Were they rebels? Were they artists? Were they outcasts from society? They were all of these. They were the Bohemians.

These bohemians, Mr. and Mrs. Clarence Williams and their seven children Biff, Tina, Sparky, Louise, Tuffy, Mickey, and Biff Number Two, lived in a notorious artists’ colony and planned community....

(Steve Martin, Cruel Shoes)

There is no problem locating the unobtrusive door of Red Bus studios, where Boy George is sitting in on the production of backup singer Helen Terry’s solo debut. Half a blockful of punkettes are giggling outside, shifting their fishnets, legwarmers and Day-glo socks in the bitter cold. Tina, George, Judith, John, Dinky, Libby and Tina Number Two part as politely as the Red Sea, however, when I approached the buzzer and no one utters a word as the sacred door admits me to a small and claustrophobic universe of mirrors and carpets.

George is upstairs doing a spot of advance TV; vocals by Helen are faintly audible through the walls of the Ladies’—an effect rather like an Aretha maniac loose somewhere in your basement.

Clutching a mug of coffee, I’m led into an overlit, over-heated room where Boy G. is finishing up what has obviously turned into a press conference. He’s immediately noticeable not because he looks funny, but because he’s the biggest guy among the crowd of camera-men and topline reporters. Everyone else in here is also OLD—which makes the way they hang on every word from BG seem doubly weird. It’s apparent, though, that George is in complete control...As doughty TV men run up to him one after another with bits of paper (“His name’s Charlie sir, thanks very much sir...Ta very much”), he coolly takes the barrage of questions one by one.

The Daily Mirror Rock & Pop awards he collected only last night? “Those are what you could call a legitimate fiddle; most print polls only mean the band’s fan club has written in. Anyway—those polls exist for the glory of the people who publish them, not the winners. Here you are, you’re welcome. Now the British Phonographic Institute awards, they mean a bit more. Because that’s the trade, the industry recognizing sales success.”

Gee, thanks, George. The press tell him his Newsweek co-star Annie Lennox had been much less helpful. “Well,” says George patiently, “It’s simply not possible for a woman to have it easy in this business. Annie is very, very unique; you shouldn’t judge her. Maybe if she did more chat shows (general laughter) she’d find it easier.” George glances my way now and then, looking.friendly. I note he is the one man in the room who isn’t behaving like a creep towards me. (My dear, just set your lovely self down here...There you go darling...You’re very pretty, sweetheart, but I’m afraid you’re standing in my sight-lines.)

The whole circus is so bizarre it seems quite natural that when George’s stately bulk arises he extends a hand my way. “Come on, we’ll find someplace quiet. Thank you very much, gentlemen.”

In the deserted studio downstairs, it’s a different world. It may seem like a major irony for a recording studio to symbolize sanity, but that’s press conferences for you. Alone with the object of all the attention, several things about George—who, frankly, I can’t imagine anybody calling “Boy”—emerge. One is that he looks extremely natural in his (very deftly applied) chartreuse and yellow eye-dust, quirky maroon brows and fuchsia lips. His mane of mousy brown contains a dreadlock or two, but he’s very tall and extremely articulate. His one sign of superstardom is the tendency to steamroller right through what you ask with what he wants you to know. But he is bright, engaging and not in the least fey or bitchy.

A giant adolescent in Dickensian drag, when George gets excited his eyes glow. And there IS something unique in being fascinated by a pair of Maybelline-

"The music industry is so fake, and so fickle, y'know. "

enchanced eyes belonging to a guy. This is what men get all the time, I think, noticing that when BG tries extra hard to express an enthusiasm he taps his knees impatiently together. There’s nothing weird OR particularly predictable about George; he sort of reminds me of (wait for it) Bruce Springsteen. A deep, unaffected lower-middle-class voice at the center of an effusive hurricane of darling and buzz-y busy-work.

“The music industry,” he says, settling into a chair, “is so fake, and so fickle, y’know, and so puerile in every aspect that it’s hard to believe anybody could come from within that industry and be genuine. (Firmly) I’m not from within it. I don’t see myself as a rock musician. I know that’s a popular disclaimer amongst modern ‘artists’ but I mean I’m not a product of the industry.

“I did come in from right off the street, so anything I’ve achieved has been through bloody hard work. Now of course I can think it’s amusing. But when I started out, not a record company in the country was willing to take a chance on me apart from, eventually, Virgin.” All true, of course.

George hunkers down thoughtfully, his tennis shoes and legwarmers braced against a metal guitar-case. “England—ENGLAND HAD NO RESPECT FOR ORIGINALITY. You know? I mean, we created PJ Proby; you have Elvis Presley.

“I do think Americans are, uh, cynical. But, on the whole, once they accept you they do it in the sense that probably they’ll be more interested in what you continue to do. Whereas in England we’re cynical in that we can’t be gracious about achievements without envy croppin’ up. We don’t make facilities. We don’t build wonderful places for our athletes to train, we don’t give our scientists enough money to keep them in the country.

