“I’ll stop the world and melt with you.
You’ve seen the difference,
and it’s getting better all the time.
There’s nothing you and I won’t do.
I’ll stop the world and melt with you.”

History Lesson:  

I Melt With You, and Mtv staple in 1983, is the song that the band Modern English is best know for. The song, produced by Hugh Jones, was a single fromt he album After the Snow. While never reaching the Top 40 (its highest position was #76, which it reached with a July 1990 re-release), the song gained popularity due to its airplay on Mtv in early 1983, and its inclusion in the closing credits for the movie, Valley Girl. The band re-recorded the song in 1990 for their album Pillow Lips.

This upbeat love song was the only hit for Modern English, but it wasn’t typical of their sound. They were a Punk band, and most of their songs were a lot more raw than this one. The lyrics, “Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace” are a reference to Modern English’s first album, Mesh & Lace.

Personal Reflection: Valley Girl was one of those movies that my best friend and I were ever-prone to watch in the late 80′s/very early 90′s, and re-watch, on a Saturday night. An odd night for staying in and renting movies, one might think, but from what I remember it was the one night we never quite liked going out on. There was always too much expectation in the air on a Saturday night, what with the clubs charging twice the price just to get in the door, and all the long lines, and the copious amounts of couples on a date night going on; it just never held much appeal to the two of us.

Subsequently, it was the couch and some of our personal vices, and a stack of movies, to make it a successful Saturday night for us.

Valley Girl was in that stack more often than not (usually accompanied by Dogs in Space, Sid and Nancy and Modern Girls) and we had our character crushes and moments of singing-a-long that I’ll Melt With You included in the mix.

Even when this song turned into an advertisement for hamburgers (ugh), or when every local radio station decided to play it to near death during its “flashback weekends” and “flashback lunches“, it still always reminds me of Randy (my character crush from Valley Girl) and Julie, and the Valley – totally.

I Melt With You :: Modern English

the 80′s

When I was about eleven or twelve, I was a very shy kid.  I started to really enjoy watching movies as an escape.  I also watched a ton of television, which is why I have so much nonsense from television pin-balling around in my head to this day.  I would often tune in to PBS and watch a show called At the Movies.  The reasons I enjoyed the show were many.  I loved movies, there were great clips of upcoming movies, and there were two guys who always seemed to have an intelligent discussion about the movies.  Those guys were Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert.

The show always started with some comical opening that would change every few years.  One year it would be the two sneaking into the balcony, another it would be the two of them competing on the street:  Siskel’s name on a paper truck, followed by Ebert’s on a truck that drove in front of the news stand.  Roger would stand there with a smirk on his face when the truck drove up.  I still remember the truck said “Trust Roger Ebert.”  And I did!

The show always started with a clip of a movie opening on that weekend.  Then the two guys were there on the screen, sitting in the “balcony,” and they would review some movies.  If the viewer was lucky, they might have seen an argument.  I always took Roger’s side because I identified with his point of view.  I viewed him as less snobbish than most other critics.  If a movie was good but had a low budget, he would say it was good.

When Gene would make a ridiculous argument, like the one he did about the movie Hoosiers, Roger would call him out on it.  I can still remember them arguing about that film.  Gene said something about the music and how silly it was that the dramatic music was used so much and all the games were really close.  Roger blistered him with arguments about music in film, citing other great films that used music for dramatic effect.  He also pointed out how ridiculous Gene’s argument about basketball games was, as many basketball games are that close and that’s what makes the sport exciting to watch.

Gene Siskel and Roger Ebert had a sense of humor about themselves and often were invited on shows like Late Night with David Letterman.  Here is a clip from youtube from one of their appearances on the show:

To a kid in who was awkward in school and very shy, watching the show was sort of like connecting with a friend about movies.  Watching the show, Ebert would look into the camera and talk about the actors in the film or how bad or how good the movie was in his opinion.  He helped me to appreciate film much more than I had ever considered.  Here he is with Gene Siskel on the show reviewing one of my favorite movies, Back to the Future:

I also read his reviews quite a bit, too, and they helped me connect with movies I hadn’t seen before.  I may not have seen Ordinary People, The Verdict , or The Killing Fields at all if it hadn’t been for Ebert’s books, for example.  He taught me to appreciate great directors that are far from household names.  The great films by directors Errol Morris (The Thin Blue Line) or even John Dahl (The Last Seduction) were introduced to me by Ebert.  I’m not sure if John Dahl has done any movies lately, but every once in a while I see his name as director at the start of a TV episode and know I’m in for a good show.  I have Roger Ebert to thank for that.

I ended up agreeing with Roger Ebert on many of his film reviews, but even when he wrote a review I didn’t agree with I respected his opinion a great deal and appreciated his point of view.  Once he wrote that Splash! may have been more interesting if Tom Hanks and John Candy had switched roles, for example.  It was one of my favorite movies at the time, but I still respected what Ebert wrote and understood why he wrote it.

Roger Ebert helped me make a good decision about what to go see.  If it was a toss up between two new movies and I went with Ebert’s better reviewed film, I never regretted it.  He appreciated cinema and had extremely good taste.  I often said when I was young that I wanted to be a film critic.  I thought Roger Ebert had it made.  He was a hell of a writer and really seemed to enjoy writing.  He and he got to see a lot of movies, write about them, and get paid for it.  He was so good he won a Pulitzer Prize and even received a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame:

In recent years, Roger Ebert also wrote a great deal about current events and was very critical of Republican politicians and political decisions being made in this country.  Many people did not like this, and again I held him in the highest regard because he had no fear.  He put his feelings out there and he did it in a sharp, cutting, but at times humorous, way.  In a political climate where it is considered outrageous by some to simply speak your mind or write down your point of view, Roger Ebert was a breath of fresh air for me.

Thank you, Roger Ebert.

“I believe that if, at the end of it all, according to our abilities, we have done something to make others a little happier, and something to make ourselves a little happier, that is about the best we can do. To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this, and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.” –Roger Ebert

via New Kids on the Block’s Jonathan Knight Walks Off Stage During NYC Show | Stop The Presses! – Yahoo! Music.

There is no way to mentally prepare oneself to be ready for the attention gained from thousands of fans, mainstream media, and journalists who crawl over each other just to grab a chunk of the story. If he had anxiety/panic attack issues beforehand, he is going to have them throughout his life, no matter what.

Keep in mind, also, that they were child-stars. His brother is in the band, and then went on to a successful solo career afterward. I’m more than positive that his parents also had a hand in helping him to join and be a part of the band – and probably also assisted in coordinating the issue with doctors to lessen his anxiety/panic attacks at the time. When one is out of the business for two decades, and gets back into it as an adult, he now has the challenge of finding a solution to his specific needs as an adult without direct oversight and assistance from family. That is a HUGE thing to figure out – ESPECIALLY when there are many shady doctors for entertainment stars who will write up any sort of prescription solely because of a celebrity client.

This shows a conscientious decision on his part to take care of himself and take ownership of his health, as well. Peer pressure never makes anxiety go away. Fans, especially, can worsen it. Just because someone is a millionaire does NOT make them inhuman. Look at stars like Lindsey Lohan – Jonathan could have just as easily decided to do drugs like that and sink into a whirlwind of uum bad things… but he did not. And more than likely, his assets remain well-invested after being in a huge band such as that.

NKOTB shows one of the best outcomes possible for every single member in a child-star music group like this. This is definitely an achievement that should be commended, respected, and applauded. For J to get onstage in the first place with these issues should be commended – and not ridiculed. Those who ridicule him OBVIOUSLY don’t know what it’s like to suffer from such issues.

Be fair, and keep in mind the concept of humanity. Without it, our world is over. J is respectable to not only take care of himself – but also to apologize to his fans, regardless if it was just a tweet. To admit one is wrong is also a talent that many are without, and to apologize for it is honorable.

P.S. Jonathan was also my LEAST favorite of the group. I love you DONNY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I miss my NKOTB extra long sleep-shirt, and the 80′s.

People who live in new condos on the Bowery – previously home to CBGB – complain about noise from area clubs.

Via therealdeal.com

Recently Martin Scorsese lamented that the neighborhood of his youth has been taken over by Whole Foods, towering skyscrapers, expensive hotels and the like.

On the other hand, consider this gem of a video shared by BensonhurstBean and Curbed showing what it was like to ride the subway in 1987.

Thanks to BensonhurstBean and Curbed for sharing the subway video.

I agree with Scorsese that homogeneity is lamentable, but really – is he going to move back to a studio in his old building on Elizabeth Street anytime soon?

Via urbanedgeny.com

I don’t think so.

Change is painful, but inevitable.

Other posts about life in NYC:

• Dirty laundry
• Crumbling NYC

via

In this dream, James Brown is giving a concert.  At the end of this concert, James Brown spots Michael Jackson in the audience and calls him up on stage for an impromptu performance. Mike sings the words ‘I love you’ really passionately a couple of times in classic Mike fashion. Then, he dances as only Mike can and makes this into a really amazing moment. The crowd’s feeling good. Amazing.

