Perhaps the one thing that has marked this year as being different from the two that preceded it, is that I haven't been to as many live concerts. I mean, it's not deliberate exactly, I've been to the ones I have been passionate about, but I haven't really been passionate about as many. I'll write about the ones I have seen as I get to it.
I have traveled though, which has kept me sane. Save for Christmas, when -ugh- I was ill, between August 08 and April 09 I didn't take a single day of holiday which, frankly, is not something I will be doing again in a hurry. It's just... not healthy.
So the top one is obviously Cape Town. I was there in April, for my birthday too, which was kind of magical, mainly because of the company I was keeping down there. Then I was in Berlin at the end of May for three days. Bit of a "new places" type adventure
Then I was in Italy, in the deep deep South: Puglia, in June. It was very... unreconstructed. Sort of how you imagine Italy - beautiful, ancient and gobsmackingly architectural in parts then a bit sort of industrial and thrown up in others... but good coffee and ice cream served everywhere, so it doesn't really matter than you might be in a ordinary bit on an ordinary day.
Jeez, loved her.
Then two weeks ago I was in Amsterdam for Pride weekend. It was wild... and so maybe that's kind of another story for another day...
Yes - that last one is the reason there's a story. Offer Nissim DJing in shirtless heaven.
I am getting a little up to date because I am off to Mallorca and Barcelona in seven days... and I want to post a few snaps as I go, of that.
SM: Hi RC: What gives? SM: We went to see that Coco Before Chanel movie RC: I am gagging to see it - how was it? SM: I liked it... RC: I sense hesitation SM: Well of course I loved all that Parisian period stuff RC: Of course SM: And I love that actress... RC: Audrey Tautou? SM: Right RC: But? SM: The problem was the title of the movie - it's all Coco *before* Chanel RC: Oh SM: I think I would have preferred... RC: Coco Wearing Chanel? SM: Exactly RC: They had better make a sequel!
Man make fire. Man invite a load of gays over. Man serve fabulous menu.
Yes, it's my summer BBQ season. Never one to be shy of being host on a summer evening, I'm going for it once more with a sign out the front of the house - dozens and dozens served. This year I am so very zen about whether we manage to get outside or not, it just defies belief. I think the one-that-broke-the-mould - the drizzle BBQ of 2007 - proved this sort of party literally can be achieved rain or shine.
Party number one was two weeks ago. Usually I do these things in three consecutive weeks, but our diminutive Australian pop princess was on August 1st, so it's been a little elongated this year. My grand finale is thus on Friday. Anyway, the above snap was taken just before everyone pitched up at the first bash and the whole thing worked a dream. I raided Nigella Summer for my recipes which have more of an Eastern Mediterranean theme than I have tried before. The Greek salad in particular was notable. Using the almost-on-its-last-legs BBQ as a mini-pizza oven for the pizza-flatbreads went one further. It did mean quite a lot of work, but there is a joy in repetition: doing it all over again was like falling off a log.
Bonus, on Friday, when I thought there was no alternative but to eat inside due to mizzle and vileness around teatime, it weirdly got all warm around nine. The gays decided, somewhat unexpectedly, that we were going for it - the full al fresco experience. I am always happy to roll with this sort of thing, so got them to carry the table outside and we cackled like witches into the night air. Marvellous.
It is that time of year - summer coming to a head (at least in terms of the calendar - looking outside you'd think it was positively Autumnal) and the first weekend of August has come and gone. And that always means a little trip to Brighton. Ah, the sea air, the rolling hills... the distinct enduring smell of poppers. As one, London's gays seemingly evacuate and head for the coast: Victoria Station becomes a fiesta and bewildered train travelers stare slack-jawed as impromptu champagne and vodka Red Bull bars are set up on the 10.36. Well, that was my experience anyway. I did have a little fizz (rude not to, etc) but that Red Bull shit is just plain evil. I had some a few weeks ago before a night out clubbing and it feels like your body is mutating and cooking under the skin. Dreadful. But, back to the party. Last year had been sunshine. Heat. Gloriousness. This year - it was a good idea to pack a pac-a-mac.
