I fell in love with David Bowie the very first time I saw him in his platform heel-sporting, spandex-clad Ziggy Stardust persona. My affection and admiration for the man and his music only grew with every new album and every reinvention of personal style. Of course, throughout the seventies, I thought he was bisexual, mostly because he claimed that he was in interviews (although he has since recanted that statement, attributing it to the fact that he was "just searching" for his identity). But the bisexual thing just made him more intriguing to me. His songs were small portraits of strange desires, exotic imaginings, and a singular take on the trials and tribulations of love and lust in the modern world. My passion for Bowie probably reached its zenith during his "Berlin period", when I first saw the "Heroes" video and felt actual chills as he screamed out "Nothing can keep us together...but we can be heroes just for one day!" And yet, for all of my admiration for the man behind Major Tom, I just can't imagine sleeping with him. Perhaps because I met him once, at CBGB's in New York, and whilst sitting beside him on a bench, I realized how short he really was, and how frail he seemed, and when he looked at me (briefly) with his mismatched-colored eyes (one is brown, the other greenish-blue), I immediately pictured him as a space alien and was overwhelmed by the sense that nothing I said to him could possibly be interesting enough to keep his attention. So I let him go. He didn't even know I was doing it. He never will. But I kept his records, and that's where he will always remain for me...on vinyl and cd.
One of the great rock and roll moments to ever flash across TV screens had to be the night that Elvis Costello and The Attractions were the featured musical act on Saturday Night Live on December 17, 1977. (They were a last minute replacement for The Sex Pistols, who apparently had better things to do.) Forbidden by the show's producers to play their recent hit "Radio, Radio" because of the controversial nature of the song's content, the band began playing "Less Than Zero." A minute or so into the number, Elvis stopped the band and told the audience, "There's no reason to play this song." Then, turning back to the band, he directed them to play the forbidden song. The audience loved it. Producer Lorne Michaels was furious. Elvis ended up "banned for life" from the show. So, why wouldn't I want to sleep with a man whose balls are bigger than those of the man who created SNL? Because after that display of chutzpah, and many subsequent ones like it, the thought of seeing Mr. Costello taking off his socks and boxer shorts before slipping into bed is just too at odds with the image of him as a rock and roll rebel. Once you see a man sans socks and underwear, you can't help thinking of him as just a man, no matter how many wars he's won or historic speeches he's made. I'd rather think of Elvis Costello the way he was that night in 1977. In a black suit, white shirt, and skinny tie, hammering out angry chords on his guitar as he glared at the camera through those black horn-rimmed glasses. Thanks for the memories, Elvis. But let's just keep it platonic, okay?
Back in the Beatles' heyday, when all of my friends were declaring their love for one or another of the Fab Four, I was implacable in my status as "a John person." John was the dark soul of the band, the one with the acerbic wit, the loose canon who gave the band its sharpest edge. But I have always held great admiration for his songwriting partner, the infinitely more saccharine James Paul McCartney, and that admiration has been rewarded by the joy of watching a cultural icon grow and develop into an artist who now stands as one of the most important, and still highly influential figures in rock and roll. But the thought of making love to Sir Paul, and looking up in the middle of it to see those droopy-lidded hazel eyes that have adorned lunch boxes, cheesy chrome-framed posters, and even coffee mugs (used to have one) is just too unsettling. Some men are simply too iconic to see naked, and for me, Paul McCartney is one of them. So while I will always love the amazing and prolific Macca, it has always seemed best to take my rock and roll lover fantasies elsewhere.
Bryan Ferry is a musical genius and the writer behind some of the best songs of the 1980s. But from the first time I saw him on stage in a tuxedo with a leather jacket over it, that little, errant lock of hair hanging down over his sweat-glistened forehead, I knew that he was probably the sort of guy who expects everything in his flat to be nice and neat and orderly (a place for everything, and everything in its place, ala Felix Unger), and his women to look at least as well-groomed as he does...which would be more waaaaaay more well-groomed than I am prepared to attempt for the sake of bedding even the man who wrote "More Than This", one of the most sensual love songs ever recorded by a man in a tuxedo. Besides, despite the beauty and grace of his songs, Mr. Ferry comes across as just a little too dweebish in interviews, as though, apart from his music, he's that man down the street who freaks out whenever anyone walks across his lawn. I love you, Bryan, and your music, and you can take me to Avalon anytime...but only in song.
Ah, this one is the simplest of all. Bottom line, some men, no matter how talented they might be (and Norwegian song man Morten Harket does have a hell of a way with those high notes), are just too bloody pretty for the purpose of which we have been speaking. Sleeping with Morten Harket would be like taking the first bite out of a perfectly frosted ten-tiered cake with little candy rosettes around the sides. Even now, years after he first burst onto the music scene with those high cheekbones and matinee idol smirk, the man still looks like good enough to eat. But I'd be way too self-conscious to even reach for my fork. So, ixne on taking on Morten. I'd rather just make do with that wonderful comic book video from the 1980s, thank you.
Skol. xoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxxoxoxo
