The Sunday Times: the Magazine
December 5, 1993
George Michael's Mid Life Crisis
By Robert Sandall
December 5, 1993
George Michael's Mid Life Crisis
By Robert Sandall
As he tries to complete his awkward passage from teen dream to mature, respected songwriter George Michael is experiencing a debilitating crisis of faith.
And the multi-millionaire pop singer's legal battle with his Bony bosses is just part of the story. Robert Sandall seeks out George's dragons.
And the multi-millionaire pop singer's legal battle with his Bony bosses is just part of the story. Robert Sandall seeks out George's dragons.
George Michael's 30th birthday party ought L to have been a blast, and for most of the 200 guests who attended, it was. The only person who appeared to be having trouble enjoying himself
at this minutely organised, lavishly catered event was the host.
To anybody who did not know better — did not know that he was locked into an attritional battle with his record company, had not been able to complete a song for the best part of a year
and had recently borne the death of a close friend - Michael looked fine. The elegantly cut Versace clothes and neatly groomed micro-beard proclaimed the familiar Mediterranean-styled
figure whose name has for years been inextricably linked with the 'designer' prefix, from suits to stubble. He had lost weight since the Wham! days, when he used to stay up all night drinking,
dancing and fooling around in clubs, but that had just given his features a less rounded, more sculpted look, and made his dark eyes more prominent.
In Keeping with the mood of London club land in the summer of 1993, the party had a 1970s kitsch theme, with plenty of flares and fake Afros. When Michael put on a curly wig and jumped on
stage to perform a spoof version of the old disco classic Carwash, the general feeling among the party goers was that, yes, George was finally starting to unwind. 'I think he had fun on the
night,' said one old friend. 'But it took several hours before he seemed to be really enjoying himself. He's not as uptight as he was a couple of years ago but it's noticeable that he's a lot more
careful now about who he talks to.
The venue for the party was a marquee in the grounds of a stud in Hertfordshire, a gift to Michael's Greek Cypriot father from his son, the joint 113th richest man in Britain. Earlier in the day,
a select band of close friends, mainly family, had travelled up to the Newmarket races; by night the rest of the guests arrived for a sit-down dinner and all-night disco. Many of them had been
bussed in and scarcely knew where they were. The night before the party, secret instructions to report on the Saturday a spot in Wat ford, from where they would be transported to a final,
unnamed destination. Such is the meticulousness, and some might say secretiveness, of Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou, the person who 11 years ago chose to introduce himself to the world
as George Michael.
Because his private life is just that - extremely private —it has always fascinated the press, and all night on June 26 there were bouncers in position down the Hertfordshire lane and out in the
surrounding fields, specifically to discourage photographers. Had any managed to penetrate this burly cordon they would have found little to fill the gossip pages.
While the party's guest list acknowledged Michael's status, it actually said more for his reputation as a generous and loyal friend. He had gone out of his way to invite people who had known
him as a young gun about town, if not before he became famous then at least before he was canonised as a household name and Spitting pet. There were some well-known figures from the
pop world, mainly representing the camp fringe of club land - Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe of the Pet Shop Boys, Elton John's manager John Reid, and Paul Rutherford of Frankie Goes To
Hollywood. The one notable was Andrew Ridgeley, once the other half of Wham! and now resident in Los Angeles. But celebrity accounting was not really the point: this was more a friendly
party than a starry one.
The paparazzi might also have been disappointed, though probably not surprised, by the party's lack of romantic intrigue. Since he stopped seeing Kathy Jeung, the Japanese make-up artist
with whom he writhed erotically in a video for a don I Want Your Sex in 1987, Michael has not had an identifiable girlfriend. Even in the Wham! days, when tabloid tales of the duo's promiscuity
were a daily diversion, he never quite came across in real life as the ladykiller he seemed to be in his profession as a teen idol. The notorious shuttle-cock-down-the-shorts episode- a teen-
pleasing climax to a fame of badminton that Michael and Ridgeley pantomimed on stage in 1983- implied a man with a degree of ironic distance from the mechanics of sexual attraction, as well
as a wicked sense of humour. He claimed he lost interest in one-night stands as soon as he felt that it was himself as the star, rather than the girl, who had become the target and the prize.
But no significant other has arrived to fill the romantic void. 'Obviously the thing that's missing from my life is a stable relationship,' he admitted in 1990, in his authorised biography, Bare.
'But I don't wake up wishing I shared my life with somebody.' And that was, and still is, that.
To many of those throwing shapes in the birthday marquee three years later, Michael seems to be his usual charming self. He chatted and danced with female friends such as Wham!'s old
backing singer Pepsi de Marque, and left in the fairly early hours to sleep alone in one of the stud farm's outlying bungalows.
Whether it was specific anxieties that sent Michael to bed before many of the party guests, or just incipient middle age, he certainly had plenty on his mind. The year had started tragically, the
sudden death in Rio of his Brazilian friend Anselmo Felipa. Michael never alluded to their friendship in public and little is known about it, but Felipa himself was less reticent, boasting to his
friends and the Brazilian media about the gold Cartier jewelry and the Mercedes his pop-star buddy had given him, and the holidays they enjoyed together. To Michael's inner circle Anselmo
became a well-known name and, when the pair hit the clubs in New York or London, a familiar face.
