B L I T Z June 1988
the golden world of George Michael
Interview by Jim Shelly
Photograph Russel Young
the golden world of George Michael
Interview by Jim Shelly
Photograph Russel Young
In the end, he’s said it all on the first page of the tour programme:
“Now I’m here. I’m me. And my music represents just me. And if people like the music and the way I present myself, then chances are they’ll
like me. If the don’t then they wont. It’s as simple as that.”
The letters are gold, in capitals, fixed with a golden certainty and conviction that in the end proves impenetrable, inexorable. I throw at him,
bluntly, what I can, what I will. I say, tell me. Tell me you have male sex, take cocaine, wallow in money, waste money, horde money.
Tell me you’re lonely and hunted, fake, smug, unworthy, corrupt, insecure, sheltered and live and breathe a golden glamour that is
impossible. Let me look at your world and then tell me your golden life isn’t real.
And in the end, he talks for fifty minutes almost without pause, with a ruthless confidence, a relentless assurance, a controlled clarity
and purpose, so that it seems real. It seems the image and the real person have never been closer or less distinguishable. He is in
control.
I leave my hotel room, which is half the size of George Michael’s wardrobe and a quarter the size of his smallest smile, and wait in the
lobby of the Champs Elysees’ Royal Monceau Hotel and watch the world of the richest visitors in Paris. When we meet for the first time
he walks past me. Immaculate, wearing that golden certainty round his shoulders like a heavy coat, he exits the mirrored lift wearing
mirrored shades, a long tan leather jacket, jeans, and silver-capped boots, about as disguised or anonymous as a neon sign flashing
the word S-T-A-R in hundred-foot letters. . . .
Is that your? That golden dream figure?
“Yeah (laughing), people say this but I don’t think it’s true, you know? I mean, I had on a leather jacket, jeans, boots. . . .Maybe it’s
the Ray-Bans, the ones for the posters, the show. Maybe it’s the shades.”
It’s the shades.
“Yeah. Well I think people will see what they expect to see. You probably saw all the combined images that you had of me in your mind
for the last five years in one look. People’s image of you becomes what you are.”
. . . With unhesitating assertion and brusque efficiency he postpones the interview because his voice is croaky and he can’t risk
anything. I spin through the hotel doors back into my life in Paris, which is a three-day whirl of pinball arcades, Picasso at the Pompidou,
the new Polanski, the Opera House, the Gaultier shop, Alsatians, roller-skaters, the blue switch of the metro, the bad whores of Rue
St. Denis. And George Michael’s Paris life is strolling our for a meal, watching TV, playing tennis, business meetings, canceling a
dinner with some celebrities and tow days waiting for some show time. . .
Is this your life?
“On tour it is. Some people can get away with having a good time as well as the work but I can’t. We’ve done three months, but there’s
six left. It’s very, very restrictive and very boring. I hate touring. Basically you live for the couple of hours you’re on stage.”
What’s the point?
“Well, I’m a musician. I’m getting the music out of it – making records, performing live. It’s the center of my life. It’s not going to change.”
. . . I arrive at Le Zenith and pass its emblem, a huge red warplane fixed to a 60-foot cross. A poster announced the show following
George Michael: French national Front leader Jean-Marie Le Pen. I watch the sound check – around 100 men working like so many
ants in AC/DC T-shirts, Rod Stewart tour jackets, jeans, white trainers. Flared tempers, flared trousers, boxers of Perrier and HP
sauce, French catering, English catering, engineers, carpenters, accountants, a dozen French security meat-men like a press gang
of greasy sailors. It’s all done with wires, cables, two dozen trucks, five grey tour buses, telephones, computers, lasers, walkie-talkies,
and I watch them think: these people could invade Cuba. And I stick out like a sore thumb and the more I try not to, the more I do –
not least because I am the only one there not working my arse off. For George Michael . . .
Did you want this?
“Yes, I did. I wanted to take this album round the world. I’ve been building up to this for five years. My ego needed to prove I could do in
American what I’d done in England. Everyone’s surprised at the size of my operation but it’s just now I’m dealing with people who are
far more money orientated. I make a point of putting names to faces but to be honest, I couldn't’t really handle knowing what everybody
does, everybody’s problems.”
