Say what you will about the bloodless electroclash/no wave resurgence. Lard knows I have. Watching its rise in popularity in post 9-11 New York City, I experienced what can only be described as an excruciating kind of soul death. It still makes me a bit nauseated to admit that in the wake of The Tower, my generation of NYC rock musicians had nothing better to offer up than this cocaine-spritzed, head-in-the-sand, garage schlocky, post post post punk photocopy of a bootleg of a cover rendition of a vibrant cultural scene populated by non-derivative bands 30 years ago. (The documentary Kill Your Idols offers an unflinching assessment of this phenomenon. Highly recommended.)
Still, there’s some truth to that whole “imitation is the sincerest form of flattery” spiel, and it was nice to go to downtown clubs where beautiful, artfully tweezed and ever-mysterious DJs with asymmetrical hair spun vintage wax nightly: ESG, DNA, Contortions, Foetus, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, Swans, beloved Klaus, etc. Cool non-Manhattanites –oh, ‘scuse me, I meant to say Honorary Citizens of the Center of the Known Universe– like the Birthday Party, Lene Lovich, Nina Hagen, and Malaria! were in heavy rotation as well. Which brings us, in a roundabout way, to the point of this post. (Heh. Sorry.)
Founded in early ’81, Malaria! was led by Bettina Koester and Gudrun Gut, and filled out with Manon P. Dursma, Christine Hahan and Susanne Kuhnke. I’m a longtime fan of theirs, but I hadn’t seen this gorgeous homemade Super 8 video for their song off the 12inch New York Passage: Your Turn to Run until recently:
directed by Dieter Hormel, Brigitte Bühler, Gudrun Gut
Is it just me, or is this footage reminiscent of something non-narrative filmmakers like Brakhage, Anger or Morrison might shoot? You know… if they were young, fierce and scrumptiously German in 1982. Dang! Both Gut and Koester are still actively making music, and having watched “Your Turn to Run”, I’m actually grumblingly grateful to the Bedford Avenue acoyltes of electro for their role in bringing the band renewed recognition.
I’d love to be one of the greatest actors in the world. But acting often equates with fame. If you could be an actor, yet not be famous, that would be brilliant. – Jaye Davidson
I do believe I feel a painting coming on.
The reluctant star is a well-worn concept in the movie business. Half-shielding ones face while making an “unexpected” appearance in some hotspot, huge sunglasses and faining horror after accidentally flashing one’s bare crotch to paparazzi are de rigueur these days. I’d be hard-pressed to fall for such pretense delivered by anyone except perhaps Jaye Davidson, had he not disappeared entirely.
As our photo-evidence shows, Jaye is a deserving icon of sexual ambiguity. A striking unique appearance combined with natural acting talent landed this sometimes-destitute London fashion assistant three film roles and even an Oscar nomination, but more interesting is just how much Jaye genuinely hated his sudden fame.
Before The Crying Game even started filming in 1991 he attempted to break his contract, the only thing stopping him was advance money he’d already spent. After the Oscar nomination and media hullabaloo that followed he went off the radar, saying “The reason I haven’t got an agent is so that no one can contact me to offer me a film part”.
Grey pearlescent flesh winds falls across warm skin. Secrets are exchanged.
Photographer William Springfield and dedicated model Sarah showcase exquisite lines and textures of an octopus, while exploring the harsh realities of love between woman and cephalopod. Love consumes, sometimes.
Nom.
Admittedly, I’d rather see a model interact with a virile creature, not mere sushi – and I don’t mean in the hentai sense. Though these images are successful in making me hungry!
Have you ever been filled with the burning desire to see your favourite ’80s rocker step out of a massive, glowing vag and use his tongue to make sweet love to another man’s eyeball?
I knew it. You people disgust me.
I give to you the 1993 tour-de-force of homo-erotic gluttony that is Seth et Holth. Set to the backdrop of some actually rather wicked industrial rock, the 43 minutes of beautiful confusion that follows is staged by one Hide (X-Japan) and Tusk (Zi:Kill) as Angels who communicate with their blood, struggling after being cast out of heaven and eventually executed by earthlings. It’s kinda like a less pretentious Cremaster Cycle done in the style of a New Wave music video but with cooler-looking dudes.
Don’t make too much of an effort to ‘get’ this movie — seriously, it would make David Lynch cry — as it presents itself to be more of a visual and musical experiment. It’s worth a look as an unusual piece of rock nostalgia alone.
