Dear Mr. Diva,
While innocently flipping channels, I happened upon MTV, where Marilyn
Manson was performing. I couldn’t help myself, I sat transfixed throughout
the entire set. I am not normally prone to such breaches of judgment,
favoring the En Vogue/Missy Elliott type of diva. I’ve managed to get
the song out of my head, but not the performer. Please adjudicate once
and for all: as a diva-lover, am I allowed to appreciate Marilyn Manson?
-- A Beautiful Person
Dear Wormchild,
It’s not you, it’s not him, it’s the song. Who can resist relentless
tom-toms and thudding bass, not to mention those quick-cut chords performed
by the chorus of the damned?
But is M-squared a diva?
Sadly, no, and not for the reasons you might think. While it is true
that a diva creates her (all divas are She, regardless of biology) own
legend, the fire-test is that legend’s authority. Mr. Diva Herself was
in Marilyn’s corner for quite some time, until he morphed from a
badass goth into a
cash cow for the suburban kidrock syndicate. No diva, however supernatural
the forces she conjures, would allow her own legend to become a tourniquet.
Especially not when we are mired in a decade that cries for bad
role models.
To paraphrase the razor-sharp insight of one of Mr. Diva’s numerous
friends, if one desires outright rage, one must travel the musical time
machine back to the Sex
Pistols, the Stooges,
and all they stood for. In rock divadom, this means the, um, seasoned
gals. Debbie
Harry made bedhead and trashy lyrics into an artistic statement
that stands unimpeachable to this day. Debbie galvanized the practice
of diva worship through annexing the concept of upsetting one’s parents,
by including the phrase “pain in the ass” in the unexpurgated lyrics
of "Heart of Glass," along with being from New Jersey. Then there’s
vintage Madonna,
the nostalgia for which hasn’t even hit yet. She astutely assured her
own divahood by manipulating the media into making her the richest and
most famous lapsed Catholic of all time. Madonna’s ray of light can’t
help but illuminate whatever times she’s defining. How very nineties
that divaness, in the nineties, equals singing in Sanskrit and letting
one’s hair become a mess.
In context, doesn’t Marilyn Manson seem like, you know, a
sissy? In the museum of vulgarity, nothing is more tedious than
a Junior Varsity
Satanist. It’s a comment on modern times all right, but it’s not
the comment MM thinks
he’s making. If and when he gets married, will helicopters circle the
reception? Mr. Diva assures you they will not. Marilyn Manson may wear
Anna
Sui and medical bandages, but his makeup is horrible even for the
undead.
-- Mr. Diva
Dear Mr. Diva,
All right, I’m sick of hearing about Bette, Bette, Bette.
What is the essential record collection?
I’ll let you know my verdict.
--Antonio
Dahling,
Your verdict? Your verdict? The verdict is not yours to render.
However, as everyone but Mr. Diva is equal in the Eyes of Bette, I append
the syllabus for Bette 101.
Bette Midler sparked the early '70s nostalgia craze with thrift-shop
outfits and standards ranging from boogie woogie to Hoagy Charmichael.
Retro has always been hip, but Bette was the first to tap into a rebellious
generation’s nostalgia for pre-rebellious times. If that’s not camp,
then Mr. Diva doesn’t know what is. After "Boogie
Woogie Bugle Boy" topped the charts, vistas opened for an entire
generation to access the music--and thereby the culture--of their parents
and grandparents. Without Bette, the Manhattan Transfer would never
have landed a record deal, there would have been no "Happy Days" or
"Laverne and Shirley," the incipient Stonewall
Movement would have been saddled with the same hood ornaments lip-synching
the same old acts. Bette
resurrected divaness from the ashes of Miss Ross’ silver evening gowns
and Barbra’s Peter Matz orchestrations by dressing trashy, talking dirty,
and acting bawdy. Madonna wasn’t even voguing in her training bra when
Bette was funneling gay society to every home with a turntable, to every
family that said goodnight with Johnny Carson.
Purists consider Bette’s first two albums her best. Both "The Divine
Miss M" and "Bette Midler" showcase a young nightclub singer with an
uncanny alto and eclectic repertoire, who hits most of the notes musically
and all of them as a performer. "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy," "In the Mood,"
and "Optimistic Voices/Lullaby of Broadway" percolate under her uncontainable
energy. Like any diva, though, the fast songs are only the place setting;
the ballads are the meal. She imbued the classic Motown stomper, "Do
You Want to Dance," with a wistful interior monologue, as dreamy as
Roberta Flack, as sultry as Carly Simon. Her career-capping "Friends"
became an anthem during a decade invented by the Me Generation.
Some say Bette shines brightest on "The Rose." This soundtrack would
have sent Janis Joplin,
who inspired the film, to the roadhouse for a double shot of bourbon.