. . . I read through the proof of George’s golden pudding: worldwide sales of Faith – 10 million copies. Four American Number Ones. He
has sung with Stevie, Smokie, Aretha. I meet his management, Lipman-Kehene, who are firm, polite, efficient, and George’s security
officer, Bill, who says he’s worked with Supertramp, Bon Jovi, Elton, and I think ‘Ben Elton?!’ before I realize. The sun streams through
a gap in a heavy blue curtain. Then it’s blocked off by the emblem of a Mercedes and worked goes round that George is here and he
strides in, with those shades but without minders, looks round and walks, without fuss or speaking to anyone, into a room on the left.
I read in Rolling Stone,
that George is “three years younger than Prince, five years younger than Michael Jackson and outselling them both and suddenly
wonder if he's older or younger than me, but now whether he's outselling me or vice versa
“Now I’m here. I’m me. And my music represents just me. And if people like the music and the way I present myself, then chances are they’ll
like me. If the don’t then they wont. It’s as simple as that.”
The letters are gold, in capitals, fixed with a golden certainty and conviction that in the end proves impenetrable, inexorable. I throw at him,
bluntly, what I can, what I will. I say, tell me. Tell me you have male sex, take cocaine, wallow in money, waste money, horde money.
Tell me you’re lonely and hunted, fake, smug, unworthy, corrupt, insecure, sheltered and live and breathe a golden glamour that is
impossible. Let me look at your world and then tell me your golden life isn’t real.
And in the end, he talks for fifty minutes almost without pause, with a ruthless confidence, a relentless assurance, a controlled clarity
and purpose, so that it seems real. It seems the image and the real person have never been closer or less distinguishable. He is in
control.
I leave my hotel room, which is half the size of George Michael’s wardrobe and a quarter the size of his smallest smile, and wait in the
lobby of the Champs Elysees’ Royal Monceau Hotel and watch the world of the richest visitors in Paris. When we meet for the first time
he walks past me. Immaculate, wearing that golden certainty round his shoulders like a heavy coat, he exits the mirrored lift wearing
mirrored shades, a long tan leather jacket, jeans, and silver-capped boots, about as disguised or anonymous as a neon sign flashing
the word S-T-A-R in hundred-foot letters. . . .
Is that your? That golden dream figure?
“Yeah (laughing), people say this but I don’t think it’s true, you know? I mean, I had on a leather jacket, jeans, boots. . . .Maybe it’s
the Ray-Bans, the ones for the posters, the show. Maybe it’s the shades.”
It’s the shades.
“Yeah. Well I think people will see what they expect to see. You probably saw all the combined images that you had of me in your mind
for the last five years in one look. People’s image of you becomes what you are.”
. . . With unhesitating assertion and brusque efficiency he postpones the interview because his voice is croaky and he can’t risk
anything. I spin through the hotel doors back into my life in Paris, which is a three-day whirl of pinball arcades, Picasso at the Pompidou,
the new Polanski, the Opera House, the Gaultier shop, Alsatians, roller-skaters, the blue switch of the metro, the bad whores of Rue
St. Denis. And George Michael’s Paris life is strolling our for a meal, watching TV, playing tennis, business meetings, canceling a
dinner with some celebrities and tow days waiting for some show time. . .
Is this your life?
“On tour it is. Some people can get away with having a good time as well as the work but I can’t. We’ve done three months, but there’s
six left. It’s very, very restrictive and very boring. I hate touring. Basically you live for the couple of hours you’re on stage.”
What’s the point?
“Well, I’m a musician. I’m getting the music out of it – making records, performing live. It’s the center of my life. It’s not going to change.”
. . . I arrive at Le Zenith and pass its emblem, a huge red warplane fixed to a 60-foot cross. A poster announced the show following
George Michael: French national Front leader Jean-Marie Le Pen. I watch the sound check – around 100 men working like so many
ants in AC/DC T-shirts, Rod Stewart tour jackets, jeans, white trainers. Flared tempers, flared trousers, boxers of Perrier and HP
sauce, French catering, English catering, engineers, carpenters, accountants, a dozen French security meat-men like a press gang
of greasy sailors. It’s all done with wires, cables, two dozen trucks, five grey tour buses, telephones, computers, lasers, walkie-talkies,
and I watch them think: these people could invade Cuba. And I stick out like a sore thumb and the more I try not to, the more I do –
not least because I am the only one there not working my arse off. For George Michael . . .