“A Louis XIV confection or occasional Nancy Sinatra-esque chanteur/chanteuse in gold glitter boots with world-class vocal talent. No lip-syncing for Mr. Quale, who is a true artist and transforms himself Klaus Nomi style once he graces the stage. Nina Hagen would be proud, as would Diamanda Galas.” – Roy Rogers Oldenkamp for WeHoNews.com
I’m surprised to have wated taken this long to mention the luminous Prince Poppycock. I’ve been amused, enamored and confused by this marvelous creature ever since the pleasure of sharing the stage with him last spring in La Belle Époque.
Part randy dandy, part rock star, part drunken courtesan, Poppycock instantly owns the audience with but a glance and a wiggle of bedazzled pantaloons, and that’s just the beginning. His operatic prowess, glamourous costumes and ostentatious prose leave not a heart unstirred. A masterpiece of self-transformation, the Prince is also recording artist John Quale, but I’m secretly hoping Poppycock will take over completely one day, to reign supreme in a glittery victory of feathers and gold spandex.
This sexatronic fan-made cover for Janet Jackson’s single “Feedback” has been taunting and circling the Internet for a couple of weeks. Now the video is out, YouTubed and miss Jackson is back in full fetish fashion force. This look has become Janet’s signature, though few things could ever top the purple latex bustle+pants number she wore in 1999 for Busta Rhymes’ glorious, if a bit confusing, hyper-futuristic “What’s It Gonna Be?” video.
In Feedback Janet slithers around a tiny planet in domme gear – gloves, knee-high boots and hooded catsuit. There is even a dance sequence toward the end and Janet still has it, though the moves are more fluid than the mechanical Rhythm Nation style we love. But there are also shiny face shields, hair-pulling, floating in open space, and a giant bowl of what I can only hope is milk. Michael would approve.
As for the song, eh. So mute the video, play something thumpy and click below.
To cleanse your palate of the awful goth fashion I inflicted on you yesterday, here are pictures of some hawt men wearing fashions from centuries past, mainly Victorian.
You can see the rest of the images here, courtesy of my friend Kat. Not sure which fashion magazine these came from, but YEAH!
Gloves + cane + covered neck = I’d hit it like the angry fist of god.
What do S&M, Udo Kier and puppy fucking have in common? So glad you asked! They’re all in Madonna’s Sex book, see. Say what you want about her current honey locks and spandex ass, back in the 90s this woman owned.
Owned with a capital “O”, no matter what it took as this book goes to some length to prove. Inside the brushed metal cover are photos in Steven Meisel’s signature iconic style alongside some fairly gritty fetish scenes, all accompanied by erotic writing by Madonna herself.
Clickng below probably not safe for work, as you might have guessed.
READERSHIP ADVISORY: The following post contains very subjective opinion, frivolity, and the shameless sexual objectification of highly respectable people. In other words, we are about to go totally alt-Cosmo on your ass. You have been warned.
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion. – Sir Francis Bacon
Preternatural means out of the ordinary course of nature; exceptional or abnormal. That which appears outside or beyond the natural. Extremity – an ordinary phenomenon taken beyond the natural.
10 Klaus Kinski
Bug-eyed, white-haired, rubbery-lipped Klaus Kinski was by all accounts (especially his own) an insatiable fuck machine. Open his infamously filthy memoirs to any random page and gasp at the depravity. He also happened to be gibbering batshit insane. It has been observed that sociopaths are often very charismatic. Certainly, when Kinski wasn’t foaming at the mouth, he could charm the knickers off any lady in the room. Fans of exploitation cinema adore him as the punishing playboy in Jess Franco’s masterpiece, Venus In Furs. His tumultuous partnership with filmmaker Werner Herzog yielded two of the most compelling antiheroes of all time: Aguirre and Nosferatu. Indeed, even in the most paltry cameo roles, Kinski oozed a certain fetid yet undeniable charm.
What follows is one of the sexiest commercials I have ever seen. May not be work-safe depending on where you work, but there’s no nudity.
There’s also another ad in this series, but the one above is the one that truly stands out. This ad caused a predictable amount of discomfort for the conservatives, but what’s more interesting is the debate it sparked amongst people interested in queer/gender theory. When the word “hir” gets used, you know it’s Serious Business! Love it.
