I finally go to see the film Brokeback Mountain and fail to understand what the fuss is about. I’ve read the Annie Proulx short story: unusually, you can read the story in less time than it takes to sit through the movie adaptation. Perhaps it’s because I already know the story, or perhaps it’s because it’s more about denial and frustration than love, but I leave the cinema unmoved to tears save for one moment: and that was the trailer for ‘March Of The Penguins’.

‘Brokeback’ starts brilliantly: the sexual tension between the two male leads in the first half-hour is truly astounding and genuinely sensual. After that, it becomes a slow, scenically attractive study of macho Mr Ledger’s failure to accept his feelings. He channels his frustration into manly violence and mumbling (I could have done with subtitles), while doe-eyed Mr Gyllenhaal flutters his long eyelashes at Mexican rent boys by way of compensation for Mr Ledger’s lack of commitment.

Mr G is more accepting of his nature: he knows the two men are meant to be together, but Mr L insists this is impossible. It doesn’t help that the latter is haunted by a childhood trauma, where he was shown the grisly results of a local queerbashing. He mumbles ‘If you can’t fix it, you’ve got to stand it’, which is also the last line in the Proulx story.

The movie starts out impressively as a celebration of the effect of Mother Nature (you come out whistling the scenery) upon Human Nature, suggesting that gayness is utterly natural and instinctive: literally as old as the hills. Those ‘purple-headed mountains’ in the hymn All Things Bright And Beautiful rather spring to mind. Less inneundo-minded, the implicitly Sappho-erotic ‘Picnic At Hanging Rock’ could also be compared. Ancient, magnificent, mysterious landscapes tampering with the emotional world of humans.

But then it becomes a rather depressing and old-fashioned tale about the need to deny such feelings once set in motion. It’s about homophobia, both internalized and institutionalised. It even has a very obvious metaphor for ‘closeted’ at the end. And yet, it’s been presented to the world as nothing to do with gayness per se. This is what really annoys me.

I appreciate that the producers have toned down the actual depiction of homosexuality in order to get as many people to see it as possible. I’m reminded of Quentin Crisp lamenting that The Naked Civil Servant had to be a TV movie, because a cinema release would have only been seen, as he puts it, ‘purely by gay men and liberals wishing to be seen going into and coming out of the cinema.’ For Brokeback, I would add to that list fans of male beauty and women fascinated with gay men (as long as they’re attractive): I noted most of my fellow cinemagoers were female.

To this end, Brokeback Mountain wants to have its gay protest cake and eat it. The boy-on-boy action and male nudity is kept to a curiously prudish minimum. The director, Mr Lee, seems more interested in showing us the breasts of the protagonists’ wives than the men’s own nether regions. Why?

All in all, it’s lovely to look at, and a pretty good adaptation of the original story… but one which isn’t all that original. Worryingly, I’m most reminded of the groundbreaking 1960 UK film “Victim” in which Dirk Bogarde plays a barrister blackmailed into revealing his love for a rent boy. It’s not a great film because it’s too aware that it’s trying to Do Good in its call for toleration. Likewise with Brokeback Mountain: at face value it’s smothered by its own message. But even this is smothered in turn by the presentation, distribution and promotional spin telling critics and moviegoers how to interpret the film. Don’t you dare call it a gay cowboy movie, they instruct, it’s more about love, pure and simple. Well, that’s at best missing the point, at worst a promotion of ignorance and negative connotations with homosexuality.

So you either adore Brokeback Mountain as a pretty romance, meaning you’re not paying too much attention. Or you realise what it’s actually about, and are then left feeling it’s a quaint period piece in the old-fashioned ‘gayness can come to no good’ ilk.

It’s certainly not a patch on Mr Lee’s other movies like the excellent ‘The Ice Storm’. Still, it IS much better than his previous opus, ‘Hulk’. Another movie with not enough gay sex in for my liking. And why did The Hulk’s trousers never rip off along with the rest of his clothes? Oh, I’ve stopped being serious now, haven’t I. Actually, did you know the reason for the 70s ‘Incredible Hulk’ TV series altering Bruce Banner’s name (as it was in the comic) to David Banner? Because the name ‘Bruce’ was thought to be… too gay. It all links, you know.

Anyone who calls Brokeback Mountain a ‘universal love story’ is in denial. About a movie about denial.

Monday: more Fosca recording with Tom. Song titles: “It Only Matters To Those To Whom It Matters”, and “Come Down From The Cross, Someone Else Needs The Wood”.

Tuesday: To see ‘Capote’ with Ms Shanthi. Difficult to come out of the cinema without speaking in Mr Hoffman’s cartoonish Capote voice; though if anything, Capote was more cartoonish in real life. Thought-provoking stuff about the writer as amoral magpie, secretly wanting their subject to die so they can get on with the immortalising in print. Biographers and their love-hate relationship with their subject. Gielgud told his official biographer to wait until his death before publishing. Of course, he then lived way into his 90s, outliving his peers (Olivier, Ralph Richardson) by some time. He was 94 when he played The Pope in Cate Blanchett’s ‘Elizabeth’. Just as well the biographer hadn’t died before him.