The two met after Michael headlined the Rock In Rio II concert in the giant Maracana football stadium in January 1991. For the next two years, a period during which Michael opted to spend
less time performing and recording than he had at any previous point in his career, he and Anselmo seemed to develop an almost brotherly closeness. Because the 32-year-old Brazilian
was homosexual, rumours inevitably circulated; but Michael has a history non-sexual male bonding, notably with his school friend Andrew Ridgeley and his second cousin Andros Georgiou
both heterosexual. And whatever affection he felt for this
flamboyant son of a well-to-do Catholic manufacturing family, Michael must have been devastated when, March of this year, his friend collapsed and died of a brain hemorrhage. Only weeks
before, Anselmo had been boasting to friends in Rio about the New Year break the two of them had enjoyed in the Caribbean. Michael, wary as ever about his privacy, did not attend the
funeral. According to Anselmo's mother, he paid a discreet visit the grave later in the spring.
This unexpected trauma in his private life came at the worst possible time, because by now he was also facing the biggest crisis so far in his professional life, one that threatened to end his
recording career, at least until the year 2003. He had decided to sue his record label, Sony, repudiating his contract on the grounds of restraint of trade. Win or lose, he said, he would not
record for the company again. Although Michael had gone into the studio a couple of times since issuing the writ in November 1992. Nothing happened. Amid all the excitement in the record
industry surrounding his unprecedented attack on what was, give take a percentage point or two, a standard recording agreement, the curious wording of George Michael's public statement
attracted little attention. In it he referred to his relationship with CBS/Sony as a formerly 'successful affair' that had turned into an 'arranged marriage' from which he now wanted a 'divorce'.
He seemed to be talking less like a righteous litigant than a disappointed lover. What ever the legal grounds for this mighty contest between superstar and multinational company, his motives
sounded strangely personal.
at this minutely organised, lavishly catered event was the host.
To anybody who did not know better — did not know that he was locked into an attritional battle with his record company, had not been able to complete a song for the best part of a year
and had recently borne the death of a close friend - Michael looked fine. The elegantly cut Versace clothes and neatly groomed micro-beard proclaimed the familiar Mediterranean-styled
figure whose name has for years been inextricably linked with the 'designer' prefix, from suits to stubble. He had lost weight since the Wham! days, when he used to stay up all night drinking,
dancing and fooling around in clubs, but that had just given his features a less rounded, more sculpted look, and made his dark eyes more prominent.
In Keeping with the mood of London club land in the summer of 1993, the party had a 1970s kitsch theme, with plenty of flares and fake Afros. When Michael put on a curly wig and jumped on
stage to perform a spoof version of the old disco classic Carwash, the general feeling among the party goers was that, yes, George was finally starting to unwind. 'I think he had fun on the
night,' said one old friend. 'But it took several hours before he seemed to be really enjoying himself. He's not as uptight as he was a couple of years ago but it's noticeable that he's a lot more
careful now about who he talks to.
The venue for the party was a marquee in the grounds of a stud in Hertfordshire, a gift to Michael's Greek Cypriot father from his son, the joint 113th richest man in Britain. Earlier in the day,
a select band of close friends, mainly family, had travelled up to the Newmarket races; by night the rest of the guests arrived for a sit-down dinner and all-night disco. Many of them had been
bussed in and scarcely knew where they were. The night before the party, secret instructions to report on the Saturday a spot in Wat ford, from where they would be transported to a final,
unnamed destination. Such is the meticulousness, and some might say secretiveness, of Georgios Kyriacos Panayiotou, the person who 11 years ago chose to introduce himself to the world
as George Michael.
Because his private life is just that - extremely private —it has always fascinated the press, and all night on June 26 there were bouncers in position down the Hertfordshire lane and out in the
surrounding fields, specifically to discourage photographers. Had any managed to penetrate this burly cordon they would have found little to fill the gossip pages.
While the party's guest list acknowledged Michael's status, it actually said more for his reputation as a generous and loyal friend. He had gone out of his way to invite people who had known
him as a young gun about town, if not before he became famous then at least before he was canonised as a household name and Spitting pet. There were some well-known figures from the
pop world, mainly representing the camp fringe of club land - Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe of the Pet Shop Boys, Elton John's manager John Reid, and Paul Rutherford of Frankie Goes To
Hollywood. The one notable was Andrew Ridgeley, once the other half of Wham! and now resident in Los Angeles. But celebrity accounting was not really the point: this was more a friendly
party than a starry one.
The paparazzi might also have been disappointed, though probably not surprised, by the party's lack of romantic intrigue. Since he stopped seeing Kathy Jeung, the Japanese make-up artist
with whom he writhed erotically in a video for a don I Want Your Sex in 1987, Michael has not had an identifiable girlfriend. Even in the Wham! days, when tabloid tales of the duo's promiscuity
were a daily diversion, he never quite came across in real life as the ladykiller he seemed to be in his profession as a teen idol. The notorious shuttle-cock-down-the-shorts episode- a teen-
pleasing climax to a fame of badminton that Michael and Ridgeley pantomimed on stage in 1983- implied a man with a degree of ironic distance from the mechanics of sexual attraction, as well
as a wicked sense of humour. He claimed he lost interest in one-night stands as soon as he felt that it was himself as the star, rather than the girl, who had become the target and the prize.
But no significant other has arrived to fill the romantic void. 'Obviously the thing that's missing from my life is a stable relationship,' he admitted in 1990, in his authorised biography, Bare.