Did you want this?
“Yes, I did. I wanted to take this album round the world. I’ve been building up to this for five years. My ego needed to prove I could do in
American what I’d done in England. Everyone’s surprised at the size of my operation but it’s just now I’m dealing with people who are
far more money orientated. I make a point of putting names to faces but to be honest, I couldn't’t really handle knowing what everybody
does, everybody’s problems.”
. . . I read through the proof of George’s golden pudding: worldwide sales of Faith – 10 million copies. Four American Number Ones. He
has sung with Stevie, Smokie, Aretha. I meet his management, Lipman-Kehene, who are firm, polite, efficient, and George’s security
officer, Bill, who says he’s worked with Supertramp, Bon Jovi, Elton, and I think ‘Ben Elton?!’ before I realize. The sun streams through
a gap in a heavy blue curtain. Then it’s blocked off by the emblem of a Mercedes and worked goes round that George is here and he
strides in, with those shades but without minders, looks round and walks, without fuss or speaking to anyone, into a room on the left.
I read in Rolling Stone,
that George is “three years younger than Prince, five years younger than Michael Jackson and outselling them both and suddenly
wonder if he's older or younger than me, but now whether he's outselling me or vice versa
Tell me about confidence. These entrances.
“I do have the confidence to do it, yeah. Sometimes I don’t have any confidence at all and I really wish I didn't’t have to do it, that there
were looking at someone else.”
You’re impossibly famous, like Monroe or someone.
“Well, it’s difficult to say what sort of fame someone like Monroe . . (Starts laughing). I’m sorry, I thought you said Matt Monroe
then, ha ha ha.”
You’re the new Matt Monroe.
“Right (stops laughing) I definitely think the size fame is within my grasp and if I wanted it, I could have it because I’m only 24, unless
something disastrous happens to my abilities. But I don’t want it. I won’t do it.”
Why not?
“Because I still have one foot in real life and I know that if I take this to another level I’ll lose my grip on that. I’ve had to fight very
hard to keep what I have eat home – doing without protecting, ect. Even now it’s pretty close to the point of no return.”
It’s scary.
“Touring is that scary glimpse, yeah. The whole thing of being surrounded by people in awe of you, that could be my whole
life. But I’m not interested. I’ve met Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson. I didn't’t expect them to be any different from the way
they were. I do feel they are different from me, yes – past the point of no return in that respect. They may be perfectly happy.
Madonna seemed quite comfortable with it. Prince goes out a lot but with always heavy, heavy security. The Jackson meeting was
business to talk about collaborating, which didn't’t happen. They were all very brief. What was there to talk about?”
What’s the hardest part?
“Loosing the ability to have a normal existence, in terms of people’s perception of you, can have a really bad effect. Things like
how many people will really tell me to fuck off when they really would? When will be the next time I’ll make a joke in a roomful
of people and everybody will laugh and I’ll know it was actually funny?”
. . . They cordon off the backstage area and a huge black curtain drops down and neatly cordons me off. George’s tour manager
gives me a Grolsch which makes me feel ill because I haven’t eaten and I’m nervous. I’m told George will see me now. I open a door
and there’s a large black-walled room with mirrors, a giant pot of massage cream and a nasty-looking suction hoover which his
masseuse tells me stimulates the blood. George is sitting in from of a low glass table decked with salads, sandwiches, wine,
water, bunches of grapes and a large, untouched plate of maybe 30 fresh prawns. All George eats is Strepsils. He looks like a
Sultan or a Prince, says “Welcome to my new house” and laughs and I think, welcome to another world more like . . .
“I do have the confidence to do it, yeah. Sometimes I don’t have any confidence at all and I really wish I didn't’t have to do it, that there
were looking at someone else.”
You’re impossibly famous, like Monroe or someone.
“Well, it’s difficult to say what sort of fame someone like Monroe . . (Starts laughing). I’m sorry, I thought you said Matt Monroe
then, ha ha ha.”