It’s hinted in the movie that Capote had a kind of platonic love for the convicted murderer he was writing about, and then just like Wilde’s “each man kills the thing he loves”, once he’d got the confession he wanted, he cut off contact. He wanted the young man to hurry up and be executed so his already publicly acclaimed book (In Cold Blood – excerpts had already been published) can be finished. We see him at a luxurious NYC bar, whining that the wait for his subjects to be hanged is ‘torture’.

We browse in Borders Books afterwards, and I note there’s a current non-fiction bestseller called ‘Stuart: A Life Backwards’, about the life of a homeless beggar. I bet the subject has died, I muse, and flick through the text to find out. Yes, yes he has.

Good, I say inwardly, it makes the book better. And now I feel the amoral magpie guilt myself.

Saturday night, and I’m meant to be seeing John Howard play at the Tavistock Hotel. Instead I get carried away drinking with lesbian friends in Soho and have to miss his set. Kirsten, Louise, Luke and myself start off at The Star Bar on Great Chapel Street, a very nice little candlelit cocktail bar with lots of old-fashioned metal ad signs on wooden panelling. It’s advertised as ‘mixed’ but is more for couples – female couples.

We then remove to the Candy Bar, the best known lesbian bar in London, mainly to show me what it’s like these days. I was last there circa 1999, when Debbie Smith was DJ-ing a night in the basement. Since then the place has had a complete refit, with a little entry hall where there’s a door charge (£6), and a relaxed upstairs seating area. A vodka and tonic is £5.50. The cliche was once that lesbians have a lot less money than gay men, and I used to think that the Candy Bar was for this reason an unpretentious and reasonably priced place to drink with Sapphic chums. That cliche can’t apply here anymore; I suppose it’s a kind of equality. It’s now just expensive to drink in Soho full stop.

Other changes: there’s a lesbian pole dancer in the basement area, but we don’t see her because it would require joining a huge queue on the stairs which runs all the way up to the first floor.

I think this wouldn’t happen with men, of either persuasion. They might want to see someone taking off their clothes to music, but I think they’d draw the line at being seen queuing up for ages for the privilege, especially after having already gained admission to the building. If you disagree, Dear Reader, do write in.

DE: Why are you queuing up just to see a pole dancer?
Girl in queue: Because it’s a pole dancer!

The other main shift since my last visit is what currently passes for the Lesbian Look here. Most of the Candy Bar customers are young women in trainers, blue jeans, studded belts, black halter tops, and long Alanis Morrisette-ish tousled hair. The short-haired, check-shirted butch androgynous look is very much in the minority. These girls aren’t ‘lipstick lesbians’ either, or even tomboyish; more like any jean-wearing girls you get in a straight club. Except they’re snogging each other. Actually, you get a lot of THAT in straight clubs too. I know it’s something I’m ranting on about a lot lately, but I do think it’s different for girls.

Girls are “bi-curious” – the connotations are empowering.

Boys are never bi-curious or even bisexual. They’re “confused” – the connotations are emasculating. Only boys sue the newspapers when they’re called gay.

Still, prices aside, the Candy Bar is perfectly friendly and a nice place to go. But next time I really must revisit the boys’ side of the Soho gay scene. Once I’ve taken out a loan.

My computer is playing up and keeps freezing (I think the technical term is ‘hanging’) so I have to turn it off and turn it on again to fix it. This is happening more frequently lately, often when playing music on iTunes or importing songs from CDs. Particularly annoying when I’ve written about 500 words in an unsaved diary entry.

Friday – to the Boogaloo for St Patrick’s Day. There’s one of those tacky spongy Guinness top hats in attendance. It’s fair to suspect anyone who wears such a thing is an absolute idiot, and probably about as Irish as me, ie not at all. See also jester hats or Santa hats at Christmas. People who think they’re terribly funny rather than tiresome. All the actual Irish people I know instead plump for a piece of real shamrock in their suit lapel. Some non-regular in the Boogaloo stares at my appearance as I walk past, and says to their friends, “Is he taking the piss?” No, I say inwardly, that would be the ones in spongy corporate top hats made for idiots.

The special guest artist playing tonight is Barry McGuigan, the famous Irish boxer. Who it turns out actually has a rather good singing voice. Though if he didn’t, who would dare tell him? So I watch him sing various well-known numbers by Squeeze, U2, Van Morrison, Beatles and the theme from ‘Footloose’. Some wag shouts out for ‘Eye Of The Tiger’. I bet Mr McGuigan’s heard that one before. I’d personally like to hear him do ‘So You Wanna Be A Boxer’ from Bugsy Malone.