'But I don't wake up wishing I shared my life with somebody.' And that was, and still is, that.
To many of those throwing shapes in the birthday marquee three years later, Michael seems to be his usual charming self. He chatted and danced with female friends such as Wham!'s old
backing singer Pepsi de Marque, and left in the fairly early hours to sleep alone in one of the stud farm's outlying bungalows.
Whether it was specific anxieties that sent Michael to bed before many of the party guests, or just incipient middle age, he certainly had plenty on his mind. The year had started tragically, the
sudden death in Rio of his Brazilian friend Anselmo Felipa. Michael never alluded to their friendship in public and little is known about it, but Felipa himself was less reticent, boasting to his
friends and the Brazilian media about the gold Cartier jewelry and the Mercedes his pop-star buddy had given him, and the holidays they enjoyed together. To Michael's inner circle Anselmo
became a well-known name and, when the pair hit the clubs in New York or London, a familiar face.
The two met after Michael headlined the Rock In Rio II concert in the giant Maracana football stadium in January 1991. For the next two years, a period during which Michael opted to spend
less time performing and recording than he had at any previous point in his career, he and Anselmo seemed to develop an almost brotherly closeness. Because the 32-year-old Brazilian
was homosexual, rumours inevitably circulated; but Michael has a history non-sexual male bonding, notably with his school friend Andrew Ridgeley and his second cousin Andros Georgiou
both heterosexual. And whatever affection he felt for this
flamboyant son of a well-to-do Catholic manufacturing family, Michael must have been devastated when, March of this year, his friend collapsed and died of a brain hemorrhage. Only weeks
before, Anselmo had been boasting to friends in Rio about the New Year break the two of them had enjoyed in the Caribbean. Michael, wary as ever about his privacy, did not attend the
funeral. According to Anselmo's mother, he paid a discreet visit the grave later in the spring.
This unexpected trauma in his private life came at the worst possible time, because by now he was also facing the biggest crisis so far in his professional life, one that threatened to end his
recording career, at least until the year 2003. He had decided to sue his record label, Sony, repudiating his contract on the grounds of restraint of trade. Win or lose, he said, he would not
record for the company again. Although Michael had gone into the studio a couple of times since issuing the writ in November 1992. Nothing happened. Amid all the excitement in the record
industry surrounding his unprecedented attack on what was, give take a percentage point or two, a standard recording agreement, the curious wording of George Michael's public statement
attracted little attention. In it he referred to his relationship with CBS/Sony as a formerly 'successful affair' that had turned into an 'arranged marriage' from which he now wanted a 'divorce'.
He seemed to be talking less like a righteous litigant than a disappointed lover. What ever the legal grounds for this mighty contest between superstar and multinational company, his motives
sounded strangely personal.
The High Court is not the kind of place you would normally go to glimpse off-duty pop stars, but this
autumn the camera crews and photographers were out in force in the Strand, jostling for position
behind the metal barriers on the pavement as the limousines pulled up and the bodyguards swept
past. Inside the gothic warren, showbiz reporters were in hog heaven. In one court Boy George was
fighting a paternity suit on the grounds that he had 'never penetrated a woman' in his life. In another,
Elton John was successfully suing the Sunday Mirror for a libellous allegation that he once suffered
from a bizarre earing disorder. And next door, in Court 39, George Michael was patiently and politely
explaining his dissatisfaction with Sony Music Entertainment to a number of older men in black gowns
and white horsehair wigs. Here, Old England, with all its legal pomp and circumlocutions, was grappling
with suited but tieless New England — and doing so diligently, never asking who a person called
Madonna might be, though occasionally consulting a bright pink volume of The Guinness Book Of
Hit Singles.
As the arguments grind endlessly on, the dusty complexes of this action have discouraged even the
most devoted George Michael fans. In the public gallery upstairs, the band of largely female supporters
who restisly hugged the rails for his three-day witness statement October have gradually melted away.
To anybody with the patience to endure it, the case now seems to hinge as much on ancient precedents
in contract law as it does on Michael's assertion that Sony, and in particular the American end of the
company, is deliberately trying to sabotage his career. The legal issues at stake here have often
seemed to be something of a shadow play. There has been talk out money, royalty shares and
packaging costs, but Michael admitted at the outset that he has more money than he knows what to
do with. Million-dollar deals escaped his notice at the time, he testified, or have slipped his memory
since. When Sony's counsel, Gordon Pollock, QC, put it to him 'that the real reasons for this action
have little to do with the legal pleadings; you just don't get on with Sony/CBS any more, do you, Mr
Michael ?', the plaintiff did not try to deny it.
autumn the camera crews and photographers were out in force in the Strand, jostling for position
behind the metal barriers on the pavement as the limousines pulled up and the bodyguards swept
past. Inside the gothic warren, showbiz reporters were in hog heaven. In one court Boy George was
fighting a paternity suit on the grounds that he had 'never penetrated a woman' in his life. In another,
Elton John was successfully suing the Sunday Mirror for a libellous allegation that he once suffered
from a bizarre earing disorder. And next door, in Court 39, George Michael was patiently and politely
explaining his dissatisfaction with Sony Music Entertainment to a number of older men in black gowns
and white horsehair wigs. Here, Old England, with all its legal pomp and circumlocutions, was grappling
with suited but tieless New England — and doing so diligently, never asking who a person called
Madonna might be, though occasionally consulting a bright pink volume of The Guinness Book Of
Hit Singles.
