It's everywhere.

Used, abused, hashtagged and more.

"Realness."

Please stop. Just stop.

You see, at first it was quaint, cute even. A flashback to its pop-cultural and referential roots, younger queers and queens discovering the cachet of the term, elegantly revisiting and elevating the term that so many people discovered thanks to Paris Is Burning. But soon it just got out of control. People were using it without knowing its roots, throwing it about like it was just another catch phrase. This isn't "fetch," people -- this term has some history to it. Not just some boring instamatic pop-culture background.

To all of you who drop the term blithely, let me educate you on the reality of the term "realness."

Get it?

"Realness" is a term used as an appropriation, a fuck you to a society that says you can not be real due to your social/racial/economic/sexual standing. Now, I understand that the use of a term can change and develop. This is how language works; semantics meets Darwinism. But to use the term without understanding or even acknowledging its history denigrates where it comes from.

I saw a great discussion/post about it on Tumblr. It reads:

• The Original Definition: The ability to blend. The skill of a homosexual, usually black or Latino, to be able to walk the streets without the assumption of being gay. Made popular from the documentary film Paris Is Burning in 1991 as a popular category of a Ballroom Scene. ie: "Schoolboy Realness" having the look of a teenage boy who would be able to go to school without being harassed.
• This New Definition: A term used to make any adjective a noun. Overdone by the popular Logo reality tv show RuPaul's Drag Race by clueless white queens. ie: "I'm serving you some Trashcan Primadonna Cleopatra Judy Garland Realness" which is a phrase that literally makes no sense.

To the person who posted this, I bow before you. I would argue that the contestants were probably asked by the producers to use the term as some sort of jingo-lingo-esque bullshit.

But to the rest of you who don't have producers leaning in your ear asking you to say shit: Learn it. And learn it well.

Twenty years ago today, a young man with a pockmarked face and a self-effacing manner passed away.

Today, that man is name-dropped among music lovers of genres from hip hop to house to disco to new wave to experimental. His name is Arthur Russell.

Russell was a New York fixture, adored and ignored. He worked with everyone from Philip Glass to Larry Levan to Allen Ginsberg. He played the cello, but he also made some of the funkiest and craziest disco records you've ever heard. He is one of the legions of composers and artists who are constantly being rediscovered by crate diggers and music historians and aficionados. There are even documentaries and books devoted to Russell's life. His record "Is It All Over My Face," recorded under the Loose Joints moniker on West End records, is arguably his most famous. To write it out and describe it doesn't pay the record justice. It starts with a simple four-on-the-floor beat, nothing too fast. A jangly guitar comes in, grooving alongside jazzy keys. It's a sustained intro, when all of a sudden, a woman starts to sing. But when you listen to it, your head starts to bop, you get stuck in the groove. It's dirty, it's sexy but it's polished. It's disco for intellectual sex pigs.

Russell was one of those people who was never fully satisfied with his compositions, at least, not until he was able to tweak it in as many ways as he could. He re-recorded many of his compositions, including "All Over My Face," this time with a male vocal. Another of his big hits, "Go Bang" was tweaked and reworked. At first listen, you wouldn't think that dean of disco Nicky Siano had his paws all over this record. It sounds like it should be played at a punk bar made for gay disco queens. But again, it's the idiosyncracies that make it work.

But Russell wasn't just a lover of dance music. He is also known for his cello compositions, such as this one, "Keeping Up," which features Russell himself on vocals. Quiet, earnest and reserved. His work has been cited as an influence for such contemporary composers such as Jens Lekman and The Hidden Cameras' Joel Gibb.

It's hard to decide which Russell I prefer: the soft, sensitive man who played his cello or the gregarious guy who made us all bang. In the end, it doesn't matter. He is no longer with us, so we pay our respects in the best way we can: by listening intently.