You’re the new Matt Monroe.
“Right (stops laughing) I definitely think the size fame is within my grasp and if I wanted it, I could have it because I’m only 24, unless
something disastrous happens to my abilities. But I don’t want it. I won’t do it.”
Why not?
“Because I still have one foot in real life and I know that if I take this to another level I’ll lose my grip on that. I’ve had to fight very
hard to keep what I have eat home – doing without protecting, ect. Even now it’s pretty close to the point of no return.”
It’s scary.
“Touring is that scary glimpse, yeah. The whole thing of being surrounded by people in awe of you, that could be my whole
life. But I’m not interested. I’ve met Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson. I didn't’t expect them to be any different from the way
they were. I do feel they are different from me, yes – past the point of no return in that respect. They may be perfectly happy.
Madonna seemed quite comfortable with it. Prince goes out a lot but with always heavy, heavy security. The Jackson meeting was
business to talk about collaborating, which didn't’t happen. They were all very brief. What was there to talk about?”
What’s the hardest part?
“Loosing the ability to have a normal existence, in terms of people’s perception of you, can have a really bad effect. Things like
how many people will really tell me to fuck off when they really would? When will be the next time I’ll make a joke in a roomful
of people and everybody will laugh and I’ll know it was actually funny?”
. . . They cordon off the backstage area and a huge black curtain drops down and neatly cordons me off. George’s tour manager
gives me a Grolsch which makes me feel ill because I haven’t eaten and I’m nervous. I’m told George will see me now. I open a door
and there’s a large black-walled room with mirrors, a giant pot of massage cream and a nasty-looking suction hoover which his
masseuse tells me stimulates the blood. George is sitting in from of a low glass table decked with salads, sandwiches, wine,
water, bunches of grapes and a large, untouched plate of maybe 30 fresh prawns. All George eats is Strepsils. He looks like a
Sultan or a Prince, says “Welcome to my new house” and laughs and I think, welcome to another world more like . . .
Are you moving away from a normal life?
“I don’t think so. It’s very hard to tell because a tour’s so unnatural. When I get back to
North London I think Ill be able to slip back into my lifestyle fairly comfortably. I go out
three or four nights a week, play sport. Most English people aren’t really aware that I’m
so huge in America. The people I mix with won’t see it as a big thing.”
It’s tough at the top.
“Its not particularity, not if you’re a reasonable balanced person. You loose a bunch of
problems and get new ones. There are loads of things that can be very tough. I think
I can deal with them.”
. . . He maintains this golden control, over his thought, his speech, his public image, these
photos and even this interview. Even that supposed master of control, Sting, he said,
“None of us controls the forces that could make us has-beens.” But Perhaps George Michael
does. At a time when nothing recedes like success he decided he has out-lasted
all English competition, targeted a level of American success inhabited by Jackson, Prince,
and Madonna – which he calls “blankets the planet” - and attained it . . .
“I don’t think so. It’s very hard to tell because a tour’s so unnatural. When I get back to
North London I think Ill be able to slip back into my lifestyle fairly comfortably. I go out
three or four nights a week, play sport. Most English people aren’t really aware that I’m
so huge in America. The people I mix with won’t see it as a big thing.”
It’s tough at the top.
“Its not particularity, not if you’re a reasonable balanced person. You loose a bunch of
problems and get new ones. There are loads of things that can be very tough. I think
I can deal with them.”
. . . He maintains this golden control, over his thought, his speech, his public image, these
photos and even this interview. Even that supposed master of control, Sting, he said,
“None of us controls the forces that could make us has-beens.” But Perhaps George Michael
does. At a time when nothing recedes like success he decided he has out-lasted
all English competition, targeted a level of American success inhabited by Jackson, Prince,
and Madonna – which he calls “blankets the planet” - and attained it . . .
You conquered American because you could, because it was there.
“Yeah, I had to prove I could. Now what? Well, I know it’s not as simple as just making another album and doing the whole thing again.
I’m very aware of the pitfalls that come at this stage. Well, like taking yourself extremely seriously – that real over-the-top
self-importance. I can enjoy celebrity in American but I’m very aware of the bullshit that seeps into it. English acts are so used to
being put down, like I am, that when you get to American and everyone champions you on such a vast level, its screws everyone up. That
won’t happen to me.”