I take a first drag on my cigarette holder (my smoking is still on-off, sad to report, but I welcome the public spaces ban that starts next year). I realise to my disgust that the crystal filter is used up. The taste of stale tar residue in the mouth is revolting beyond belief, and I have to go somewhere quickly to spit. Of course, as I rush into the men’s toilets, someone says hello. It’s Mark Beaumont, the NME journalist.

MB: Hi, how are you?
DE: (spits heavily into urinal)
MB: Oh, I get that a lot.

I return to the main pub room and am pleased to find an empty sofa seat. Then I realise why it’s vacated: the girl sitting next to me is being sick on the floor.

Troop off later to Nambucca for the club How Does It Feel, which has moved from the West End to Holloway Road. The place is absolutely packed. There are one or two of those dreaded spongy top hats in sight, but then this is the heart of Irish North London. I use the toilet there too, and some loutish London boy bursts in to announce, ‘Are we all having a good St Patrick’s night, yeah? I’ve got an Irish cousin myself, yeah? Let’s all get pissed!’

Some woman arriving on the door (as I’m chatting to the staff) also announces she is a 64-th part Irish or whatever, as if she’s hoping for a discount. Still, Ian Watson reports that he only gets one record request from someone who’s unaware that it’s the HDIF club night. He plays the Trashcan Sinatras’ ‘Obscurity Knocks’, an all-too-self-aware song title if ever there was one. It’s a very witty jangly guitar pop song from about 1988, and I suddenly remember they’re an Irish group. If you’re going to bang on about Irishness for one night only, a Trashcan Sinatras button badge would be far more cool than a ridiculous spongy top hat. He also plays some terrific songs by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, The Hidden Cameras and the 60s Brazilian pop group Os Mutantes.

I say hello to David Barnett (now of Morrissey approved band The Boyfriends) and Rachel Stevenson and am bought one drink by a kind Morrissey fan who enjoyed what I wrote the other day about that Smiths book. We talk about how great ‘Ringleader Of The Tormentors’ is. My favourite song on the album is definitely ‘In The Future When All’s Well’.

Am later bought a second drink by a girl on the bar staff, because she says my hair reminds her of her absent boyfriend. Not me, just my hair. I sometimes wonder if I should just send out my hair to social occasions. It’s in danger of getting a solo career.

Walking back up the Holloway Road circa 2am, I step over a spattering of fresh blood on the pavement.

(Footnote: I’m later told that the Trashcan Sinatras are in fact Scottish, and not Irish. They hail from Glasgow.)

I now feel the urge to quote the lyrics to Dory Previn’s ‘Yada Yada La Scala’. She really is one of the lyric-writing greats in rock and pop: up there with Mr Cohen and Mr Morrissey in my book. Her best known song is ‘The Lady With The Braid’, which is included on Jarvis Cocker’s new DJ album, ‘The Trip’. But I feel ‘Yada Yada…’ works even better in a club, with its tragicomic-vaudeville oompah arrangement.

let’s stop talking talking talking, wasting precious time
just a lot of empty noise that isn’t worth a dime
words of wonder, words of whether
should we shouldn’t we be together
yada yada yada yada yada
let’s stop talking talking talking, taking up our lives
saying things that don’t make sense, hoping help arrives
curse my questions, damn your qualms
tomorrow they could be dropping bombs
and we go yada yada yada yada yada
so we sit at a restaurant table
discussing reasons we’re unable to commit. that’s not it
all i want is to please and enjoy you
what makes you think i’ll be out to destroy you
if you commit. that’s not it.
is it something you sense underneath my defenses that makes me a threat?
that’s not it. and yet… suppose that’s it?
i don’t want to think about that now
let’s stop talking talking talking, every lame excuse
justifying alibying listen what’s the use
the sparrow chirps, the chipmunk chatters
and we go on as mad as a hatter
and nothing at all gets said
talk to me please… in bed. where it matters.
talk to me please, in bed. where it matters.

To answer a frequently-emailed question, The Beautiful & Damned club will return on Thursday May 18th. So put that in your diaries now, please.

I would be doing an mid-April date, but the only available slot coincided with Fosca’s concert in Brixton.