Then Mike tells James Brown that Prince is in the audience. Then James Brown says, ‘SAYWHAAANAH!?!’  Then MJ tells him again that Prince is in the audience and it’d be a dope musical moment to bring him on stage. Then James Brown says, ‘HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!’

Then James Brown announces Prince.

…Prince was high, ladies and gentlemen. Very, very high. Probably on cocaine. So…when he was announced by James Brown, Prince did the only thing someone who was blown out of his mind would do: he asked Santa Claus if he would take him to the stage on piggy back. Now, normally when you’re high and you ask Santa to take you on a piggyback ride… it isn’t really you’re talking to.  Instead, its your friend George who responds to your request by saying, ‘Say man…maybe I should take you home.’ But not when you’re Prince. Prince actually brought Santa F. Claus to the party! He gets his yultide piggy back ride, and James Brown thinks this is hilarious.

This dream is gettin’ kinda crazy, right?  It gets crazier.

So then Prince gets to the stage. He then bites off a glove he has on his hand and throws it into the crowd triumphantly as if to say ‘PRINCE IS HERE!’ Then an audience member throws the glove back, as if to respond ‘Nigga, we know.’  Prince then throws another glove into the audience because Prince always has to have the last word. Even when the last word is just a glove with a lot of sparkles on it.

Then James Brown tells Prince he, quote, ‘HASTADOSUMMM!’  And there is no way Prince hit that stage with the intent of doing nothing. Not with that much coke in his system. So, he grabs a guitar: exactly what everyone was hoping Prince would do.  Expectations for the audience members skyrocket!

Then Prince goes over to some of James’ people and says ‘Uuuuuuuuh….how do you use this thing?’ He was that high, ladies and gentlemen. They told him, he remembered, then Prince politely ripped it for about a minute and a half. Then he started rubbing his nose.

Then Prince smelled his finger. Like…really dramatically. Then he starts breathing really hard…which culminates in him smacking the guitar and making the same noise I would make if I were trying to play the guitar. Then that cocaine gets so good to him that he’s GOT TA take his 80s jacket off, so he hands it to someone and turns around to see the microphone. But he’s mystified as to how its standing. Prince was like: ‘WHAT IN THE HELL!?! ARE YALL SEEING THIS!?! LOOK AT THIS MICROPHONE STANDING ALL BY ITSELF! THE MECHANICS ARE PERFECTLY AMAZING! ITS MY MAGIC HANDS THAT MUST BE ALLOWING IT TO STAND ALONE BY ITSELF ON ITS OWN!’

Prince then moves the microphone around so good that it apparently hurts his head. To express this pain, Prince gets to the mic and screeches a squeal that would later be used in the 90’s as the noise for velociraptors in the movie Jurassic Park.

Then he realized that people don’t want to see him sing; they want to see him dance erotically.  So, Prince does what he does. Then he stops abruptly and holds up 2 fingers and makes everyone clap 1 time in a fun game of Simon says. Prince gets freaked out by the fact that he is in complete control over their ability to clap, and as such, he bows and exits the stage. But not before he drops a streetlight down on that hatin’ ass dude that threw the glove back at him. Prince never forgets.  And neither does Santa.

Now, the best thing about this dream:  IT ACTUALLY FREAKING HAPPENED.  And someone videotaped it.  And here it is.

| 1 |

I never had a Skip-It, nor did I want one. However, I am aware that the very best thing of all is there’s a counter on this ball. So there’s that, I guess.

Consequence Of Sound has the lowdown on tour dates etc.

Big hair, big stars and even bigger budgets: on the surface it could be argued that the eighties didn’t contribute anything to the world of film that any other decade past or present hasn’t already given us or equalled. Yet for a decade that ended 24 years ago its films and its cultural impact are still talked about and felt today.

It’s a decade that had nearly every genre at the top of its game with new sub-genres taking over and making waves. It produced films that were consistent with the events of the time – films that allowed you to connect to current affairs (post-Vietnam War/Cold War) and cultural significances (music, fashion, being a stereotyped teenager in High School) or, particularly with the advent of the high concept blockbuster, they offered unfaltering escapism from life for a couple of hours to watch some muscle bound action man blow shit up and save the day.

The 1980’s was a difficult time for the world (when isn’t it, right?). The Western world felt the effects of industrial migration to the East resulting in an economic downturn and a major recession; wars were fought all over the Middle East including the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan that would have lingering consequences for all involved; Live Aid was launched, bringing to the attention of the West the suffering and famine that was occurring in Africa; the World Wide Web was invented, an actor became President of the United States, the United Kingdom was governed by the first female Prime Minister and Mikhail Gorbachev became leader of the Soviet Union leading to the collapse of the Berlin Wall and the end of the Cold War. In the world of film, John Belushi died, VHS beat betamax to be the new pioneer of watching movies at home, Disney came back from the brink of obscurity and Robert Redford ushered in a new wave for independent film by launching the Sundance festival. But for me, it brought a whole lot more than that.

This is probably an ideal juncture for me to mention that I wasn’t really around in the eighties to experience all of this. I was around, sure, but only for three years of it, spending most of that time learning to talk, stand and walk for myself (most would argue I’m still learning). I never got to live my childhood like I was a Goonie or spend my teens as the Geek in a John Hughes movie, and I didn’t grow up to be a naval aviator, the leader of the The Resistance or a detective with issues in the good cop/bad cop pairing. I’m more of the Jurassic Park, bullet time, toys coming to life, Mrs. Doubtfire, comic book movies, that boy wizard and journeys through Middle Earth kind of movie kid yet I can’t speak about those films and that period with the same boundless enthusiasm and nostalgia as I can about the eighties. I think for me and for a lot of other people out there around my age, our childhood and adolescent movie diet consisted of the films that were popular in the 80’s. The increased availability of VHS and the hand-me-down nostalgic behaviour of our peers made this possible.  And now, for me at least, I’m starting to feel nostalgic about a decade I didn’t even experience firsthand. When a specific period in film history can have such a dramatic effect on a number of generations, it’s definitely a contender for a ‘greatest’ accolade – and that’s what I’m going to give it.

The 80’s is the decade that the high concept blockbuster became prominent and cemented the foundations set by Spielberg with Jaws in 1975 and the first Star Wars film in 1977. It was the decade for the ‘popcorn movie’, the summer action film that set your pulse racing but your mind placating. These films aren’t Oscar contenders; they are two hours of escapist fun but they set a trend that actually made these films loved and cherished. It was pioneered by Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer producing such films as Flashdance, Beverly Hills Cop, Beverly Hills Cop 2 and probably the most famous, Top Gun, with a simple but high concept idea that was intended to put bums on seats for a rollercoaster ride which resulted in lots of money in their back pockets. Studios set a trend by this that still exists today whereby their most prized movies that are guaranteed to bring in the revenue are released in the summer, in direct competition with other studios. I’m a lover of all things film and though sometimes I watch a $200m flop and wonder about the 200 smaller films I could’ve seen, I am a bit of a sucker for the summer blockbuster for a bit of entertainment late on a summers evening after a long hot day in the sun (although I don’t think us Brits will be calling it summer for much longer). The 80’s also made this high concept idea a star-driven vehicle and it is often these films that made and defined the careers of some of the biggest known movie stars, particularly Tom Cruise in Top Gun, a high concept film that now has a firm cult status. Spielberg staked his claim as the king of the blockbuster in the 80’s with three Indiana Jones films and E.T. The Extraterrestrial. James Cameron staked his claim with The Terminator and Aliens, and many other directors made their mark on the decade with this kind of movie.

To be a kid growing up in the 80’s you were spoilt for choice when it came to movies. Action, adventure, fantasy – the films were at your fingertips and perfectly captured the imagination of kids everywhere. For me what I love about the 80’s the most is the fact that it produced those family friendly movies that you can watch on a Sunday afternoon wind down with a cuppa after a family roast and a couple of beers; the ones that have that strangely nostalgic feeling to them even if you can’t quite figure out why. The ones that make you happy and relaxed but most of all they awaken that sense of adventure inside you, that adventure and imagination you once had as a kid where you could genuinely see yourself leading your friends on a treasure-finding mission to seize the gold from One Eyed Willy (now there’s a joke that was intended for parents) or rescue a sibling from an elaborate fantasy maze. Even films like Ghostbusters and Back to the Future managed to produce the thrills and laughs required for both parent and child and this is something I’ve not seen rivalled until Pixar really came to prominence in the late 90’s. Skip through the channel listings on a Sunday afternoon and you’re bound to find a family classic from this decade: The Goonies, Back to the Future, Ghostbusters, E.T., Indiana Jones, Short Circuit, Uncle Buck, Labyrinth, *batteries not included, The Never Ending Story,  Superman II - the list goes on. The eighties got the concept of the family film; it was the decade that seemed to understand that both parent and child were to be entertained. They are the kind of films you really can call ‘family films’ because they cater to all – your child as well as your inner child.