You’re sensationally successful.
“At the moment It hasn’t really affected me because I haven’t been in America that much. I knew Id by shutting American off. I’ve used
American as a kind of bolt-hole, in LA, to get away from being stared at all the time, so now its gong to get worse. The album is
just so huge there; you can’t get away from it.”
. . . I sit down and George tells me calmly we cant try and make it forty-five minutes, and it turned out to be forty-five minutes
of unswerving resolution and acute clarity that has not grubby ‘ums’ or ‘ahs’, no tatty mumbling or indecision, talking firmly, sound
check and asks for the interruptions to stop, which they do. And even if he does it in a way he knows I’ll appreciate, he still does
it. Its 6:15. When it’s over it’ll be one hour to show time. . .
You’re self –conscious.
“Yeah, a lot more than I used to be. I don’t know why. That’s why in London I stick to three or four places knowing the same people
will see me and not be bothered. I’m much more self-conscious about walking into new places now though, yes.”
You’re vain. You won’t allow the press to photograph you and you only provide them with two or three new pictures
a year.
“Yes, Of Course! I know I’m renowned for this in England, especially with the magazines, but that’s because I’m English. Come on!
There’s been about three new pictures of Prince in the last two years. I can’t forget it, no, because it me I’m staring in the face
every time I open a magazine.”
It doesn't’t matter.
“It does matter! It’s a part of what I do. I want to be pleased with the way I’m represented and the way my music’s represented.
I find it’s objectionable to find nasty pictures of me.”
You’re insecure.
“Anyone who chooses their own press pictures is insecure about the way they look, surely (grinning). I’ve no qualms about this.”
But that’s the way you look. That’s the way you are.
“If that was true, people would just wear potato sacks when they went out. People try to make the best of themselves. Choosing
the photos, for me, is the same as choosing what to wear when I go out.”
You’re smug.
“Yeah, I’m pretty smug, don’t you think?”
No, actually. You could be worse. You should be worse.
“I think anyone who really thinks they know what they’re doing with their lives is pretty smug. Its isn’t necessarily a nasty term. I cold
be a lot more smug though, yeah.”
. . . He always come clean, gets there first with a brash honesty that tells you he can afford to be honest, especially when it’s useful.
He makes a show of this ethics and honestly (the South African withdrawal, selling his arms manufacturers investment), but, face it,
he still does it. He doesn't’t have to. He doesn't’t have to do anything he doesn't want to.
So he admits Wham was frothy, despicable. He knew his image wasn’t credible so he came up with one that was credible and
commercial and would win him America and admits I Want Your Sex was written to do all this, which it did. He admits a kind of
“blind ambition” and its probable pointlessness and he will “formularize when I have to” that he was the “acceptable honky” for
Aretha. He admits his self-pity, promiscuity, drunken indulgence, his arrogance, his golden lock. He pre-empts the “Gay Exclusive”
exposure but won’t deny anything. like being gay or not being gay, because it makes him sound defensive. And he says, “We’re
all filthy rich compared to someone” and, “People think I’m going to be such an arsehole and it’s not difficult to give them a real
surprise. I just have to be myself.” It’s true. They do. He does . . .
You’re false. That’s your function.
“No, I don’t need to formularize. I haven’t formularized al all on Faith – not with so many different styles. Some songs are more for
other people than for me and vice versa. I used to make music purely for entertaining people, yes. Now I get a lot more personal
satisfaction. They’re more an honest reflection of me. I need to write as a form of expression. Before was. . Just to prove something.”
Would failure be interesting?
“Well, A Different Corner didn't’t do that great in America. It was a pretty un commercial move, no chorus, lyrically bleak. I had to
put it our then because it was so much a part of what Id gone through.”
That’s vulturish. To write so specifically about what one woman’s done to you when you’re with someone else.
“I don’t think it’s vulturish, no. The best way to write something lasting is to be very personal. It’s not picking the bones. I don’t
think you can take you personal experiences and water them down for people. I do feel vulnerable but that’s one of the main
things that sets me apart from other people in my position. I allow myself to be that involved.”