Especially powerful are Bette’s covers of "Midnight in Memphis" and
"Who’s Side Are You On?", both of which hold enough petrol to fuel a
nonstop flight from one polar icecap to the other and melt them during
the journey. Bette’s "When a Man Loves a Woman" sears from eardrum to
gut. In the title song, Bette transforms a nice little rock ballad into
an aria even Wagner would have thought wrenching.
One crucial element in any swinger’s six-disk carousel is 1979’s "Thighs
and Whispers." This most blatantly insincere of Bette’s
albums is totally sluttish, wicked, and fabulous. "Hurricane" is the
album’s showstopper, an eight-minute paean to excess during which Bette
and producer Arif Mardin recreate a tropical rainstorm that effortlessly
combines string rhythms, soprano obligato, and the kind of vocal orgasms
Donna Summer
used to fake. "My Knight in Black Leather" and "Married Men" stand beneath
only Dolly Parton’s "Potential New
Boyfriend" as the ultimate singles-bar anthems.
Finally, for outright rock and roll camp, check out 1983’s "No Frills,"
in which the Divine Miss M dives into the lagoon of 1980’s synth-pop
and surfaces covered in magnificent sludge. Even Aretha, who drove down
the "Freeway of Love" a couple of years later, can’t compete with Bette,
in a green fright wig, eviscerating the Stones’ "Beast of Burden."
Your assignment, Antonio: go forth and listen without prejudice. You
will realize that Bette sings about being a victim from a position of
strength, with Carmen
Miranda’s boundless energy and Patsy
Cline’s haunted depths. Bette is classy and vulgar at once, living
proof of John Waters’
correct assertion that you must have impeccable taste to appreciate
abysmal taste. Bette Midler puts the divine back into diva.
--Mr. Diva
Dear Mr. Diva,
Did Barbra Streisand record an entire album with Barry Gibb or just
a single? I am sure it was an album, but I cannot remember the title.
Is it white, with the two of them on the cover?
-- Val
Dear Val (love the manicure),
You refer to "Guilty," the Streisand claque's only convincing argument
in the Bette/Barbra War. The cover art is priceless, featuring La
Streisand sharing 'fro-talk with Barry
Gibb in a pristine, semen-white setting. "Guilty"
led the brigade of Gibb-produced chart toppers in 1980, based upon the
Puccini-esque strength of "Woman in Love." La B was nominated for a
Grammy (She lost. To Bette.) for this cut and the nearly-perfect title
duet with the falsettoed Bee
Gee. Mr. Diva still awaits a remake by Andy Bell and Boy George.
On "Guilty," the funny girl's buttah-melting mezzo travels the road
of maudlin luv songs in the Mercedes Benz of Gibb's sound board. Heard
now, the only cut that sounds out of place is "Make It Like a Memory,"
which manages to simultaneously raise rafters and fall flat. Historically
this cut predates the total eclipse of Bonnie
Tyler's heart. Not incidentally, Roslyn
Kind's older sister equaled the effort on 1984's "Emotion," which
features "Left in the Dark," produced at full gallop by Jim Steinman
and accompanied by one of those videos with lace curtains fluttering
against gothic windows.
In the arc of La
Babs' career, "Guilty" sails smoothly between embarrassing late-'70s
rent-payers like "Superman" and "Wet" and the early-'80s landmark "Broadway
Album," from which Babs catapulted into the kind of treacle that justifies
a duet with Celinestopheles.
Even at its most extreme, no one can argue with That Voice. Mrs. Brolin
confers insight not through wisdom but passion. "Guilty" is aural sex,
ear candy that may not be nutritious, but is rich and sweet.
--Mr. Diva
Dear Mr. Diva,
Why do I never see any Lil' Kim drag queens?
--Wondering
Dear Wondering,
Because Lil'
Kim is the only biological female who frightens drag queens.
--Mr. Diva
Dear Mr. Diva,
What is the difference between a drag queen and a boy in a dress?
-- Kat
Dear Kat,
Dahling, if you only knew how many hours Mr. Diva has piffed away contemplating
this very question, hoping that someday, somewhere, someone would ask.
Fag hags and the queens who love them have grappled with this crucial
social issue since time immemorial, or at least since RuPaul
took the runway. Allow Mr. Diva a few seconds to savor this golden moment.
There. Thank you. Mr. Diva is tempted to offer the easy answer and skip
the essay, but would be remiss in his duties if he did so. Without Mr.
Diva’s guidance, we would be subjected to the cornea-searing vision
of hairy legs jutting out of plaid Catholic school-girl jumpers, and
he is sure we are all agreed that the time for such shenanigans has
long passed. To quote Mama Diva, an astute old tart if ever there was
one, "if being a drag queen were as easy as putting on a skirt, every
secretary would qualify". Therefore, Mr. Diva feels he must gently remind
you that male drag is not about womanhood, but manhood. We will of necessity
confine this treatise to male-to-female drag, as Mr. Diva can tell from
the generosity of your question that you already comprehend the nuances
of female-to-female drag.