“We don’t invest in the most important aspects of our society—that’s always been one of the biggest problems in England.”

George takes a swig of coffee. “The main thing which makes the British uneasy about the pop industry is that it’s all risk... you can never tell what will sell. Like Bow Wow Wow, for instance; that was a great idea. Haysi Fantayzee...that was another example of a sort.

“But today, people forget that it isn’t just music and it isn’t just ‘being weird.’ You have to find a correct balance. And also (more seriously) you have to have a good explanation. If you intend to confront the world with your extravagances, you have to have a good reason; it’s OK to be a clown in the circus but not in the supermarket. And—there are certain serious implications with doing certain things. Like, you don’t call yourself Scarlett O’Hara if you want to be a serious musician”. Uh-

“OK, you could say that calling yourself ‘Boy George’ can be considered...with cynical intent. (Laughs) But by the same token, I’m willing to back it up by trying to offer some new option. You know, whenever you do an interview, everybody’s trying to find an explanation of why you’re like you are. And of course I have my own explanations. But not everybody could understand those, nor is there any reason they should.”

“I just hate those compliments you get like ‘Oh, he’s a freak but I love the music.’ I mean, have you heard about that guy in Detroit who’s started a fan club for people who can’t stand to look at me? That’s...it’s sad in a way. Because that sort of thinking just misses the point of Culture Club. We really are trying to educate people towards some sort of tolerance on a moral basis. And also in regards to humanity.

“It’s obvious that those people don’t listen to the lyrics, that they hear no politics inside the music. Which is— very depressing. And dumb. It’s as dumb as anyone who can look at me and go Oh God, this guy’s just an image and that’s the end of it.”

Well, why do you think that happens?

A smile. “The direct answer to that is David Bowie. Since David Bowie, people just have associated ‘weirdness’ and makeup and so on with spacemen and stuff. They COULDN’T spontaneously associate Boy George with chocolate chip cookies (a huge laugh) and Kentucky Fried Chicken! David Bowie’s also responsible for the fact that most people, particularly in the industry, associate me with aloofness and being untouchable.

“Of course I can be hard if some guy comes up to me and says ‘I think we’d sell more of these with a big picture of you on the front’. I can say, take a hike, I’ll do what I want. Because I think you must fight to retain complete creative control over what you do”.

Naturally, the bohemians’ existence thrived on creativity. Early in the a.m., Mrs. Williams would rise and create breakfast. Then Mr. Williams would rush off and create tiny hairs in a sink. The children would create things, too. But being temperamental artists, they would often flush them away without a second thought.

But, George, there’s one kind of control celebrity can take away from you. You’re now such a draw that—like the Royal Family—news of your every doing can be used to decoy attention from real political issues.

“Well.” Boy G looks ruffled. “The only point to make there is the priorities of the press are not the priorities of people. War is never really ‘relevant’ unless it’s on your own doorstep. People didn’t react to the Falklands in England! They DID NOT REACT. The people whose sons went and the people whose relatives died, they reacted. But it was like the difference between your son being run over and something happening to somebody’s son down the street.

"It's OK to be a down in the arcus but not in the supermarket."

“I think we’re very selfish in that sense, and it’s a bad thing. But I’m not interested in the politics of Margaret Thatcher and Ronnie Reagan. The politics I’m interested in are a politics of human nature, of people. And there you can really accomplish things...You don’t have to feel powerless and you can’t be disenfranchised.

“The politics which interest me are: What is good? What is bad? You know, obviously there are certain traditional things which you know are one or the other. Like you shouldn’t steal off people and you shouldn’t really do things to other people you wouldn’t want done to yourself. And—there are certain morals in society which always remain, it’s no use kidding yourself. There are, however, always reactions to any phenomenon. There’s always reaction. I mean there’s a reaction against ‘Boy George’ in this country at the moment which is Frankie Goes To Hollywood and Marilyn.”

Setting aside the personal facts—that you know Frankie’s manager and you know Marilyn—do you think either of their strategies will work in the marketplace?

“No, it’s not gonna work. And it won’t work to erase Culture Club—or supersede us—because to destroy something requires something stronger than that thing. To get rid of a phenomenon means wiping it out with a whole new, overwhelmingly different thing. And I’m afraid people underestimate me. They underestimate my personality, they underestimate the amount I care.

“You know, people think this business is easy. ‘Oh, you do nothing but make records.’ Well, in 1984 it’s no longer enough to just make a record. You can’t be a dumbass! You have to make videos and play live and be there behind all the hype. You know, the music can sell and you can still go beyond that. And I HAVE gone beyond that.

"The politics which interest me are: What is good? What is bad?"

