were to see Tina Turner and Dionne Warwick. Dionne I achieved fairly swiftly, Tina will be waiting for me in March next year, so clearly now I am contemplating a trip to Vegas. Cher and Bette Midler in one sitting? Nirvana! However, it's not always necessary to travel to the other end of the earth to see one of these ladies. There is a notable superstar I have been waiting a while for. There were posters in Copenhagen when I was there last Spring for her Scandinavian tour and I couldn't work out why she wasn't playing London. I've also seen her before - one husband ago, in 2002 - and she doesn't disappoint. Ladies and gentlemen, the one, the only, Miss Liza Minnelli!
Cue spotlight from stage right.
Liza, of course, oozes showbiz royalty from every pore. Gay icon-wise, there are few who compete. Really only Streisand is up there in terms of living legends passionate bejewelled homos can argue over. Plus, Liza has the sparkle. The pizzazz. The history. When the dry ice billows, she comes a'running to separate it and make her entrance. Death-beds become a memory next to the prospect of a sequined basque and tap shoes. Some fade with age. Liza, since I saw her last at the Albert Hall, has incredibly improved. How on earth did she do that? Partly, I suspect, because she went back to core values: cabaret... with a small 'c'.
Years ago, when I was in New York, I picked up her Live! At Radio City Music Hall album, which I think was from a show she did in 1990. It's easily one of the campest records in my collection (believe me it has stiff competition). I suspect a lot of the songs in the show and thus on the album had been specifically written for the it, which is an unusual thing to do, I suppose. The notion of doing a new show with new songs rather than just the hits takes some gumption, but then she can pick up the phone to Stephen Sondheim or Kander & Ebb. Thrillingly, she did a couple of those Radio City numbers last week at her show at the Colisseum: Teach me tonight/Live alone and like it and Sara Lee. Pure bliss! The crowd, even gayer than the one which saw Rufus does Judy last February (which was, lest we forget, a gay man singing the songs of the ultimate gay icon before a full orchestra and with Liza's sister to boot) loved every second. It was at once clear: this was going to be an epic evening.
There was a dandy sitting next to me in pink linen. Head to toe, with a brass-handled cane. I think he had purchased the empty seat between us to place his jacket on during the show, to prevent it creasing. 'Enough with the oldies!,' she said, 'I'm going to do a new song now' and launched into 'What good is it sitting alone in your room! Come here the music play!' ... The queens went into meltdown, the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. This, along with Dionne singing Heartbreaker this February, marked a musical performance high-water mark which is unlikely to be matched again soon. And her finale of New York, New York wasn't too shabby, either.
Liza Minnelli Live alone and like it
... and she had gone on Jenny Craig, lost 40lb so the legs were pretty much like this too.
Generally, the most expensive thing I keep in my car is a Jonelle lambswool picnic rug. Come to think of it, the car itself, though only three years old, isn't exactly much to speak of in terms of luxury vehicles. Minor league Volkswagens are two-a-penny round these parts. Still, it was with a degree of inevitability that I found out some moron had broken in.
When I surveyed the lumps of broken glass, each the size of a Tiffany diamond, as they lay around the passenger window of my car, I felt myself noticeably shift sharply to the right in my political allegiances. When one reads about criminals, or sees them on the television, one yearns for their reformation. When one is their victim, incarceration and possibly light capital punishment seem a perfectly reasonable request.
All that was stolen was the charger for my sat-nav, the actual thing I had brought safely inside, so the thief had made off with only the most absurd piece of junk. However, he had imposed on me an evening of misery and three wasted hours (which I can ill afford at the moment) spent on the phone to the police, insurance company and then at Autoglass in Wandsworth.
I kind of accepted it and moved on.
Cut to a week later, and I drove round to Whole Foods on Kensington High Street and parked in the super-chi-chi leafy cobbled streets behind, meeting some friends for dinner. I had been playing New Order's Republic album on the journey over and as I left the car was in a bit of a hurry. So... I unthinkingly left the iPod in my car cupholder.
It's safe to say it wasn't there for long, and the window that had been installed six days earlier was reduced to safety glass. Still, I hope whoever has the (2006, somewhat scratched, engraved with my name) iPod enjoys it - they'll certainly get an education in modern electropop.
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