As the arguments grind endlessly on, the dusty complexes of this action have discouraged even the
most devoted George Michael fans. In the public gallery upstairs, the band of largely female supporters
who restisly hugged the rails for his three-day witness statement October have gradually melted away.
To anybody with the patience to endure it, the case now seems to hinge as much on ancient precedents
in contract law as it does on Michael's assertion that Sony, and in particular the American end of the
company, is deliberately trying to sabotage his career. The legal issues at stake here have often
seemed to be something of a shadow play. There has been talk out money, royalty shares and
packaging costs, but Michael admitted at the outset that he has more money than he knows what to
do with. Million-dollar deals escaped his notice at the time, he testified, or have slipped his memory
since. When Sony's counsel, Gordon Pollock, QC, put it to him 'that the real reasons for this action
have little to do with the legal pleadings; you just don't get on with Sony/CBS any more, do you, Mr
Michael ?', the plaintiff did not try to deny it.
But while the proceedings in Court 39 have shed little new light on the intricate plot of the George Michael story, it has been a good place to spy on some of its key characters, such as his
manager and friend Rob Kahane, loyally sporting the Michael facial stubble, and the ebullient record plugger Gary Farrow, one of whose children is Michael's goddaughter. At the back, on
most days, sit Michael's parents: his neatly groomed mother Lesley, a British woman who married a young Cypriot immigrant called Jack Panayiotou, then an impoverished waiter, now a
successful and distinguished-looking restaurateur with a shorter name, Panos, a grey pinstripe suit and glasses. If George Michael has shown himself to be a tough and ambitious high-flyer,
he is no more than his father's son in different key. In fact, had young Georgios not made such Flying start, achieving pop stardom while still a teenager, would probably, as the sole male heir,
be running the family restaurant in Hertfordshire today.
When he was born in 1963 there were no such secure prospects. The Panayiotous' third child and only son spent years living in a flat above a launderette in Finchley,north London. Through
Jack's hard work and enterprise family moved out and up, first to Edgware and then to a large house in the countrified Hertfordshire town of Radlett . The demands of the restaurant meant that
George saw little of his father, spending more time with his mother and sisters. Life at home, as he descried it, sounds more materially comfortable than emotional warm. 'There were things
going on when I was growing up that I never understood,' he said later. 'Things that make me really admire my mum. If there's anything I've got from her, it's that she's like a rock. I've got that
stability from her.' He has never, he said, felt any affinity with his father's Greekness, 'other than how hairy I am'.
In 1975 a precociously hirsute and rather plump G Panos turned down his parents' offer of a private education and enrolled instead at Bushey Meads comprehensive. His father was severely
disappointed; he became even more so when 'Yog' (his schoolboy nickname) started hanging out with the son of another first-generation immigrant, a high- spirited Egyptian/Italian Jew called
Andrew Ridgeley. By the age of 15 they were skipping classes to busk in Green Park Underground station in London. In 1979, entranced by the disco movie Saturday Night Fever, they formed
their first band. The Executive. Although George
somehow scraped through a couple of A-levels - English literature and art — it was clear he preferred music to studying. It was equally clear that his father would not stand for it.
In the summer of 1981, Jack gave him six months to get his career as a musician on the road, before he invoked family duty and hauled him off to the restaurant. Just before the six-month ran out,
'Yog' and Ridgeley signed their first recording contract, with Innervision. A year after that, Wham! was the hottest group in the world and Georgious Panos had transformed himself into a star
called George Michael.
manager and friend Rob Kahane, loyally sporting the Michael facial stubble, and the ebullient record plugger Gary Farrow, one of whose children is Michael's goddaughter. At the back, on
most days, sit Michael's parents: his neatly groomed mother Lesley, a British woman who married a young Cypriot immigrant called Jack Panayiotou, then an impoverished waiter, now a
successful and distinguished-looking restaurateur with a shorter name, Panos, a grey pinstripe suit and glasses. If George Michael has shown himself to be a tough and ambitious high-flyer,
he is no more than his father's son in different key. In fact, had young Georgios not made such Flying start, achieving pop stardom while still a teenager, would probably, as the sole male heir,
be running the family restaurant in Hertfordshire today.
When he was born in 1963 there were no such secure prospects. The Panayiotous' third child and only son spent years living in a flat above a launderette in Finchley,north London. Through
Jack's hard work and enterprise family moved out and up, first to Edgware and then to a large house in the countrified Hertfordshire town of Radlett . The demands of the restaurant meant that
George saw little of his father, spending more time with his mother and sisters. Life at home, as he descried it, sounds more materially comfortable than emotional warm. 'There were things
going on when I was growing up that I never understood,' he said later. 'Things that make me really admire my mum. If there's anything I've got from her, it's that she's like a rock. I've got that
stability from her.' He has never, he said, felt any affinity with his father's Greekness, 'other than how hairy I am'.
In 1975 a precociously hirsute and rather plump G Panos turned down his parents' offer of a private education and enrolled instead at Bushey Meads comprehensive. His father was severely
disappointed; he became even more so when 'Yog' (his schoolboy nickname) started hanging out with the son of another first-generation immigrant, a high- spirited Egyptian/Italian Jew called
Andrew Ridgeley. By the age of 15 they were skipping classes to busk in Green Park Underground station in London. In 1979, entranced by the disco movie Saturday Night Fever, they formed
their first band. The Executive. Although George
somehow scraped through a couple of A-levels - English literature and art — it was clear he preferred music to studying. It was equally clear that his father would not stand for it.