“I mean, Boy George is beyond Culture Club, although my credibility definitely remains inside the band which is four individuals. But you can’t then turn ’round and say, ‘Well this is what I do but this is where it ends and I begin’.

“Sometimes that overtakes you. But I hope it won’t me, simply because I have a sense of humor. Also because (pause) well, I’m not a desperate person. That’s probably the single most important factor; I’m not desperate to ‘be successful.’ I’m just consistent with my needs and with my attitudes to what I’m doing.”

Hasn’t all the success taken some personal toll?

“I feel quite numb about the whole thing really,” says BG quietly. “I mean, I don’t feel like a ‘huge star.’ It’s quite funny really, it’s so odd to say that—but it’s true, I really mean it.” George laughs, rather embarrassed.

“You know, my singing teacher died quite recently and...it really upset me. He was a wonderful little old man who knew nothing about Culture Club, nothing about Boy George. He listened to Radio Four (the classical station). But I’d grown to really enjoy his company. Even when I was worried about going in ’cause I hadn’t done the exercises or whatever. But when he died...when people die (George pauses) you just realize how temporary everything is. And—it renews your awareness of how stupid all these people in the industry, these people around you, are...always thinking they’re ‘mixing with the right people,’ ‘doing the right things.’

“What’s happened to me is I’m very much a recluse now. I don’t go to clubs; really I stopped going to clubs the moment I got serious about music. Now I enjoy just going out for a meal—or being quiet, being alone. Bit by bit, over the last two years, I’ve reversed my whole attitude to life.”

Well, does the incessant dredging-up of your past annoy you?

“Um—one of the truest statements ever made was that exhibitionists don’t have friends, they have acquaintances. And at any time those acquaintances, like dogs, can turn to werewolves.” George is speaking fast but he’s also watching me carefully to see how this registers. “You know, there are people in this world who just have no dignity. If / knew a famous person I wouldn’t make myself second-best to him by saying ‘I know him’ and giving an interview about it! But—you’re lucky in your life to find one person, or two persons, that you can tell everything to, confide in.

“So when people do betray you, you have to learn to live with it. You can’t say, OK that’s it, I won’t ever really talk to anyone else again. Because people do try that you know. And they crack up—it’s inhuman.

“This thing in England, this Frankie Goes To Hollywood thing, I think it’s just the worst record. But I think the whole idea behind the record is just awful. Because they’re educatin’ people to be ignorant! OK, it’s supposed to be a ‘gay song’ but they’re like kids going behind the school gym for a cigarette. It’s boring. The whole world is full of sex, every time you turn on the TV, sex is rammed down your throat. And I’m trying to offer an alternative to that, which is—some people might call it sexless but I don’t think it’s sexless. What I say is that a girl in a skirt which looks sexy when the wind blows against it is far more attractive than someone with her tits hanging out.”

TURN TO PAGE 69

BOY GEORGE

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 44

At the other extreme from Frankie, what do you think about Stephen Morrissey (of the Smiths) sayjng his love songs are ‘largely guesswork’ because he lives this celibate life?

“You mean ‘these charming mee-eeeen’? (George warbles a wickedly on-thenail Morrissey imitation.) Of course I’m not celibate! No way. Listen, lemme tell you, we have constant amusement at things I say about being ‘celibate.’ (He rolls his eyes) If people on/y knew. (Laughs) Seriously, though, what I’m saying is that the press assume the public want to know some things they don’t want to know. Like, if you’re a football star or a pop personality and you’re in the paper every week with a different girl, people just.. .resent it. That never looks real, it looks like you hired the person!

“That’s why when I went to Japan with Miko the idea wasn’t a sexual crossover. I wasn’t trying to fool people into thinking I was heterosexual. What I was doing was trying to give some insight into what work I’d be doing in a few months...like the new single cover for ‘Miracle.’ It’s controversial maybe, in that it has the head of a Kabuki man on the body of a Western muscleman. And the idea is that in Western society what we consider sexy is graphic, very straightforward and such images enjoy a virtual monopoly. Whereas in Japan the Kabuki man plays the role of a woman, yet is not a transvestite. How to explain that?”

George is being importuned from the door for the fifth time. “OK, I’ll be there.” He turns back ‘round. “You know, when an Englishman says to me ‘Why do you do this?’ I just quote King Charles or someone; I say, ‘Look, we live in a society which is based—our history, our whole culture—on eccentricity.” BG stands up; he looks not unlike King Charles himself—if you can imagine King Charles doing an impromptu version of “Follow That Dream” to demonstrate his regard for Elvis. One last gulp of coffee empties the mug and he straightens his skirts to face the world. “I mean,” says George O’Dowd with a twinkle in his eye, “Is Dame Edith Sitwell a new romantic?”

At home, the children would be creating unusual music, using only their voices to combine in avant-garde, atonal melodies. These were the bohemians. A seething hot bed of rebellion — the artists, the creators of all things lying between good and bad,||^