. . . The interview is concluded to give him time to relax, though he continues talking as before. I’m given a gold ticket which entitle
s me to sit, in the celebrity gallery. I put Isaac Hayes’ Black Moses on my walk man and glance through the symbols of George’s
world – the mentions in his press cuttings of all the trimmings and trappings of golden wealth and health: personal gym, in car CD,
DAT player, black Merc, the Concorde routine . . .
How much are you worth?
“I’ll be worth a lot, lot more at the end of the year.
You weren’t in Money magazines survey of the top 200 people in Britain. (The Queen 3,340m, Bowie a meager 13m).
You mush have more than that.
‘I will have by the end of the year.”
Money’s got no meaning for you.
“It hasn’t had for a long time. I can’t remember what its like to be broke, so I really try to keep a perspective on it, through my friends.
Maybe its just cocky but once I knew I had a real foothold in the business, say three years ago, I’ve always believed that if I lost it
all tomorrow I could make it all again. My biggest confidence is in my writing – for films, other people . .”
How do you show generosity when it’s always small change?
“I’m very generous to the people around me. I’ve nothing to prove to them. I’ll help them out with their career or a car. I like being
generous – with people I’m secure with when I haven't any doubt that its not expected of me. I’m lucky because there are quite
a few people like that in my life.”
You want more money, much more money.
“I can say without any doubt that I’ve no interest in doubting my money or even more money that I’m already making. My managers
know its absolutely pointless trying to get me to do things for money. Like I was offered to do 700,000 to do a live concert for TV,
but I hate live TV: you loose all the atmosphere, it’s a pain in the arse to film, so I wont do it. I would never see it. I know it won’t show
me the way I want to be seen. That really makes the managers tear their hair out. They can’t really get much sponsorship because I
won’t align myself with any product. I just won’t do things that I don’t believe in, spend my time for the sake of them just making
money without the creative side. It’s an abuse of my talent.”
“Yeah, I had to prove I could. Now what? Well, I know it’s not as simple as just making another album and doing the whole thing again.
I’m very aware of the pitfalls that come at this stage. Well, like taking yourself extremely seriously – that real over-the-top
self-importance. I can enjoy celebrity in American but I’m very aware of the bullshit that seeps into it. English acts are so used to
being put down, like I am, that when you get to American and everyone champions you on such a vast level, its screws everyone up. That
won’t happen to me.”
You’re sensationally successful.
“At the moment It hasn’t really affected me because I haven’t been in America that much. I knew Id by shutting American off. I’ve used
American as a kind of bolt-hole, in LA, to get away from being stared at all the time, so now its gong to get worse. The album is
just so huge there; you can’t get away from it.”
. . . I sit down and George tells me calmly we cant try and make it forty-five minutes, and it turned out to be forty-five minutes
of unswerving resolution and acute clarity that has not grubby ‘ums’ or ‘ahs’, no tatty mumbling or indecision, talking firmly, sound
check and asks for the interruptions to stop, which they do. And even if he does it in a way he knows I’ll appreciate, he still does
it. Its 6:15. When it’s over it’ll be one hour to show time. . .
You’re self –conscious.
“Yeah, a lot more than I used to be. I don’t know why. That’s why in London I stick to three or four places knowing the same people
will see me and not be bothered. I’m much more self-conscious about walking into new places now though, yes.”
You’re vain. You won’t allow the press to photograph you and you only provide them with two or three new pictures
a year.
“Yes, Of Course! I know I’m renowned for this in England, especially with the magazines, but that’s because I’m English. Come on!
There’s been about three new pictures of Prince in the last two years. I can’t forget it, no, because it me I’m staring in the face
every time I open a magazine.”
It doesn't’t matter.
“It does matter! It’s a part of what I do. I want to be pleased with the way I’m represented and the way my music’s represented.
I find it’s objectionable to find nasty pictures of me.”
You’re insecure.
“Anyone who chooses their own press pictures is insecure about the way they look, surely (grinning). I’ve no qualms about this.”
But that’s the way you look. That’s the way you are.
“If that was true, people would just wear potato sacks when they went out. People try to make the best of themselves. Choosing
the photos, for me, is the same as choosing what to wear when I go out.”