It was grey, wet, miserable. And I had thought - when it rains on their parade, lesbians might pitch tent, but the gays would stay away. How wrong was I...
It was a low key look, I thought.
Busy busy, hmm? The sun did come out in the end, much to my amazement (proof below - you can see it shining around the boy with the lovebite extravaganza on his neck. Honestly, was this somewhat scruffy unshaven individual really providing another human with such pleasure that this was necessary? The mind boggles.
It does help, if life hasn't gone exactly to plan in every respect, to be among one's fellow gays en masse. The community vibe may be a little hard to pin down, but bumping into so many old friends and having a kick up of the heels is always reassuring. Also, some things fade, some shift and change, but Brighton Pride seems to be one of those things that only improves - even in the rain. I did manage to do one thing which I absolutely adore, which is, around 6.30, to vamoose down to the seafront with some fellow escapees and go and eat fish and chips overlooking the horizon away from the madness. Then, making an early dash for it, heading for the station and getting to bed, utterly finished, by eleven. Sounds square, but it's logical - you've danced, chatted, cruised (ideally) and literally done your dose of shirtless gayness - all by teatime. I call that time efficiency.
So where did I end up? Holland. Amsterdam. Land of cheese and clogs and Delft pottery, amongst many other things. My mission, one I am recovering from even still, was the double-ended stag weekender. And it went well, very well. The boys loved it. The city was sensational (about which more in a moment) and really lived up to its frisky reputation. In short, everyone was happy.
Amsterdam does have a reputation of a city of anything goes, the ultimate in Sodom and Gomorrah and Euro-hedonism. Drugs, sex, rock and roll, the whole number. Overall we skipped the drugs part (drank coffee and Red Bull instead to stay alive rather then get doped, literally), a number of the group (but not I, alas!) witnessed the sex in some utterly grim-sounding live show performed by a half-hearted, middle-aged Goth couple (ewww....). And rock and roll? I dunno, I think doing two stag parties, complete with forfeits, dares and drinking games into the small hours till they became big hours again - back to back - is something that is worthy of Motley Crüe at their wilder moments. So, rock and roll lifestyle but to a disco beat, as ever.
My biggest surprise is how totally fantastic that city is. I mean, really. I didn't want to leave. Haven of creativity, great lifestyle and wonderful easygoing (beautiful... and I really do mean gorgeous) people. The canals, architecture, coupled with the vibe generally which reminded me a little of Vancouver. It's been a while (well, since March and Cape Town, anyway) where I seriously pondered settling in a new city. But it's so convenient. Forty-five minutes from Heathrow, completely different vibe and major buzz. Maybe I was just being a little affected by the caffeine and being among good friends, but I was half tempted to find some split-level apartment overlooking a canal and request for possessions to boxed up and forwarded...
This weekend, I am going on a stag thing. This, for me, is unusual. I don't go to that many. In the past I have been to two. One of which I organised (it was my brother's) and the other one was a quiet drink for a friend on the eve of his marriage and -unusually sophisticated!- was in a bar in St Rémy de Provence. I know, I know. I get around. That was eight years ago; my brother's was last Autumn. Anyway, this stag will be one with a difference. Two stags, one weekend, prior to their Civil Partnership at the end of next month. A small group of us are 'doing' one party tomorrow night and then the other follows on Saturday. I'll let on where we are off to next week, as it's a big secret, but it's abroad - in one of the party capitals of Europe. That doesn't really narrow it down too much. Well, the cat isn't out of the bag yet, even if the stags soon will be. And for me, it's phase three of my 'summer European tour'. Hem hem.
Here's me being a bit of square... frankly, I am a little cautious about the whole thing, because of the massive necessary debauchery involved. I am sure I will get into it, indeed an alcohol/caffeine combo does tend to assist with these things, but sitting here now, I am inwardly bracing myself for what is to come. Am I really lame that the bit I am looking forward to most is wandering around said European city and seeing it for the first time up close and getting the camera out? Hmm, probably. It's just that two nights on the trot like that? Well, we shall see how it pans out. When the time comes, I am sure I will sparkle!
Climie Fisher Rise to the occasion
Don't ask about the recent Climie Fisher obsession. Who knows what's going on there.
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.
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.