Now we all look back at the 80s and find some of the fashion choices… questionable to say the least. There certainly were a lot of bright colours and big hairstyles (I’m sure we can attribute the ozone layer damage to the units of hairspray used in this decade – I’m looking at you here, Mel Gibson). The fashion styles were very distinct and almost stereotypical when it came to the movies – you knew which social category you fell into when you could identify and relate to what the characters were wearing. Along with the fashion, the social worries and strafes of teenagers in the 1980’s were captured perfectly by John Hughes.  Okay, so maybe his films were a bit too stereotypical of the attitudes and behaviours of American high school kids and his films were positively sentimental, portraying the kind of happy ending you would never normally see in real life but dammit if they didn’t make you feel good. Hughes’ movies embodied the 80’s – the fashion, the music (Don’t You (Forget About Me) takes anyone back to The Breakfast Club as soon as that synthesiser kicks in), the attitudes of teenagers, the hairstyles, the quips and one-liners but most of all, the bottom line of what it is to be a teenager: to fall in love and have sex (not necessarily in that order). Through his films the media created The Brat Pack nickname for the young stars that he frequently cast. Though no official affiliation was made it certainly increased the popularity of his films. There is a certain idolatry to the characters he wrote that many growing up the 80’s identified with and even those watching now can still connect to. Characters like Ferris Bueller are timeless – the archetypal everyman that pursues the dream of being truant for just one day and having the best day with his girl, his best friend and a bitching car. Who doesn’t want to be him? Who doesn’t want to be Keith in Some Kind of Wonderful who achieves the unobtainable when the girl of his dreams says yes when he asks he out? What girl hasn’t identified with Sam’s concerns over popularity and her sexual status in Sixteen Candles? And come on lads – who hasn’t wished as a teenager that they could create the perfect woman like Gary and Wyatt did in Weird Science?  Hughes also wrote and contributed to many 80s comedy classics – the National Lampoon’s Vacation series, Planes, Trains and Automobiles, The Great Outdoors and Uncle Buck are just a few. Along with the comedy of Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Chevy Chase and the rest of the Saturday Night Live ensemble, the 80’s was blessed with memorable comedy that lives on in its cult status.

The introduction of home video to households in the late 1970’s was a completely new way of experiencing film – now viewers had the ability not only to control when they watched a film but they could also record a film when it was screened on television and have it permanently at their disposal. A format battle (similar to the Blu-Ray/HD-DVD battle five years ago) was hard fought until the mid-80’s when the VHS trumped the Betamax to be the leading home video format. With the ability to reach audiences in a new and somewhat cheaper way, low-budget films were produced and distributed using the home video format. What’s the cheapest yet most entertaining film to make? Yup, horror. A wave of Italian ‘Giallo’ and American horror films, including the incessant sequels to Halloween, A Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13^th, made their way to UK shores on VHS and though the BBFC was established, its influence on the home video format was lenient meaning that people of all ages had access to these films. The media furore that surrounded the eventual realisation of the content readily available on high street shelves lead to the Video Recordings Act 1984 whereby the BBFC certificated films released on the home video format, cutting footage from some to pass certification and outright banning others. Films like Maniac, The Evil Dead, Cannibal Holocaust and Dead & Buried were either cut or banned completely, only later being released years later with more lenient cuts or passed uncut. The advent of home recording technology coupled with the cult status these films earned by being banned led to piracy and an underground society that made the uncut versions readily available. Though this is essential piracy it’s nothing on the scale that we see today. No, this was more akin to bootleg recordings of Springsteen gigs – an appreciation and an appetite for something you love that isn’t commercially available yet you have to own it. Those films that typified the ‘video nasty’ era are now available on DVD and Blu-Ray pretty much uncut but back then it was a whole new playground for filmmakers with a small budget but a big imagination to have a format in which their films could be readily available. As a result of this a lot of gory, violent, shocking but entertaining horror films came about and pioneered a concept we still see today (just not done as well): the straight-to-video movie. Aside from the low budget horror films produced, the 80’s also brought us some horror classics (and some unforgivable sequels): The Fog, The Thing, The Shining, Halloween II, Poltergeist, Videodrome, Fright Night, Child’s Play, Hellraiser to name but a few. A lot of horror films (particularly the slasher films) featured teenagers that were the antithesis of the John Hughes teens: one dimensional, drinking, smoking, drug-taking, loin-driven adolescent’s that were there to be picked off one by one. They still had the same hair and fashion though…

I could talk about the 80’s for days. There are a number of films and genres that surmise its impact on our culture and the world of film. From adventure films to the buddy cop movie, the child stars to Do the Right Thing, the ABC’s of the 80’s would roll three times over for me. So rather than go on and on, let’s create what every music loving teen of the 80’s did for their crush when they wanted to use the synths and beats of the latest pop track to convey their emotions: a mix tape. A two-sided tale of everything that sums up my love for the 80’s and why – despite all that has been and all that will be – it will forever be classed as the greatest decade in film.

Side One: For A Sunday Afternoon

 1. The Goonies (1985) Dir. Richard Donner., 114mins

A mischievous kid that can talk Spanish, a disfigured hero with cinemas greatest catchphrase and Samwise Gamgee not afraid to go on an adventure: perfect escapism with just enough nostalgia to stir memories and the imagination of what it was to be a kid growing up with your best friends

2. E.T. The Extraterrestrial (1982) Dir. Steven Spielberg., 120mins

Have the tissues at the ready, because you will cry. Even the hardened amongst us will shed a tear as the Gail Platt-alike extraterrestrial touches down on earth and warms the hearts of the children in the community that try to save him from the men in black. It’s Spielberg at his most nostalgic and like The Goonies it allows you to reminisce about your childhood summers.

 3. Back to the Future (1985) Dir. Robert Zemeckis., 116mins

Can you imagine Eric Stoltz as Marty McFly? Me neither. The heavens aligned to ensure that Michael J. Fox gave the performance of his career alongside Christopher Lloyd as the dishevelled genius Doc Brown in this entertaining and engaging sci-fi comedy. The film is just a ride: a thrilling time travel twist of a plot that keeps you hooked from beginning to end. And damn it if that ain’t the coolest car to travel back in time in!

 4. Ghostbusters (1984) Dir. Ivan Reitman., 107mins

Featuring two of comedies greatest performers and Saturday Night Live alumni Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray, the concept of the supernatural comedy is a win. Whilst the supernatural aspect is serious the performances by the cast, particularly Murray and Moranis, balances the content and provides an entertaining family film with a great, beaty theme tune. And who hasn’t wanted to see a giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man walk the streets of NYC?

 5. Airplane! (1980) Dir. Jim Abrahams/David Zucker/Jerry Zucker., 87mins

Just laugh. Laugh for 87 minutes at some of the most ridiculously quotable lines in comedy film. It has somewhat of a plot that parodies loosely the story of a Dean Martin vehicle but mainly it’s a film for gags by the dozen and a laugh a minute to relax and wind down to. You’ll be quoting it at work the next day.

 Side Two: For Sunday Night (Or any other night)

1. The Breakfast Club (1985) Dir. John Hughes., 97mins

To identify with your younger, stereotyped self look no further than The Breakfast Club. It’s for later in the day because thematically it deals with a few more serious issues than picking the wrong week to quit sniffing glue, but it’s a humorous and emotional tale of connection between high school stereotypes serving detention together on a Saturday morning. And as we all wished to write in our leavers books when parting ways at the end of school: Don’t You (Forget About Me).

 2. Stand By Me (1986) Dir. Rob Reiner., 87mins

Thematically similar to The Goonies only a much more realistic tail of youth and childhood summers spent venturing out into the woods, this is Stephen King’s love story to childhood. It deals with the idea of true friendship and the bonds forged so early on in life you find it hard to believe that they may soon fade. Four boys go on an adventure to find a dead body encountering bullies, dogs, trains and leeches along the way but most of all, themselves. The bittersweet ending will have you reaching for the tissues.

 3. The Terminator (1984) Dir. James Cameron., 108mins

James Cameron’s sci-film that features Arnie as the bad guy and begins the complex tale of time travel, the rise of the machines and the resistance. It’s a film that almost borders horror with the tense and frightening scenes involving these flesh covered machines (not those); it’s a well written science fiction film that brought something interesting to the genre and provided many cult and quotable lines.

 4. Die Hard (1988) Dir. John McTiernan., 131mins

An unwilling action hero is born in John McClane who just happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Wise quips, bullets, blood, a camp but sophisticated villain and fuck-load of explosions: this is the 80s action film at its best. It doesn’t compromise for a lower rating to get more viewers: this is a balls-to-the-wall action film with a hero you can root for and a villain that is strangely appealing.

 5. Aliens (1986) Dir. James Cameron., 137mins

Mr Cameron again working his sci-fi magic on the sequel to the popular 70s film Alien. Cameron really shows his penchant for writing strong female characters as Ripley takes centre stage in this sequel and takes the series to new and better heights. It’s tense and invigorating sci-fi with Sigourney Weaver on fine form – and who can forget that showdown at the end? The makings of Avatar are scattered throughout this film but it’s a sequel that really stands alone in this series of films.