You’re smug.
“Yeah, I’m pretty smug, don’t you think?”
No, actually. You could be worse. You should be worse.
“I think anyone who really thinks they know what they’re doing with their lives is pretty smug. Its isn’t necessarily a nasty term. I cold
be a lot more smug though, yeah.”
. . . He always come clean, gets there first with a brash honesty that tells you he can afford to be honest, especially when it’s useful.
He makes a show of this ethics and honestly (the South African withdrawal, selling his arms manufacturers investment), but, face it,
he still does it. He doesn't’t have to. He doesn't’t have to do anything he doesn't want to.
So he admits Wham was frothy, despicable. He knew his image wasn’t credible so he came up with one that was credible and
commercial and would win him America and admits I Want Your Sex was written to do all this, which it did. He admits a kind of
“blind ambition” and its probable pointlessness and he will “formularize when I have to” that he was the “acceptable honky” for
Aretha. He admits his self-pity, promiscuity, drunken indulgence, his arrogance, his golden lock. He pre-empts the “Gay Exclusive”
exposure but won’t deny anything. like being gay or not being gay, because it makes him sound defensive. And he says, “We’re
all filthy rich compared to someone” and, “People think I’m going to be such an arsehole and it’s not difficult to give them a real
surprise. I just have to be myself.” It’s true. They do. He does . . .
You’re false. That’s your function.
“No, I don’t need to formularize. I haven’t formularized al all on Faith – not with so many different styles. Some songs are more for
other people than for me and vice versa. I used to make music purely for entertaining people, yes. Now I get a lot more personal
satisfaction. They’re more an honest reflection of me. I need to write as a form of expression. Before was. . Just to prove something.”
Would failure be interesting?
“Well, A Different Corner didn't’t do that great in America. It was a pretty un commercial move, no chorus, lyrically bleak. I had to
put it our then because it was so much a part of what Id gone through.”
That’s vulturish. To write so specifically about what one woman’s done to you when you’re with someone else.
“I don’t think it’s vulturish, no. The best way to write something lasting is to be very personal. It’s not picking the bones. I don’t
think you can take you personal experiences and water them down for people. I do feel vulnerable but that’s one of the main
things that sets me apart from other people in my position. I allow myself to be that involved.”
. . . The interview is concluded to give him time to relax, though he continues talking as before. I’m given a gold ticket which entitle
s me to sit, in the celebrity gallery. I put Isaac Hayes’ Black Moses on my walk man and glance through the symbols of George’s
world – the mentions in his press cuttings of all the trimmings and trappings of golden wealth and health: personal gym, in car CD,
DAT player, black Merc, the Concorde routine . . .
How much are you worth?
“I’ll be worth a lot, lot more at the end of the year.
You weren’t in Money magazines survey of the top 200 people in Britain. (The Queen 3,340m, Bowie a meager 13m).
You mush have more than that.
‘I will have by the end of the year.”
Money’s got no meaning for you.
“It hasn’t had for a long time. I can’t remember what its like to be broke, so I really try to keep a perspective on it, through my friends.
Maybe its just cocky but once I knew I had a real foothold in the business, say three years ago, I’ve always believed that if I lost it
all tomorrow I could make it all again. My biggest confidence is in my writing – for films, other people . .”
How do you show generosity when it’s always small change?
“I’m very generous to the people around me. I’ve nothing to prove to them. I’ll help them out with their career or a car. I like being
generous – with people I’m secure with when I haven't any doubt that its not expected of me. I’m lucky because there are quite
a few people like that in my life.”
You want more money, much more money.
“I can say without any doubt that I’ve no interest in doubting my money or even more money that I’m already making. My managers
know its absolutely pointless trying to get me to do things for money. Like I was offered to do 700,000 to do a live concert for TV,
but I hate live TV: you loose all the atmosphere, it’s a pain in the arse to film, so I wont do it. I would never see it. I know it won’t show
me the way I want to be seen. That really makes the managers tear their hair out. They can’t really get much sponsorship because I
won’t align myself with any product. I just won’t do things that I don’t believe in, spend my time for the sake of them just making
money without the creative side. It’s an abuse of my talent.”