Write this down and circulate copies to everyone you meet: the difference
between a drag queen and a boy in a dress is: (drum roll) attitude.
Attitude as in I’m fabulous and you might not be. Attitude as in f#*k
you all and then f*#k me. Attitude as in glamour is a weapon sharper
than Ted
Bundy’s steak knife, more acidic than Jeffrey
Dahmer’s compost bucket, more unswerving than Cunanan’s
aim.
No cosmic law anywhere dictates that frilly underwear, slinky evening
gowns, slutty thigh-highs, press-on nails, elaborately teased hairdos,
whorish makeup, or patent leather go-go boots of blinding whiteness
are the sole property of the X chromosome. Then again, neither are three-piece
grey-flannel business suits or boxer shorts meant only for the Y. Female
clothes are just plain more fabulous than male, based on the free-market-economy
law of supply and demand. This must be true, or else there would be
a Rainbow
Shop for men, and it would turn a profit.
Let us contemplate a scenario. For the sake of argument, let us say
that Mr. Diva awoke one morning and gazed with despair into a closet
full of stodgy garments which buttoned on the right side. One more day
in a navy blue suit and attendant striped necknoose, and Mr. Diva’s
numerous friends would be summoned by security at a posh midtown address,
where Mr. Diva would be in detention for attempting to assault Ralph
Lauren. Or suppose Mr. Diva actually allowed himself to be viewed
in public wearing chinos. Suppose--this is really stretching it--that
Mr. Diva couldn’t accessorize.
So, in rebellion, Mr. Diva raids Mama Diva’s armoire and emerges with
a lavender housedress, size 20 (of course, Mama Diva owns no such garment,
but she is willing to play along for the sake of public education).
Mr. Diva floats this over his head, enjoying the freedom of legs unhampered
by trousers, and compliments the outfit with graying tube socks and
bone-chillingly expensive athletic shoes endorsed by his favorite pituitary
hero. At this point, Mr. Diva is a boy in a dress.
However, what if Mr. Diva cops Mama Diva’s dove-gray Chanel,
dousing it with seven thousand dollars' worth of crystal jewelry? What
if he shaves not just his jaw but his legs, discovering that beneath
the hair is the pair of gams Rita
Hayworth wished she had? What if he slips into sexy open-toe slingbacks
and drops cabfare and condoms into a to-die-for vintage minaudiere?
What if he secures his naturally glossy hair into a chignon, supplemented
with a fall that exactly matches? At this point, Mr. Diva is not only
a drag queen but fierceness itself.
A boy in a dress just doesn’t get it. Boys (Mr. Diva uses the term inclusively)
believe that clothing is utilitarian, and on top of that are willfully
blind to the fact that what shows, tells. A boy believes that by wearing
one of those awful A-line tank tops with onionskin shorts, the world
sees the same peak-performance athlete that he does. From Chelsea Boys
to soldiers, boys believe in the holiness of uniforms. Sadly, they have
reason to, for no male executive ever ascended the throne of the six-figure
salary without the requisite suit and tie--and no one who’s been
in town during Fleet Week can dismiss the sight of our servicemen in
full regalia.
Such constrictions, unacknowledged, inevitably backfire. For a treat,
such boys will occasionally borrow a sister’s fourth-rate dress (you
know the one: you bought it on sale, knowing damn well it made you look
a coal miner, but haven’t gotten around to turning it into a dustrag)
and wear this above tightie-once-whities. Guys, Mr. Diva begs of you:
please don’t cheapen your self-worth by screaming your desperation to
be perceived as average. Reflect upon your wardrobe, and you will see
that it is hideous.
A drag queen is a male who knows the difference. A drag queen fights
back. A drag queen has learned the only thing worth knowing in this
life: style-versus-substance is a false debate. Style is substance.
From Ffloyd to Lypsinka, drag queens turn gender roles inside out, upside
down, and ass-backward. The secret weapon is...cosmetics. There is no
known antidote for cosmetics. Thus armed, a drag queen will show up
at a job interview wearing anything from a Tibetan monk’s robe to "Edge
of Seventeen" and express areas of experience that would give Stevie
HerSelf pause. A drag queen has more authority than, holds her liquor
better than, gets more blowjobs than any other man. Drag queens
skew masculinity with the insight of fakery. However, if anyone doubts
a drag queen’s manhood, then let that person walk around for one day
with his equipment similarly tucked and folded.
Kat, you now know the truth of the ages. Anyone who tries to tell you
differently is just a grocery-delivery boy who yearns to wear a pinafore.
Go forth and be fabulous.
-- Mr. Diva
Would you like to ask Mr. Diva? Well, you can. Just send your questions
in and we will forward them directly to Mr. Diva's posh penthouse apartment.
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