So there you have it, my somewhat condensed love of the 80s. No doubt I’ve missed films you cherish or have waxed on my favouritism for those you don’t, but the beauty of the 80s is that it has many films that people cherish and covet. It’s a decade truly worthy of its cult status in the world of film and it should wear its big hair and cheesy synthesised soundtracks with pride; it’s a decade that established genre rules and studio attitudes; it’s a decade that served its purpose better than any other I’ve seen. Despite the advances in technology and the formats we have at our disposal today I still cherish the feel of the 80’s: from the grainy low budget horrors to the big high concept spectacles, from the star-driven vehicles to the nostalgic feelings of a Spielberg or Hughes movie. The 80s just had it. It did something that for me as a writer I struggle to surmise in just a sentence (hence this 3,000 word spectacle) the feelings I get from watching a film from that decade. Whatever it is and whatever they did, they got it right. “Life all comes down to a few moments. This is one of them.” 80’s, you were more than just one.

The latest (and possibly greatest) rumor to be circulated about the adventures of Princess Diana sounds like a scene from a Brian De Palma movie: on a sultry night in the culturally decadent late 80s, Freddie Mercury disguises Diana as a man and escorts her into a gay bar in south London for night that will one day come to epitomize “The 80s.” Mercury and Diana were accompanied by comedians Cleo Rocos and Kenny Everett, who helped divert attention from the the disguised Diana. Rocos recounted the night in a book recently serialized in the Sunday Times:

“When we walked in… we felt she was obviously Princess Diana and would be discovered at any minute. But people just seemed to blank her. She sort of disappeared. But she loved it.”

Rocos couldn’t recall whether Diana was propositioned at the bar, but she distinctly remembered that the princess made an exceedingly attractive queen: “She did look like a beautiful young man.”

For Robert Plant, it’s not as easy.

This Easter weekend, we featured band “hoppers” – artists who have jumped from one chart-topping act to another. Robert Plant will always be known first and foremost as the voice of Led Zeppelin, but of course he’s gone on to do some solo work and he’s toured recently in Band of Joy.

But in 1984, Robert had his biggest selling single on the charts. The signature scream, driving beat and iconic guitar riffs of Zeppelin were a distant memory. The R&B band “The Honeydrippers” would only have one hit – and it wasn’t even their own. It was a remake of the 1959 Phil Phillips song “Sea of Love.”

It wasn’t Robert’s plan. He thought the song was going to be the B side to “Rockin’ at Midnight.” But radio stations were eating “Sea of Love” up, much to Robert’s dismay. The Honeydrippers were soon finished.

Sorry Robert. While most of us can just close the photo album and forget the 80s, YouTube has made it so The Honeydrippers will live on forever!

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Incidentally, I listened to a great story about the song on NPR.  It has interviews with band members and Brian Eno, who produced their album Remain in Light.  I’m posting that, too.  Just follow the link under the video!

http://www.npr.org/2000/03/27/1072131/once-in-a-lifetime

It was on this day that Johann (Hans) Hölzel reached the top of the charts with a song about, of all things, Mozart. It was a big year for the 18th century composer. A movie about him was nominated for eight Academy Awards, including Best Picture. The song told the story of Mozart’s popularity and debts. It was such a big hit, that it was parodied by “Weird Al” Yankovic and Adam Sandler.

Although he is often mistakenly labeled as a one hit wonder, Hölzel did have one more hit later that year with “Vienna Calling.” 10 years later, as he was planning a comeback, he was killed after his car collided with a speeding bus in the Dominican Republic in 1998.

Here’s the thing. You wouldn’t remember him as Johann Hölzel. You likely remember him as the one word stage name that he chose as a tribute to a ski jumper.

What’s his name… and his #1 hit?

(Keep scrolling!)

If you guessed Falco and “Rock Me Amadeus,” you got it!

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This place, once dangerous after sundown in any given neighborhood, is now all hipster, clean and safe. And in a weird way, I’m upset that it’s safe. I’m actually angered by the fact that I can walk home alone without being accosted on the lower east side at ungodly o’clock AM. It’s almost like it delegitimizes my feral misspent youth.

It’s day two. I haven’t slept mainly due to last night’s bender with people I haven’t seen in 20 years. I find it hilarious that I expect to get rest in The City That Never Sleeps. Breakfast makes the room spin and crawling after baby makes me want to die. I’m too old for this.

My soon-to-be sister in-law is in town with her fiends. Apparently, I wrote her a postcard at 4AM on the hotel’s cheeky stationery. I picked the one that said I painted the town red…I added:

“And then I painted the hotel toilet red when I vomited my 8 vodka cranberries (but who’s counting). Hope your night is going better and your ride home with cunty McCunty-pants isn’t too bad. Have an epic/clutch time. XO T”

I have no idea what that means.

We were supposed to see my mom while in town- flower show with Grandma and the babe. But it turns out that 8 million people, a thrown-off nap schedule, and no time to crawl about, is a lot for a 10 month-old to take in at once. So I call mom and explained that we’ll be heading out early so baby can get back to a routine and being happy.

I knew she’d be mildly annoyed and would want to chat about the possible scenarios that lead to angry baby but I was WAY off base on what she’d come up with. Her pearls included:

a) She could have been temporarily possessed by a spirit,”babies tend to be easy targets.” (WTF?!)
b) She needs reiki
c) She hates people (at 10 months old?!?!)
d) She hates the city
e) She misses the dog
f) She’s just a picky bitch (again, at 10 months old!?!)

As the ominous “they” say, it’s been real and it’s been fun, but it hasn’t been real fun.

However, this did catch my eye. I found it when looking up some things for a G.I. Joe joke. (Yes. I do 80s cartoon material now.)

COOOOOBBBBRRRRRAAAAA!!!!!!!

And in case you need to be reminded about the greatness that was G.I. Joe:

In this gritty, real, heart-wrenching story told from the alternating perspectives of two Omaha high-schoolers, slowly falling for each other we see the world through the eyes of Eleanor and Park. We also see what they look like to each other.

The thing about this book, is it’s not just the story of two angsty teens in puppy love. The depth of the struggles in Eleanor’s home life are described with such an honest intensity, such a no-nonsense frankness that it seems they would need to either be written from the perspective of someone who experienced such hardships in their own life, or had an extremely close relationship with someone who had. Eleanor’s side of the story isn’t written in an “oh take pity on me” way, even though your heart will probably break while reading it. The harsh realities of life appear in such a straight forward way, that is just the way life is. It’s not great, but it’s not the end of the world because that’s the life the character knows, (even if they yearn for a life outside of those boundaries.) Eleanor’s mom is beautiful but weak, and she’s trapped in a disturbing relationship. Richie, Eleanor’s step-dad is not a very good human being. He neglects the children, he’s controlling, he’s a drunk, and the people of the neighborhood are aware that it must be hell to live under a roof with him. Eleanor basically bides her time from day to day, and tries to avoid Richie at all costs. Even though every once in a while there are “good days” there’s not really any erratic behavior that would be out of the question when Richie’s temper flares. So not only is Eleanor’s home life ridiculously difficult, but she deals with being bullied at school. Eleanor is really smart, and insightful but her appearance and her non-conformist personality set her apart, thus making her not accepted by the majority of her snobby classmates. Let’s face it: kids can be cruel. But you know, there’s always a silver lining – to everything, no matter how horrible. And that’s the case with this story too. I won’t ruin the developments of the bond between Eleanor and Park, but what starts as two kids sharing a seat on their school bus rides blossoms into so much more. The bond grows over shared interests, and opinionated dialogue about music and comics, but it overflows into the rest of life, and is joined by a growing affection. You’ll remember what it’s like to hear the beginning chords of your favorite song for the first time. Or how you felt when the one person you think about all day and night is breathing on the other end of a phone line. Or the electricity that zaps straight through the veins of your arm to your heart when your fingertips collide with someone you really like.

As hard as it is for Eleanor to grow up in her dysfunctional family life, Park is also wounded watching her and not knowing how to help. He knows her situation is bad, he just doesn’t know how bad. He can’t really imagine it completely because he comes from such a different background. But even still, no one likes to watch someone they care about suffer. Even though so many reviews talk about the story of two star-crossed misfit lovers trying to make a high school relationship last – I think that’s diluting the incredible bond here. Sure there’s romance, and there’s the kind of love that it seems is impossible to cultivate with the same fragility and innocence outside of teenage connections – but at the same time, this story is about so much more. Friendship. Communication (the kind in soul-bearing conversation, but also the communication that occurs when no words are exchanged.) I think it’s about survival. I think it’s about not letting the evil dark parts of the world destroy what’s beautiful within. I also think it’s about how valuable the thread of hope is in a miserable situation. That hope, no matter how thin can be life changing.