In the summer of 1981, Jack gave him six months to get his career as a musician on the road, before he invoked family duty and hauled him off to the restaurant. Just before the six-month ran out,
'Yog' and Ridgeley signed their first recording contract, with Innervision. A year after that, Wham! was the hottest group in the world and Georgious Panos had transformed himself into a star
called George Michael.
That first contract, by all accounts a punitive document might have been his last had it not been for Dick Leahy,
who normally sits just in front of Mr and Mrs. Panos in court. Leahy, tanned and skinny with a shock of straight
silver hair, looks more like a healthier version of Jeffery Bernard than the protective godfather of George Michael's
career. Although he describes himself as a song publisher (the person who collects the songwriter's royalty when
tunes are played or performed) he has often like a manager. 'I use publishing as another way of working with
artists,' he says. 'But if an artist doesn't know who he is and why he is doing it, you're wasting your time. And with
George that was always there from day one.'
George knew a lot for one so young. According to Shirlie Holliman, Ridgeley's girlfriend in the pre-Wham! days
and a dancer on the duo's videos, 'George has always had an older mind; he always seemed too mature for his
age. ' He certainly knew how to write snappy, sound-of-the-moment pop songs such as Wham Rap, and cool
classics like the sax-driven ballad Careless Whisper. He also knew how to hang on to himself when the craziness
of success took hold: amid all the hysteria of Wham!'s Club Fantastic tour in 1983, his sisters Melanie and
Yioda were around to help with his hair and make-up, and his second cousin Andros was just around.
The following year, with Leahy's help. Michael fought to get out of his record contract and, after gambling all of his .
£100,000 earnings with Wham! on the action, won. The American label CBS bought off its small subsidiary,
Innervision, and signed the group direct on much better terms. 'I'm not an arrogant person,' Michael 'but I have a
real inner confidence. I never let situations get on top of me for any length of time. I really am an optimist.'
He needed to be for what he pulled off next. In 1985, largely at Michael's instigation, Wham! announced that it had
decided to split. The singer with the tandoori tans and the Lady Di haircut wanted to relaunch himself as a serious
solo artist. So, less believably, did Ridgeley. So do most musicians who start out at the nursery end of a pop market,
a career cul-de-sac which allows its stars roughly a three-year tenure. The big difference in George Michael's
case was that within two years he had successfully re-invented himself. 'I believed in Wham! as a great way to
entertain people, but when I walked into a room full of people they had a totally wrong idea of what I was all about,'
he said. And he proceeded to demonstrate the fact beyond anybody's wildest expectations.
Faith, his first solo album, released at the end of 1987 and featuring songs written, arranged and mainly performed
by himself, was to become one of the most feted albums of the decade. In 1988 in America, it outsold Michael
Jackson's Bad and won a Grammy award ( a music industry Oscar) for album of the year, a prize that rarely goes
to a non-American performer. More remarkable still, the boy from Bushey, whose name was still a byword for i
nauthentic pop posturing among snobbish rock critics back home, found himself on the receiving end the most
coveted accolades in America: the black urban stations played Faith to death. At the American Music Awards —
an event that chiefly celebrates black R&B artists - he won in the 'male vocalist' and 'soul/R&B album' categories.
In Britain, meanwhile, he won songwriter of the year for the second time. As Faith went from being a hit album to
a commercial phenomenon with sales in excess of 15m worldwide (it continues to sell at the rate of about 1m per
year), Michael went on an exhausting two-year world tour. And then, in 1989, at the height of his fame and with
millions piling up around him, he started having another lot of second thoughts.
who normally sits just in front of Mr and Mrs. Panos in court. Leahy, tanned and skinny with a shock of straight
silver hair, looks more like a healthier version of Jeffery Bernard than the protective godfather of George Michael's
career. Although he describes himself as a song publisher (the person who collects the songwriter's royalty when
tunes are played or performed) he has often like a manager. 'I use publishing as another way of working with
artists,' he says. 'But if an artist doesn't know who he is and why he is doing it, you're wasting your time. And with
George that was always there from day one.'
George knew a lot for one so young. According to Shirlie Holliman, Ridgeley's girlfriend in the pre-Wham! days
and a dancer on the duo's videos, 'George has always had an older mind; he always seemed too mature for his
age. ' He certainly knew how to write snappy, sound-of-the-moment pop songs such as Wham Rap, and cool
classics like the sax-driven ballad Careless Whisper. He also knew how to hang on to himself when the craziness
of success took hold: amid all the hysteria of Wham!'s Club Fantastic tour in 1983, his sisters Melanie and
Yioda were around to help with his hair and make-up, and his second cousin Andros was just around.
The following year, with Leahy's help. Michael fought to get out of his record contract and, after gambling all of his .
£100,000 earnings with Wham! on the action, won. The American label CBS bought off its small subsidiary,
Innervision, and signed the group direct on much better terms. 'I'm not an arrogant person,' Michael 'but I have a
real inner confidence. I never let situations get on top of me for any length of time. I really am an optimist.'