Some songs played last night, in addition to those mentioned in the earlier entry:

Bernice Bobs Her Hair – Divine Comedy
Get Happy – Judy Garland
You’ve Either Got Or You Haven’t Got Style – Frank Sinatra
Nice On The Ice – Vic Godard
Initials BB – Serge Gainsbourg
I Wanna Be Loved By You – Helen Kane (1920s recording)
I Feel The Earth Move – Carole King
Casino Royale – Bacharach (theme from the movie)
Dream A Little Dream Of Me – Mama Cass
Anything Goes – Harpers Bizarre (theme from ‘The Boys In The Band’)
The Lady Is A Tramp – The Supremes
I’ll Keep It With Mine – Nico
How Does That Grab You Darlin’? – Nancy Sinatra
Move Over Darling – Doris Day
The Number One Song In Heaven – Sparks
Mrs Robinson – James Taylor Quartet
Yada Yada La Scala – Dory Previn (this works fantastically well)

Well, the Beautiful & Damned club night was a roaring success last night. People came from all over the capital (much thanks to Time Out, Evening Standard, Guardian Guide etc) and really made the effort to dress up in their own takes on stylish period looks. Some fantastically good-looking patrons. People do look their best this way, no doubt about it. Dressing up is attractive. Men do look better in silks, ties, braces and so forth. Of course, the important thing is to stress is it isn’t ‘fancy dress’.

I played a couple of extracts from the Topsy-Turvy soundtrack, which went down well. You can’t dance to Gilbert & Sullivan, but it sounds terrific in a bar. The Topsy-Turvy cast sing in a non-operatic style, so Mr Gilbert’s lyrics are particularly discernible.

I also started the evening with all of the ‘Elizabeth Taylor In London: with John Barry’ CD, (on El Records, naturally). Arguably the most stylish album ever made. Against a stirring, swooping orchestration by Mr Barry, Ms Taylor recites various texts related to the capital: Wordsworth’s “Westminster Bridge”, Queen Victoria’s diary entry following her husband’s death, Queen Elizabeth’s Tilbury speech (“I may have the body of weak and feeble woman…”) and Churchill’s post-Blitz statement comparing the city to a defiant rhinoceros.

The biggest floor-fillers seemed to be not so much the vintage 20s and 30s stuff, but the musical tunes inspired by that era, from Cabaret, Chicago, Bugsy Malone, A Chorus Line and so on: “All That Jazz”, “One”, “Fat Sam’s Grand Slam””, “You Give A Little Love”, “Life Is A Cabaret”.

I was a bit worried about mixing in a few pop tunes like Mr Prince’s Raspberry Beret and Talking Heads’ “This Must Be The Place”, but I think it worked okay. Essentially, it’s a time-travelling disco, where (like present-day Earth in Doctor Who), some destinations are more favoured than others. Actually, David Tennant’s demob-suited Doctor wouldn’t look out of place at The Beautiful & Damned.

The Frankly Misunderstood Sunday Tea-ists, at the Waldorf Hotel.
Left to right: D.Edwards, L. Gullo, J.J Bibby, X. Roide. Photo by Ms G.

DE outside an acupuncturist’s shop window on the Kilburn High Road, en route to see Scritti Politti at the Luminaire. I rather like the jolly colours announcing the complaints treated within. As if the ailments themselves were on sale. “This week: Special Offer on Vitiligo.”. Photo by T.M. Chipping.

Preparing for the club night, Miss Red shows me her vinyl collection. Two enormous scarlet suitcases full of albums. It’s got me musing on the differences between the genders when it comes to music collections.

The comedienne Jo Caulfield has a routine about this. “Why do men do it? No one needs a record collection! All you need is Abba’s Greatest Hits, and THAT’S IT!”, she rants. I must admit there are times when I agree. Though if I have to listen to one Best Of forever, I’d plump for The Supremes.

The idea that women tend to only own one or two hits collections is entirely untrue in my experience, but then I’ve always associated with music fans in general. Miss Red is one of many women I know who not only has an impressively varied collection, but much of it is on vinyl. I stopped owning vinyl years ago.

The real difference comes with completism, I think. Getting silly about it. Writing letters to Mojo magazine. Caring too much. Tracking down complete works, buying box sets of rare out-takes and alternate versions.

Wanting to own everything, even things that were never meant to be owned. That’s more of a boy thing.

After twelve years of going to other people’s clubs in London, I thought I’d finally give it a go myself. Please come. I may do it again if there’s enough interest.

Time Out have given it a Recommended star, which is very nice of them.

Club title: ‘The Beautiful and Damned’

Date: Thur 16th March.
Times: 9pm to 1am.

Venue: The Boogaloo, 312 Archway Road, London N6 5AT, UK. 020 8340 2928.
Tube: Highgate (Northern Line). Buses: 43, 134, 263.

‘A new decadent disco curated by dysfunctional dandy DJ Dickon Edwards, with Miss Red. Patrons are encouraged to dress up in their own take on 1920s and 30s glamour, though anything more stylish than the ubiquitous Old Street fashions is welcome. Cigarillos, braces, tweeds, beads, silk scarves, unforgiving teddy bears… Drink, dance, and ponder the night’s tenderness to an eclectic but discerning mix of Sinatra, Strauss waltzes, soundtracks, musicals, El Records, deviant disco, shadowy soul, parvenu pop and insouciant indie. Free entry. ‘