It seems some readers literally devoured this book, but I on the other hand had to read it in parts, take it slow as my heart literally ached while I read. I felt like it was hard to breathe. I felt like I wanted to reach within the pages and give the characters a hug. (I read the acknowledgements at the end of the novel, and those pulled on my heart-strings, too.) If you take my advice and do check this novel out (because even though it’s not sunshine-personified, happy go lucky, spring break beach read material – I am recommending it) I think you’ll appreciate Rowell’s genuine story telling of love, life, hope, and the kinds of bonds that can really pull us through the darkest times. The cool thing is, no matter how grim some parts are – just like life there were some really sweet moments when the light is let in, when human kindness reigns at the most unexpected times.

Have you read Eleanor and Park? What did you think? Please share with me in the comments!

It was 1985.

I was underage, barely 19, sporting a fake I.D. the first time I went to Raji’s Night Club.

I was dating Joe Wood at the time, who was already well-known as the lead singer of T.S.O.L. and I was new to the gig scene, just barely starting out with my band: Gypsy Trash.

Joe was dead set on getting me to make the jump from gigs in Long Beach to L.A. but I was young, a bit unsure of the L.A. club scene, and really… a bit out of my element that night.

I had grown up under the watchful punk rock protection of legendary Orange County and Long Beach bands such as: Vicious Circle, T.S.O.L., The Adolescents, The Vandals and being baby sister to Jack Grisham, Joe’s girlfriend, and now a musician in my own right, I was used to being cocooned in even the most disgustingly seedy club environments throughout our “home” territory of O.C. and L.B. due to my connections to the notoriously violent boys of the scene but this… this was different.

It wasn’t that I was naive… I don’t think anyone in our punk rock crowd could have been considered naive… but the L.A. scene seemed harder, faster and I felt like a baby in their world.

I was trepidatious by the time we pulled into the back parking lot and as we walked up to the Hastings Hotel building where Joe introduced me to Bernie the doorman before leading me inside to the club.

The front of Raji’s was a thin dark corridor, smoky and dirty, with a long bar on one side, and there wasn’t a single familiar face for me to hold on to.

I felt like the perfect idiot 80′s girlfriend: scantily dressed, large doll-like smile plastered across my face, as I waited for Joe to make the rounds of the room.

I didn’t want to seem like a downer or a drag so I tried to act cool, I think I even lit up a smoke, imagining at the time that it made me look mysterious and older, until Joe turned and pulled me close, kissed me hard on my forehead and whispered that he would be right back; he just wanted to find Dobbs, the promoter, and a bottle of Ten High.

He went off on his search, sure in the knowledge that his L.A. punk friends would keep me company until he got back but, being that I was an unknown outsider in their world, they all dissipated in a matter of seconds, moving off to the shady fringes of the room to snort coke, pop pills, chain smoke, or cop a grope while they waited for someone of notoriety and “interest” to walk their way and man… did they ever get it when El Duce and Top Jimmy came rolling out of the back room.

I knew both El Duce and Top Jimmy by reputation only and I swear when I saw those two together, stoned out of their minds, lumbering towards me, I actually felt my stomach drop and my hands turn cold.

I scanned the room for Joe, praying that he was close by but he was long gone.

I would have given anything to have my brother, Mike Roche, Ron Emory, any of my big Long Beach boys with me at that time.

I was trapped.

I looked down at what I was wearing: a tight white and black animal print dress, braless, bare legs, high heels.

I actually ran my hands down my sides in a panic just to make sure I was actually wearing panties that night; something we often went without during the 80′s so that the lines of our super tight dresses didn’t ruin the lines of our ultra thin figures and I was fearful that a small piece of black cotton cloth with strings would be my only defense against these Punk Rock marauders.

I looked at the door wondering if I could get out before they saw me.

It wasn’t an option… I wouldn’t make it in time.

I felt that my best defense was to hide in the shadows and so I backed up slowly against the wall, trying to be low key, but I knew I stood out like a debutante in a biker bar.

Everyone else was in black: black leather jackets, black leather docs, black leather pants, black lipstick, black eyeshadow and here I was, the Punk Rock Princess, with my large green eyes, my fair white skin, deep purple lips, looking like one of the girls from a Nagel painting or a naughty Punk Rock Barbie doll that those boys couldn’t wait to pick-up and play with.

Panic set in.

I side stepped and tried to back myself into a dark corner but it was too late.

El Duce’s eyes locked on me; a brand new toy that he had never played with, and he stomped towards me, pants unzipped, sweaty large belly protruding from under his ripped black shirt, bald greasy head, glassed over eyes, God knows what drink in his hand, as he snatched me from my hiding spot like I was a rag doll.

He woolied me about and then held me tight until Top Jimmy, distracted by someone in the crowd, heard him calling to him to come across the room and meet his new baby trick.

Jimmy smiled: a big hill billy gap grin with numerous teeth missing from his mouth, and I thought to myself, Oh God… I’m about to be fucked by the punk rock men of Deliverance.

I looked back towards the door, hoping for help, but saw only Bernie who waved, gave me a big thumbs up and a happy nod, sure that I must like being woolied by two of the most notorious Punk Rock Legends of all time but I assure you… I did not.

El Duce and Top Jimmy had me pinned tight in that corner so fast that I was sure my initiation into the Los Angeles club scene was going to end with me being knocked up by El Duce: the most disgusting man I had ever met in the world or tag teamed by the both of them.

El Duce leaned in and laughed loudly in my face.

His eyes were crazy.

My mind reeled through the numerous stories I had heard about him: stories about El Duce and The Mentors sexual deviancy were legendary.

I felt like I was going to be sick.

I’d probably end up with crabs, syphilis, gonorrhea, herpes, just from him laying his dirty old fingers on my skin.

By this time, Top Jimmy was licking my neck and El Duce was up my skirt and trying to work off my underwear.

The amount of alcohol in the air, on their breath, was overwhelming.

I tell you… if I hadn’t been brought up with some of the hardest punks in L.B. and O.C. I probably would have fainted and woke up a victim of “big man” abuse.

Luckily… I kept my sense of humor, and my pretend calm demeanor, as I used my sass to keep El Duce’s hands from going “all the way” and Top Jimmy from covering my body with an enormous puddle of drool as I looked to reach for the nearest Budweiser bottle to clock those mother fucking clowns as soon as I could get a chance.

I felt my skirt being lifted higher.

I pushed El Duce’s face away as I turned to see what was going on with my skirt.

Top Jimmy was now pulling it up from his side and I knew if a miracle didn’t happen quick… I wouldn’t have much longer.

I scanned the room in a panic… praying someone would do something but everyone was completely oblivious to my plight or just accepted that when it came down to El Duce and Top Jimmy: You let them do what they liked.

Just as I was about to totally give up hope, Joe came strolling back into the room, one arm around a large, jolly man I could only assume was Dobbs, and his other hand firmly wrapped around a low ball glass, I believed to be full of Ten High, acting like he was the fucking Punk Rock Frank Sinatra of the club scene.

I wanted to kill him immediately.

I swear if I could have gotten a hand free from the lecherous grasp of El Duce, I would have clocked Joe with a Budweiser bottle first and then used the broken neck to show El Duce just how it feels to be ass tortured in a night club.

Joe took one look at me being molested by those dirty old trolls and rushed across the room and knocked El Duce away from me.

I will never forget the look on El Duce’s face: it was as if Joe had just pried raw red meat out of a wild bear’s mouth.

I thought El Duce was going to kill him.

But Top Jimmy loved Joe, he stepped in between them and wrapped his arms around my man and soon… they both had El Duce calming down as Joe explained that I was his girl and that El Duce would have to move on to someone new.

I watched as El Duce clinked glasses with Joe, walked away, heading to the back room, but not before he turned around one more time, staring me down as if to say, Another time Princess, then pretended to jack himself off, flicking his tongue back in forth in a grotesquely sexually explicit gesture, as he disappeared.

I was furious.

Now that El Duce was away from me, I wanted to run back after him and slap that big ass fat greasy head of his as hard as I could but I was sure if I tried it, he would chase me all the way to the parking lot, all the way home for that matter, and make me sorry for doing it and so… I held my anger for another day.

Top Jimmy, was nothing more than a toadie. Without the likes of El Duce to egg him on he was soon happily entrenched at the bar with Joe, settled in for a long night of drinking, while Dobbs, who took an immediate fancy to me, babied me the entire night and made sure that I wasn’t left alone again.

I can’t say that it was an enjoyable experience, but it was of course, and infamous one… and a story worth telling.

It’s been thirty years since that night at Raji’s… Dobbs, El Duce, Top Jimmy all long gone now… and I’d like to think that Top Jimmy with his big goofy smile is somewhere off in a musical Heaven, after apologizing for his sins.

But El Duce?

I’m sure El Duce went down swinging.

Off in some Punk Rock Purgatory on the outskirts of Hell: wrecking havoc and mayhem and I’m sure… still loving it.

Some of the lyrics are quite stupid, but funny.  “Olde English filled my mind… and I came up with a funky rhyme!” is a personal favorite.  I also like how he wants to bomb a town, then warns people to “neva eva” pull his leva,” cuz he will “explode” and his “nine is easy to load,” then follows that up with “I gotta thank God!”  Those are some great Christian values there, Jimmy.