He needed to be for what he pulled off next. In 1985, largely at Michael's instigation, Wham! announced that it had
decided to split. The singer with the tandoori tans and the Lady Di haircut wanted to relaunch himself as a serious
solo artist. So, less believably, did Ridgeley. So do most musicians who start out at the nursery end of a pop market,
a career cul-de-sac which allows its stars roughly a three-year tenure. The big difference in George Michael's
case was that within two years he had successfully re-invented himself. 'I believed in Wham! as a great way to
entertain people, but when I walked into a room full of people they had a totally wrong idea of what I was all about,'
he said. And he proceeded to demonstrate the fact beyond anybody's wildest expectations.
Faith, his first solo album, released at the end of 1987 and featuring songs written, arranged and mainly performed
by himself, was to become one of the most feted albums of the decade. In 1988 in America, it outsold Michael
Jackson's Bad and won a Grammy award ( a music industry Oscar) for album of the year, a prize that rarely goes
to a non-American performer. More remarkable still, the boy from Bushey, whose name was still a byword for i
nauthentic pop posturing among snobbish rock critics back home, found himself on the receiving end the most
coveted accolades in America: the black urban stations played Faith to death. At the American Music Awards —
an event that chiefly celebrates black R&B artists - he won in the 'male vocalist' and 'soul/R&B album' categories.
In Britain, meanwhile, he won songwriter of the year for the second time. As Faith went from being a hit album to
a commercial phenomenon with sales in excess of 15m worldwide (it continues to sell at the rate of about 1m per
year), Michael went on an exhausting two-year world tour. And then, in 1989, at the height of his fame and with
millions piling up around him, he started having another lot of second thoughts.
What was bothering the star most now, he said, was his image. Surveys carried out by his record company showed that his appeal was strongest among single white women. This was hardly
surprising. The stubbly, bare chested figure burrowing around in his leather jacket on he sleeve of Faith did not look as if he was searching for a plectrum. Nor did images such as those in
the I Want Your Sex video, portraying him writing the word EXPLORE on a naked girl's rump, discourage the every woman view of George Michael as macho Latin lover numero uno.
Suddenly, he started reversing away from this style of presentation. Of course he was aware of the sexuality in his music, he said, but the image had happened by accident. That was the way
he had felt then, and now he did not feel like that any more. 'I'm going to kind of disappear,' he told various interviewers, adding that he would not be appearing in any more videos because
they made him unhappy. At the time, the reason he gave for this was that he wanted 'people to like my music for what it is', and that he had grown tired of all the marketing hype. In court three
years later he alluded more guardedly to 'personal reasons'.
One widely touted explanation for his retreat from handsome-hunkdom holds that by the end of the Faith tour, Michael had come to the conclusion that he might be bisexual. Michael has
neither confirmed nor denied this. When asked in 1989 whether he had ever had a homosexual experience, he laughed, blushed and said: 'I wouldn't tell you even if I had.' Whenever he
has talked in public about his personal relationships — which is not often — he rarely names names.
What does seem clear is that openness and intimacy, whatever their sexual connotation, are not Michael's usual style. Simon Napier-Bell, Wham!'s manager, has said publicly that 'George
is not demonstrative of anything he feels'. Shirlie Holliman, his friend from the Bushey days, has gone even further: 'George is one of the most secretive people I know. I am not sure how he
feels most of the time. He is one of those people you have to push to get anything out of, otherwise he will just carry on playing 'I'm okay, I'm coping.''
Visitors to Michael's Hampstead home, which he shares with a golden labrador called Hippy, have confirmed this impression of a man who seems almost a stranger to himself. He apparently
lives without the customary personal mess and clutter of bachelor life. 'Considering how much time he spends in that house, it feels quite unlived-in,' says one of the singer's acquaintances.
'It's all very stark and modem, with cream carpets, glass and metal tables, a couple of huge white leather sofas, and a big jukebox on its own in a room upstairs. The overall feel is of a very
expensive airport lounge, or of that mid-1980s 'Spartan wealth' thing.'
Michael's own accounts of his life have sounded equally distant and austere. 'I can't imagine living with someone,' he has said. 'I have a horrible feeling that part of my pleasure of living on my
own is that my need for privacy is so much greater than other people's.' He concluded: 'I feel a very great need to be away from George Michael most of the time.'
Unluckily for him, this attempt to repudiate his former sexy persona coincided with an enormous shake-up in the senior management of his American record company. Following the takeover
of CBS Records by Sony in 1988, a new triumvirate was installed in the label's Manhattan headquarters.
Michael later tried to claim, in his evasive way, that it was the new Japanese ownership that had caused the souring of his relations with CBS/Sony, but that was only part of the story. There were
also his dealings with the Americans who now ran the company in the States, and in particular Tommy Mottola and Don lenner.
surprising. The stubbly, bare chested figure burrowing around in his leather jacket on he sleeve of Faith did not look as if he was searching for a plectrum. Nor did images such as those in
the I Want Your Sex video, portraying him writing the word EXPLORE on a naked girl's rump, discourage the every woman view of George Michael as macho Latin lover numero uno.
Suddenly, he started reversing away from this style of presentation. Of course he was aware of the sexuality in his music, he said, but the image had happened by accident. That was the way
he had felt then, and now he did not feel like that any more. 'I'm going to kind of disappear,' he told various interviewers, adding that he would not be appearing in any more videos because
they made him unhappy. At the time, the reason he gave for this was that he wanted 'people to like my music for what it is', and that he had grown tired of all the marketing hype. In court three
years later he alluded more guardedly to 'personal reasons'.
One widely touted explanation for his retreat from handsome-hunkdom holds that by the end of the Faith tour, Michael had come to the conclusion that he might be bisexual. Michael has
neither confirmed nor denied this. When asked in 1989 whether he had ever had a homosexual experience, he laughed, blushed and said: 'I wouldn't tell you even if I had.' Whenever he
has talked in public about his personal relationships — which is not often — he rarely names names.
What does seem clear is that openness and intimacy, whatever their sexual connotation, are not Michael's usual style. Simon Napier-Bell, Wham!'s manager, has said publicly that 'George
is not demonstrative of anything he feels'. Shirlie Holliman, his friend from the Bushey days, has gone even further: 'George is one of the most secretive people I know. I am not sure how he
feels most of the time. He is one of those people you have to push to get anything out of, otherwise he will just carry on playing 'I'm okay, I'm coping.''
Visitors to Michael's Hampstead home, which he shares with a golden labrador called Hippy, have confirmed this impression of a man who seems almost a stranger to himself. He apparently
lives without the customary personal mess and clutter of bachelor life. 'Considering how much time he spends in that house, it feels quite unlived-in,' says one of the singer's acquaintances.
'It's all very stark and modem, with cream carpets, glass and metal tables, a couple of huge white leather sofas, and a big jukebox on its own in a room upstairs. The overall feel is of a very
expensive airport lounge, or of that mid-1980s 'Spartan wealth' thing.'
Michael's own accounts of his life have sounded equally distant and austere. 'I can't imagine living with someone,' he has said. 'I have a horrible feeling that part of my pleasure of living on my
own is that my need for privacy is so much greater than other people's.' He concluded: 'I feel a very great need to be away from George Michael most of the time.'
Unluckily for him, this attempt to repudiate his former sexy persona coincided with an enormous shake-up in the senior management of his American record company. Following the takeover
of CBS Records by Sony in 1988, a new triumvirate was installed in the label's Manhattan headquarters.
Michael later tried to claim, in his evasive way, that it was the new Japanese ownership that had caused the souring of his relations with CBS/Sony, but that was only part of the story. There were
also his dealings with the Americans who now ran the company in the States, and in particular Tommy Mottola and Don lenner.
“Kick Ass” is a term often mentioned in connection with Tommy Mattola, a man who began his career as a singer signed to the CBS label, and 15 years later, found himself in the charge
of it. According to a former colleague, “He’s a street Italian, and if there’s anything this industry worships it’s the late 30’s, is another hard headed music mogul, with a string of past successes
at the Arista label.
Like any incoming management, this pair has something to prove. They wanted to break new acts, create new stars and report some booming sales figures. Mattola had his eye on a
young white soul singer called Mariah Carey. Ienner was keen on an up-and-coming dance act, C&C Music Factory. Neither of the go-getting new brooms could have been too thrilled when
George Michael explained to them in the summer of 1990 that his follow-up to the blockbuster Faith would be coming without the support of a video, and bearing a black and white
sleeve that did not feature his alluring mug at all, Even his name and the album’s lumpy title- Listen Without Prejudice Volume 1- were to be relegated to a corner of the Cellophane wrapper.
By the time that Michael set out on a tour six months later, he and CBS/Sony were busy bickering by phone and fax. The fact that the Cover To Cover tour deliberately avoided the songs on
his new album — comprising instead a selection of other people's material, mostly tunes that Michael grew up listening to — hardly helped to resolve an increasingly bitter row about exactly who
was trying to sabotage the commercial chances of Listen Without Prejudice. By the end of spring 1991 it had achieved less than a third of the sales of Faith and was considered by the company to
be 'dead'. When Mottola and Ienner flew to one of the Cover To Cover shows and rather insensitively left during the interval, taking Michael's manager Rob Kahane with them in their private jet,
Michael's trust in his company finally expired.
For the next year-and-a-half, until the writ last autumn, it was pretty well all over between them bar an Aids charity album and a great deal of shouting. George Michael determined and,
understandably, proud man, fought his way out of one record contract an brilliant career relaunch as a solo artist. He had gone on to become the only British superstar that CBS/Sony had ever
produced.
The discovery that his second solo album given no more of a promotional push by the American company than the debut offering by the then unknown Mariah Carey inevitably offended
him, not least because Carey was by then well on the way to becoming Mrs. Tommy Mottola. Ienner touched a nerve, too, when he I suggested that a track of Michael's called Too Funky
might benefit from a club remix by his highly C&C Music Factory.
Then there has been some nasty name calling in both directions. Whatever the company felt about the economics of his decision last year to donate three tracks to the Aids charity album
Red Hot And Dance (and another I story tells of Ienner responding to the news by protesting that he had 3000 people in his New York office to feed, for Christ sakes), they must have worried
about its effect on his female fan base.
of it. According to a former colleague, “He’s a street Italian, and if there’s anything this industry worships it’s the late 30’s, is another hard headed music mogul, with a string of past successes
at the Arista label.
Like any incoming management, this pair has something to prove. They wanted to break new acts, create new stars and report some booming sales figures. Mattola had his eye on a
young white soul singer called Mariah Carey. Ienner was keen on an up-and-coming dance act, C&C Music Factory. Neither of the go-getting new brooms could have been too thrilled when
George Michael explained to them in the summer of 1990 that his follow-up to the blockbuster Faith would be coming without the support of a video, and bearing a black and white
sleeve that did not feature his alluring mug at all, Even his name and the album’s lumpy title- Listen Without Prejudice Volume 1- were to be relegated to a corner of the Cellophane wrapper.