Those are some funny lyrics right there.  I’m not going to criticize his lyrics much more than that.  The song speaks for itself!  It was a huge hit with the fans!  It’s a great song with a great beat.  Plus, who can question a man who names himself “Ladies Love Cool James?”

But I’ve always taken issue with his proclamation of “pass me a sissy soul sucka I’ll slay him!”

Now, that’s not necessary.

It seems to me that with the rise of rap in the late eighties and early nineties, particularly the foul-mouthed kind (and I am in NO WAY a prude… okay, maybe in some ways), there was a decline in slow, smooth R & B love songs.  Songs about tenderness and treating women with respect, kindness, and love.  You know, with artists like Roberta Flack, Lionel Richie, and Luther Vandross!  And I’m not ashamed to admit I miss those kinds of songs.  To me, they were great.  I don’t listen to much radio today, but I am guessing those songs are nonexistent on the radio.  I think the pop culture is missing something when rap songs about disrespecting women and shooting people are more popular than love songs.  LL, I will take any songs by “sissy soul suckas” over your catalog any day!  Now go back to Cali and star in more awful movies and lame television crime shows.

I know I’m not in the majority.  Otherwise, the smooth R & B and soul music would not have vanished from the airwaves.  But I miss it.  Others may not, but I do.  Here are a few of my favorites:

And because you asked for it, I’ll be doing my session on understanding sex, gender, and orientation TWICE.  That means you’ve got an extra opportunity to get in on this discussion if you missed it last year.  And even if you did get in last year, because I conduct it as a discussion, it will never be the same as where we go is truly directed by YOU.

Okay…  now for a few fun pictures. 

It was 80′s day at Kid kid’s school today.  Normally I’m all for spirit days and getting dressed up.  But an 80′s day?  Two thirds of everything that the cool kids are wearing these days are totally 80′s inspired – which means every day is 80′s day.  Seriously, every item the girl wore was out of her usual wardrobe.

LOL

That said…  the 80′s were about excess…  so we loaded on the bangles, we loaded on the belts, we loaded on the hair spray…  and we added slouch socks – because that’s one style that didn’t make it back.  And because it’s Thursday, that meant that I had to get dressed up too, after all I couldn’t spend the afternoon at school and NOT take part in 80′s day.  LOL  So I found the perfect jacket (and stuffed socks under my bra straps to mimic shoulder pads), pulled on some black leggings, a gold lamé skirt, and again with the slouch socks.  Then we did our hair and make-up… everything in excess!  It was great. 

The girl and I, with our 80′s popstar diva duck faces.

Fabulous, and she knows it!

Nailed it!

Girl knows how to work it!

Me, with my huge shoulders and huge hair!

Me at 60 (Saturday Night Oldie Fever)

A Short, Autobiographical Story (with multimedia) By Steve Swindells.

Willesden Junction has been at the centre of my London travelling universe for nearly four years – since I moved to central Harlesden in 2009. This is an excellent transport hub that gets you to just about anywhere you want to go in London with relative ease, using the Bakerloo Line and three overground rail routes:  these go to Clapham Junction in the South, Stratford in the East (via the verdant acres of Hampstead Heath, which has a dedicated station), Richmond in the West, Watford in the North (not that you’d want to go there) and Euston in the centre of London.

The goods yards by Willesden Junction

I was in Hampstead earlier on this crispy, spring day, wandering around taking pictures (with my Canon EOS 30D and a 50mm lens) of its delicious hodgepodge of architectural styles.  Then I ambled onto Parliament Hill, with its kite-flyers, cyclists, joggers, walkers, tourists, photographers and artists and, of course, its famous panoramic views of this great sprawling metropolis, now dominated by a silvery needle soaring into the sky – The Shard – along with St Paul’s Cathedral (that’s what I call basilican, monumental longevity), The ‘Gherkin’ and No.1 Canada Square, topped with its ever-flashing pyramid, in the cold heart of Canary Wharf.

A happy woman smiles as she paints on Parliament Hill

Having wandered in the limpid, lemony sunshine on the Heath and in the  beautiful grounds of  Kenwood House, taking pictures of the people, flora and fauna, I headed into Hampstead village, passing Boy George’s house on Well Walk (sorry, I forgot to take a pic), where a gaggle of Japanese tourists were giggling and posing for pictures in front of the wooden gate – which is more like a door, and covered in scrawled messages from fans.

George hasn’t lived there for years – I believe he’s a denizen of trendy, arty Shoreditch these days , and apparently rents his house-out.  People don’t generally realise that it’s not the massive, vaguely gothic mansion that it appears to be; it’s actually semi-detached; and his half, which is nearest to the Heath, boasts a mere three bedrooms. Maybe he’s sold the house, after all those brushes with the law (alleged, industrial levels of cocaine abuse, wasting police time, chained-up rent boys… the usual frock n’ roll excess) in New York and London. I don’t know, I haven’t bumped into him for years. I hardly go out at all these days – nothing to do with my age really, more about my financial situation. I’m totally broke (back mountain).

Walking by George’s house into Hampstead Village prompted me to muse that I hadn’t seen Jon Moss (famously George’s ex-lover and the drummer in Culture Club, one of the biggest-selling bands in the 80s) since my sixtieth birthday party in Camden last November, in 2012,  which made me wonder whether he might be at home, providing he hadn’t sold his house on the other side of the village, which is a rather wonderful, Tardis-like, Art-Deco homage to Le Corbusier and Modernism. I decided to text him after I’d had brunch in that funky old cafe on the High Street that’s been there, unchanged, forever… what’s it called? Oh yes, The Coffee Cup (a cup of twee!).  Jon occasionally goes there for brunch too -  maybe he’ll be there today, reading The Jewish Chronicle. Okay, I made the last bit-up. He is a Spurs supporter though.

Jon and me at my 60th b/day party

Me… sixty? How can this be? That means that I’m supposed to act like an old person and go on Saga holidays doesn’t it? I shudder at the thought, whilst junking gruesome emails offering me deals on Stannah Stairlifts, mobility bikes along with no-win-no-fee ‘accident claims’ and oldie insurance.

Everybody tells me that I don’t look my age at all, so that’s all good for the morale.  But I am now the proud owner of a Freedom Pass; so that’s possibly the only advantage of being sixty in London.

Ageism is, unfortunately, already rearing its ugly head; usually perpetuated by ignorant, inarticulate little shits, who generally aspire to being models, or pop/reality/soap  - delete-where-appplicable – stars and ‘famous’. Pathetic. And they evidently seem to expect all this to fall into their laps with no diligence, preparation or hard graft. Callow youth, forever presumptuous and lacking in respect for their still-struggling elders, who never had the supposed advantages of reality TV and kiss n’ tell. Sheer talent tended to do it back-in-the-day – providing you had good connections, or some fortuitous serendipity. I never, ever used my youthful, physical charms to advance my career, and this didn’t stop me landing two major record deals in my twenties. But it also didn’t help me much when I was down and out. I stuck to my guns. Never sold my body.

Anyway,  I can now go swimming for free at Willesden Recreation Centre; somewhat motivated, perhaps, by the lifeguards,  several of whom are well fit!

The fact that I actually have a Freedom Pass is a bit of miracle, as I was under the impression that our wonderful, caring, Con-dem government had raised the proverbial glass ceiling to the clear blue skies of sixty-two. I was genuinely in the thick of of it; well, ignorant of the fact that us lucky, wrinkly old Londoners qualify for an FP, at a mere sixty-years old. Good old, bumbling Boris eh? He’s London’s Conservative-Party Mayor, in case you didn’t know (you may remember him basking in the golden televisual glow of our rather triumphant Olympics in 2012). The Freedom Pass information is, however,  buried beneath Byzantine clouds in cyberspace – on Transport For London’s appallingly-difficult-to-navigate (how ironic) website. It’s not like they actually publicise the fact that us doddery old Londoners can swan around the metrop with our cooly-customised Zimmer frames, for free, once we’ve passed the dreaded big Six-O milestone. I’ll bet that quite a few of my fellow 60-year olds weren’t even aware that they were eligible?  They are now.

Transport For London: why? What was wrong with London Transport? Didn’t that ludicrous rebranding cost gazillions of pounds? How very New Labour. Why New Labour? Anyway… I digress.

I only stumbled (arthritically, natch) across this info because I was researching online to see when I might actually be eligible for a FP, and whether there would be restrictions or limitations attached. I’m pleased to report that there are none – the Freedom Pass really lives up to its name (woo-hoo daddio – I used to play in beat groups don’t ya know!). You can travel anywhere within the M25, Greater London’s orbital motorway, as far as I can gather, well, certainly to the outer reaches of Zone Six.  Does that rule out Watford?  I sincerely hope so. Obviously, I’m not going to post a scan of my FP on here – identity theft alert!  Someone might make a fake and try to pretend to be me at Willesden Sports Centre, thereby blagging a free swim – and also possibly sneaking into the gloriously mis-titled Health Suite – a very basic sauna and steam room accessed from a swampy-floored changing area with broken showers and a wobbley cold tap –  hoping that ‘security” weren’t going to do one of their random checks for the obligatory wrist bands; as even us oldies have to pay for the privilege of  visiting this alleged, higher-level amenity.