By the time that Michael set out on a tour six months later, he and CBS/Sony were busy bickering by phone and fax. The fact that the Cover To Cover tour deliberately avoided the songs on
his new album — comprising instead a selection of other people's material, mostly tunes that Michael grew up listening to — hardly helped to resolve an increasingly bitter row about exactly who
was trying to sabotage the commercial chances of Listen Without Prejudice. By the end of spring 1991 it had achieved less than a third of the sales of Faith and was considered by the company to
be 'dead'. When Mottola and Ienner flew to one of the Cover To Cover shows and rather insensitively left during the interval, taking Michael's manager Rob Kahane with them in their private jet,
Michael's trust in his company finally expired.
For the next year-and-a-half, until the writ last autumn, it was pretty well all over between them bar an Aids charity album and a great deal of shouting. George Michael determined and,
understandably, proud man, fought his way out of one record contract an brilliant career relaunch as a solo artist. He had gone on to become the only British superstar that CBS/Sony had ever
produced.
The discovery that his second solo album given no more of a promotional push by the American company than the debut offering by the then unknown Mariah Carey inevitably offended
him, not least because Carey was by then well on the way to becoming Mrs. Tommy Mottola. Ienner touched a nerve, too, when he I suggested that a track of Michael's called Too Funky
might benefit from a club remix by his highly C&C Music Factory.
Then there has been some nasty name calling in both directions. Whatever the company felt about the economics of his decision last year to donate three tracks to the Aids charity album
Red Hot And Dance (and another I story tells of Ienner responding to the news by protesting that he had 3000 people in his New York office to feed, for Christ sakes), they must have worried
about its effect on his female fan base.
In conservative, straight Middle America, Aids is still seen as a gay issue. George Michael performing at a memorial concert for Freddie Mercury and duetting with Elton John on his song Don't
Let The Sun Me are not the sorts of career moves that any big record company is likely to prescribe for one of the great heterosexual icons of the past decade. Even Elton John, an altogether
less romantically inspiring figure, suffered a dip in sales that coincided with his public admission that he was bisexual.
However, Michael is nothing if not tenacious might call him headstrong. 'The record industry is a bunch of headless chickens,' he once declared. “The cant tell me what to do because they don'
t know themselves.” After I realized that, it was easy, because then I knew I had to do it all myself.' The role of Aids crusader is one he clearly believes in, and only last week he was again
doing something about it, starring at a benefit concert at Wembley Arena alongside K D Lang and Mick Hucknall of Simply Red. He has also been busying himself with other projects recently,
notably writing a film script with Touchtone Pictures has paid to go into development.
What he has not done is get down to finishing Volume 2 of Listen Without Prejudice, the album he promised to deliver in 1991. Three years ago, on a South Bank show, devoted entirely to
himself, Michael explained that it was as a songwriter that he wanted to be remembered; but this songwriter has enjoyed his greatest recent successes as a covers artist, in the company of
Elton John and the surviving members of Queen.
'If I step outside the promotion and marketing of George Michael,' the singer intimated before the release of Listen Without Prejudice Volume 1, 'then I think I have every chance of surviving
as a successful musician and a balanced human being. I've done just about everything that I could — I goal now.'
Brave words these, but perhaps not as wise as some others he uttered around the same time; words that might return to haunt him as he shuttles between High Court and his elegant, empty
house on Hampstead Heath: “It’s not commonplace for people to get to the top of this profession when they’re young, and the to live happily ever after.”
Let The Sun Me are not the sorts of career moves that any big record company is likely to prescribe for one of the great heterosexual icons of the past decade. Even Elton John, an altogether
less romantically inspiring figure, suffered a dip in sales that coincided with his public admission that he was bisexual.
However, Michael is nothing if not tenacious might call him headstrong. 'The record industry is a bunch of headless chickens,' he once declared. “The cant tell me what to do because they don'
t know themselves.” After I realized that, it was easy, because then I knew I had to do it all myself.' The role of Aids crusader is one he clearly believes in, and only last week he was again
doing something about it, starring at a benefit concert at Wembley Arena alongside K D Lang and Mick Hucknall of Simply Red. He has also been busying himself with other projects recently,
notably writing a film script with Touchtone Pictures has paid to go into development.
What he has not done is get down to finishing Volume 2 of Listen Without Prejudice, the album he promised to deliver in 1991. Three years ago, on a South Bank show, devoted entirely to
himself, Michael explained that it was as a songwriter that he wanted to be remembered; but this songwriter has enjoyed his greatest recent successes as a covers artist, in the company of
Elton John and the surviving members of Queen.
'If I step outside the promotion and marketing of George Michael,' the singer intimated before the release of Listen Without Prejudice Volume 1, 'then I think I have every chance of surviving
as a successful musician and a balanced human being. I've done just about everything that I could — I goal now.'
Brave words these, but perhaps not as wise as some others he uttered around the same time; words that might return to haunt him as he shuttles between High Court and his elegant, empty
house on Hampstead Heath: “It’s not commonplace for people to get to the top of this profession when they’re young, and the to live happily ever after.”