I didn’t actually get my FP until late January, because of some truly Kafka-esque, bureaucratic bungling in some back-office of TFL’s headquarters, which appears to be manned by just two people.  I don’t wish to sound ungrateful, or like a grumpy old man (tee hee); but actually getting to speak to one of the said people on the phone about why it hadn’t arrived within the supposed time-frame of two weeks, mooted to be before Christmas last year, proved to be something of a London Marathon.

I eventually discovered, after numerous phone calls, that they’d sent it to the wrong address, and it was several weeks before I  finally hobbled over the metaphorical finishing line, triumphantly waving my ‘Free Oyster  Over-60s Photo Pass’ (hows THAT for a great bit of branding eh?) before undertaking a celebratory ‘journey’ (the most over-used word of the 21st century?) involving deliciously random tube/train/tram and Docklands Light Railway-hopping, wrapped in one of those silver-foil sheets that they dole-out after marathons… the latter being entirely in my imagination. Why don’t they make them available as onesies (2013′s answer to the shell suit)? That would be fun and practical – especially if they donated them to the millions of people who are sleeping rough in the world, after the race was over, when the participants no longer had any need for them?

I can’t help wondering when I’ll be able to ride back-and-forth all day on that new cable car over the Thames for free as well, taking pictures. Perhaps when the Emirates sponsorship expires, dare I say, when I’m 64?  This makes me pause to wonder how  Paul McCartney  actually celebrated his 64th? Did he perhaps hire the Bootleg Beatles to play at the party? Was Lady Heather still in the house? Did she get legless with Vera, Chuck and Dave?

Jon Moss (who went out with Paul’s daughter Mary for a while, in the 80s, I believe) wasn’t brunching in The Coffee Cup, and when I texted him, he didn’t reply until much later.  It transpired that this is because he’s skiing in The French Alps with his three beautiful kids – by his ex-wife – with his relatively new girlfriend. At my 60th birthday party in Zensai, in Camden, he’d told me that someone had made an amazingly generous offer on his house, but that, of course, he hated the idea of leaving his much-cherished home of many years, but really had no choice.  Divorce settlement etc etc. He’d have to slum it somewhere on the other side of Finchley Road, he moaned, with mock-horror, making a hopeless gesture with his hands. Then he reiterated how much he loved the mulifarious DanMingo  tracks – there are twenty-one – which we recorded in 2003, mostly in Christchurch Studios in Bristol, which made me think: grrr – why was there no success with these classy, soulful tunes? My  original name for DanMingo had been Emoticon – clever, but perhaps a little dry.  When we’d made a brief appearance, playing live in a rehearsal studio, on a documentary about Culture Club in 2003, when we were still going under that name.  Jon undertook an in-depth interview about Culture Cliub and Boy George, which was refreshingly frank and honest, and he was very complimentary about me in it, towards the end, when he was asked about ‘what he was doing now’.

‘Leap Of Faith – The Prequel’ was the aptly ironic name for this excellent double-album-that-never-was. Now, I’ve just made a resolution to get so-called ‘crowd-funding’ to enable me to put out a limited-edition, exclusive,  classy double-CD, digipac package (with a twelve-page booklet of lyrics and loads of pics) of  just 1,000 copies of this most excellent opus (I’m inordinately proud of it); followed by a limited-edition double vinyl edition of, say, 500.

Vinyl has been having a huge resurge in popularity these days.  Why is this? Well, I reckon it’s because when you play a vinyl record, it has a tangible audio ‘vibe’ – a woomph and a certain chunky resonance –  which transcends the crisply bland, digital encoding of CDs and downloads. Also, you don’t need a magnifying glass to read the sleeve notes and the lyrics.

A rather wonderfully over-the-top artwork created by a fan

Jon Moss and SS @ Christchurch Studios in Bristol in 2003

Dale Davies (who guested on bass on 3 tracks), Jon and Jerry

The main bass player with DanMingo was the very gifted and charmingly avuncular Winston Blissett, who’s played with everyone from Massive Attack (whose studio was upstairs in Christchurch Studios in Bristol) to Phil Collins, and Dizzy Rascal and Jimmy Cliff, to name just a few. The guitarist was Jerry Richards of Hawkwind (who’s now playing with the Hawklords, as did I, briefly. The touring, however, was too much for me, due to my ongoing health issues:  I was diagnosed  with pancreatitis and emphysema in 2006).  I played keyboards and sang all the songs with DanMingo, all of which I wrote, or co-wrote. My good mate Dale Davis, who was the great Amy Winehouse’s musical director right up until her tragic demise, also played bass on three of the tracks – when Winston couldn’t record with us as he was doing sessions in New York, or wherever – as did the excellent American session player Otto Williams.

Winston Blissett in the studio.

DanMingo also recorded 3 songs in Cabin Studios in Coventry.

When I visit Jon Moss’s house, I love to play the Yamaha baby-grand piano in his capacious, beautifully proportioned, L-shaped living room, which still has its original, herring-bone-patterned parquet floor and a thirty-foot wall of sliding glass doors onto the garden.  There’s furniture by Philippe Starck, B & B Italia (bed and breakfast in Italy?) and Ligne Roset, along with retro-modern, signature pieces and interesting (and valuable) artworks. Unless, that is,  he’s already, reluctantly, sold the house .

I’d first met Jon in the mid-80s, when he regularly used to come to my club night Jungle, which was one of a portfolio of club nights run by The Pure Organisation, of which I was a co-founder and director. Good bit of branding eh? Yep, I dreamt it up. We also organised parties for record companies and magazines such as The Face and Time Out and created the Love Sexy after-parties for Prince in ’88 and Madonna’s birthday party at the Groucho Club… was that also in ’88? The Alzheimer’s must be kicking-in. Senior moments, as I like to jest. My good friend Thom Topham – who has a parallel career to mine as a writer and singer-songwriter – was also  involved, when he wasn’t too busy being a secret agent.

The original acrylic Jungle Flyer, designed by me. If it didn’t have a hole punched out, then it was free entry before midnight.

Me in the Pure Organisation’s offices in Craven St, Charing Cross, in around 1985. Note ye olde Amstrad!

DJ Vicki Edwards and Tony Felix at Jungle.

Paul Rutherford and friend at Jungle

SS, Julienne Dolphin-Wilding and Serge Sommaire at Jungle – 1985?

Jungle was held every Monday (yes, Monday!) in what was then called Busby’s, on Charing Cross Road.  Busby’s later became Mean Fiddler 2,  before recently being demolished as part of the redevelopment of Tottenham Court Road Station, as a result of the construction of Crossrail (you see, I’m warming to my Freedom Pass theme). The  Jungle DJs were Kiss FM’s Colin Faver and the  notorious Fat Tony (it was the latter’s first, regular DJing gig, I believe, and he did  the occasional brilliantly tacky ‘turn’, lip-synching as Dusty Springfield).  There were over one thousand people there every week. One thousand people on a MONDAY?

*Victor Meldrew voice* I simply don’t believe it!

The 80s really was the seminal clubbing decade. Other nights that The Pure Organisation ran included Bad (in The Sound Shaft behind Heaven, underneath Charing Cross Station) every Friday, and Babylon, on Thursdays at Heaven, along with Discotek (who could forget The Rowing Dance – pictures anyone?) and Casablanca – an oasis of cool on a Saturday night. At one point we had eight club nights running every week. Bad was gay-mixed, and the DJs were my good friend the beautiful and talented Vicki Edwards, and the late, lamented Breeze, playing soulful, vocal house music and New York garage -  and it was packed every Friday.  The crowd was generally about seventy-percent black – mostly gay males. Regulars included The Pet Shop Boys and Jean-Paul Gaultier, along with many ‘down-low’ black singers and rappers who were mostly in the closet – at least publicly. Then again, is it possible to be publicly in the closet without somehow pointing the proverbial finger at yourself… so to speak?

DJ Breeze

Props to Frank Ocean after that courageous public outing of himself in 2012. Why courageous? Because it’s way more difficult to do that if you’re a brother. He’s pretty much the first, apart from Ne-Yo (ish), who recently simpered that he might be ‘vaguely bisexual’ (perhaps on Tuesdays?). He is an accomplished songwriter though. But then, so am I. And I’ve been ‘out’ for fucking years.

Babylon also featured DJ Vicki Edwards wowing the crowd on the main floor, and, for the second room in The Star Bar, I had come up with a first:  a rare-groove, acid-jazz and breakbeat dance floor with DJs Gilles Peterson (who now has a great show on BBC Radio 6) and Marco – from the excellent Young Disciples - which attracted bevies of brilliant break dancers. The crowd at Babylon – my deliberately ironic name for the night – was largely black and mostly straight-ish.

Now, before you illiberal white folks allow your innate prejudice to tempt you to think -  ‘But wasn’t there lots of trouble at Bad and Babylon?’ – allow me to politely-but-firmly inform you that… no: there wasn’t.

Bad lasted for nearly five wonderful years until, one night in 1992, there was minor skirmish involving two young, black, gay men, which resulted in one of them getting a bloody ear.  It was evidently a jealousy issue regarding a third party – they were ‘an item’ -  and they were subsequently swiftly ejected. I thought that would be the end of that, but the next day I had the manager of Heaven on the phone saying that he was very concerned ‘now that the gangs were evidently moving in’ and that we’d have to close: the final night was to be the next Friday.  End of.  I was devastated and upset. On a commercial level, Bad had been extremely successful for Heaven – and the atmosphere had always been brilliant: relaxed, upbeat and friendly. The following Friday was to be a totally unexpected wake.

Towards the end of the closing night (that was back when clubs had to close at 3am in central London) I got on the mic and wholeheartedly thanked the heaving, emotional crowd for their loyalty, support and greatness *cheers* over the years *whoops and fists-in-the-air*… then paused, somewhat theatrically, and calmly stated that: I wouldn’t, however… dream of suggesting…’  A hush fell over the crowd…’I wouldn’t dream… of suggesting that Heaven was…racist.’  Then… slowly repeated my statement. The place erupted with cheers. Suddenly,  several security guards burst in and the head of security ran up to the DJ box and hissed at me: ‘What the hell are doing Steve – trying to start a riot?’.  As the cheers and whooping continued all around us,  I quietly replied that I’d clearly stated that ‘I wouldn’t dream of suggesting that Heaven was racist’ – shrugging my shoulders, tilting my head and looking suitably innocent.  The security team eventually left and we partied on without incident.

The racism didn’t stop there – we weren’t able to find a new home in the West End for Bad. This was a club night that was guaranteed to be rammed every week, as well as having a proven track record of being 99.99% trouble-free. Suddenly, sadly, badly; Bad was no more.

A similar incident had closed the hugely successful Babylon, after just one year, in 1988 – except that this time ‘the fight’ wasn’t even in the club, it had taken place outside another club night in what was Bad’s home, The Sound Shaft, around the back of Heaven, which was promoted by different people on Thursdays. It wasn’t the first time that that the tired, inherently racist and ignorant mantra: ‘the gangs are moving in’, had been evoked.

There was never any trouble at Jungle either – it lasted for well over four years in London as well, before decamping (be quiet at the back!) to Friday nights at The Rex Club in Strasbourg-St-Denis in Paris for a year or so.

We had great great fun flying to Paris and back every week and eating in a different, fabulous restaurant every week before enjoying the uplifting street-meets-celeb vibes of our very successful club night Jungle Paris,  in the Art-Deco splendour of Au Rex, which was in the basement of The Rex Cinema. The security we put in place at the entrance was achingly cool too – two handsome, hunky guys - one black, one white – dressed in biker’s leathers, sitting astride Harley Davidsons, on each side of the entrance.  Chic!

Me and friends at Jungle Paris

When I was starting to develop the Jungle Paris concept, I’d come up with the idea of hiring an American-in-Paris to handle PR for it.  The guy I soon found was a painter (how enlightened; I doubt that you’d find someone employed as a PR on that basis in London or New York these days) and the PR for a group of restaurants similar to Richard Caring’s current Caprice Holdings in London (The Ivy, J Sheekey, Le Caprice etc), which included La Coupole – with its priceless pillars which had been painted by all the great impressionists when they were struggling, starving artists – ah, the absinthe-soaked romance – in return for food and drink;  and the stunning, art-nouveau gem Chez Julien, just around the corner from the Rex, on Rue St-Denis, where we were to hold a very glamorous, pre-opening, exclusive, complimentary, three-course dinner, with Champagne and fine wine, for forty people – including Rupert Everett and Bertice Dalle, prior to the opening of Jungle Paris.

After this extravagant pre-opening dinner,  everyone walked to Jungle Paris’s opening party around the corner; which was a huge success.  There was full-page coverage in all the best  French newspapers and magazines with lots of pictures of everyone – DJs Vicki Edwards and Colin Faver, myself and my business partner Kevin Millins, my friend Thom Topham, Bertice Dalle, Rupert Everett and the creme of the  Parisien demi-monde – all looking very glamorous and branche´ (French slang for ‘cool’).

I’d negotiated a great deal with the club, which included us getting one hundred free drinks tickets every week – five tickets got you a bottle of house champagne. There was no V.I.P room – we didn’t approve of such elitism – and the club scene in Paris was quite different to London, in as much as older, rich men and women (albeit a little ‘Euro-trash’) partied with young people who were very ‘street’. It was, however, very similar to our club nights in London in as much that it was pleasingly multiracial.

My heady reminiscences were eventually interrupted by a phone call. It was my mother Audrey:  she was calling to thank me for finishing editing and proof-reading ‘Mitty’s Letter’, which is the first volume (volume!) of  ‘Mitty’, her excellent historical trilogy. Forget Mary Wesley, who’s first novel was published when she was, I believe, 71. My mum Audrey is 85 this year!  She wrote the original on an Amstrad (shudder!) word processor in the mid-80s, and  recently, somehow managed to find some geek-in-a-computer-shop who could transpose the ancient floppy discs into a digital format.  No wonder she’s known by the family as Cyber-Gran. I told her that I reckon ‘Mitty’ is far more likely to be a success than my ongoing, growing collection of short stories, and my brother-in-law Kae’s epic book BOYGIRL (which I also edited and proof-read); simply because of  ’Mitty’s’ innate commerciality.  It could become the next Downton Abbey, I assured her – she was chuffed to bits – then I added, with mock incredulity:  ‘I can’t believe that its very talented, late-blooming author has been the proud owner of a Freedom Pass for nearly 24 years!’.

Me and my mum at a celebratory lunch in London, with the whole family, after she was awarded the MBE in 2010.

Words, paintings and Photographs © Steve Swindells. All Rights Reserved.

Director John Milius’s 1984 war action film “Red Dawn” is probably one of the best guilty pleasures the eighties ever doled out for audiences. It’s certainly one of my childhood favorites, a film I recall re-watching time and time again and cheering on the likes of Charlie Sheen and Patrick Swayze. The film as a whole is absurd and incredibly silly, with everything in the film being drawn as inexplicably convenient for the good guys, and incredibly bad for the bad guys. Trained mercenaries can’t possibly outwit and outgun a bunch of high school students whose only training is hunting in the woods? Seriously?

“Red Dawn” is plain and simple a silly and incredibly far fetched piece of jingoistic fiction from the Reagan era I can imagine fueled legions of Conservative gun fans to watch in repetition. The All American white bread Colorado boys, mostly of the Caucasian persuasion, use their tactics as a football team and trained hunters to fight off legions of foreigners that have taken over their land? I imagine Ted Nugent gets aroused every time he reads the plot for this film. “Red Dawn” is a tribute to violence, and a definitely goofy way of selling audiences on war by casting a slew of famous faces from the decade who litter the entire cast.

The late Patrick Swayze is leader Jed Eckert who leads his little brother Matt Eckert (as played by Charlie Sheen) on a journey of survival along with a group of school friends in to the woods to fight off invading forces of Cuban and Soviet troops. Propaganda notwithstanding, “Red Dawn” is a brutally entertaining and often times campy bit of action warfare, with the group of high schoolers seemingly becoming trained commandos overnight. Milius’ direction is still fantastic as he amps up the urgency once the troops invade. The moments of tension are subtle as the paratroopers swoop in to Colorado and begin opening fire on the local school, which causes Jed and his friends to flee for their lives, barely making it out of the line of fire. With the sweat of their brow and good old American supplies, they manage to stave off the armed forces for a long time and become freedom fighters known as The Wolverines.

Over the course of the film suddenly they know how to operate fire arms, they can dig fox holes, they know how to stage elaborate strategic traps that baffle the most skilled soldiers in the Cuban-Soviet army, and they always have the proper uniforms for whatever season they’re fighting in. Even if they did somehow kill soldiers and strip them of their uniforms, what are the odds they’d be the right fit? And where did the Wolverines get so much ammo?

Why were they always so clean and well groomed considering they did nothing but rough it in the woods for a few years? “Red Dawn” is certainly a silly Conservative leaning product of its decade, but one that still holds cache as a fun and exciting bit of escapism. I may not buy its message, but I never mind watching Swayze and Sheen blubber to their dad (the great Harry Dean Stanton) in the internment camp who screeches “Avenge me!” as death becomes a certainty. “Red Dawn” is a fun eighties time capsule with a great cast, a fun sense of action and adventure, and some really good moments in the genre that make it a memorable action fantasy worth re-watching.

Episode 5 – PRETTY IN PINK

P.S. We also think there is something wrong with Alia that she didn’t like this movie.