I remember the first time I saw the cover of Pink Flamingos. It was in a now-defunct but well-loved video store in downtown Halifax called Critic’s Choice. It was the kind of place that rented out art-house flicks, anime and British television comedy series. The videos were arranged by director or by country of origin. You could find Kieslowski standing next to Almodóvar, who was just around the corner from Waters. It was there that Divine stood, resplendent in her red fishtail dress, a loaded gun in her clenched fist. This was a movie I had to see.

The owner of the store gave me a knowing look as I brought it up to the counter. “Have you see this before?” she asked. I told her no, but that I had seen Waters’ later films, such as Cry Baby and Hairspray. “Do you know about the famous scene at the end?” she asked. Yes, I had heard about a large drag queen eating dog shit on screen. I wanted to see it, and see if I could handle it (this in the days before Goatse and fark.com). “The dog shit is nothing,” she said as her eyebrows went up, shooting me a “You don’t know what you’re in for” look.

She was right. I didn’t know what I was in for. And I would like to thank her, and thank Divine for opening my eyes.

But there is more to Divine than dog shit. Divine was a trailblazer in the truest sense. Her wardrobe and sense of style were beyond what most drag performers would dare to wear on their bodies and faces. She was out there, reeking of chutzpah and hairspray. The characters she brought to life -- Dawn Davenport, Francine Fishpaw and Rosie Velez -- were beyond belief, and not because they were performed by a man in a dress, but because Divine made us love her. She did more than just act. She modelled, did talk shows, and had a career as a singer, recording some of the most popular early hi-NRG records out there.

This is not to say that Divine always loved being Divine. He was quoted as saying that his favourite part of drag was getting out of drag: the clothes, the makeup. He wanted to be taken somewhat seriously as an actor and was about to tape a performance as Uncle Otto on Married with Children. Unfortunately, Divine passed away from an enlarged heart before taping the episode.

But the legend that is Divine has never died. New generations of filmgoers and queers discover her all the time and love her. Drag performers still perform homages to her, either in direct impersonation or by channelling her “fuck you” attitude to beauty and femininity.

On a personal note, I used to use Divine as a sort of litmus test for potential boyfriends: we would watch Pink Flamingos, and if they could handle it, then we would have another date.

When I returned the video to the store, the clerk asked me what I thought of my first viewing of Pink Flamingos. I told her I loved it and quoted a line or two from it. She went on to tell me that in Nova Scotia, there is a list of films that are not to be rented or distributed in stores. It’s mostly a list of pornographic titles, but amongst the cocksucking and fucking is a lone title: Pink Flamingos. She and the owners of the store would keep a copy on hand as long as possible – it would often get stolen or “not returned” – until some day when the “thought police” would come in and remove it, telling the owners of the store that it was not permissible to rent the film. They would walk out the door, and a call would be placed to get another copy.

I think Divine would be proud of that. She would probably pronounce her famous “Fuck you very much” to the people who put her on – and off – those shelves. As do I.

It's been five years since Lulu LaRude last fluttered her lashes.

I can remember the first time I met Lulu. It was in the basement of a theatre, and she was putting on her makeup in front of a very large mirror.  Dancers were putting on belts, stretching, practising routines. I was dating one of the dancers at the time, and I just sat in the back, nervous and quiet. I was 19 and I had rarely had occasion to be around so many people who were queer.

That night was the first time I saw Lulu perform. She was surrounded by dancers, flanking and lifting her as she performed to Julie Andrews' recording of "Le Jazz Hot" from Victor Victoria. As she took off her wig at the end, the audience roared. She had them in the palm of her hand.

Then again, she always did. Lulu LaRude was born Chuck Gillis, but she lived as herself, no matter what name or gender you gave her. She was a phenomenon on stage, and I can say that without a softened tinge of nostalgia. She knew that people would go out to see her perform, not to walk around idly mouthing the lyrics to some innocuous pop tune. It was about fun, flair and fabulousness. 


Image via Reflections Cabaret

This is not to say that Lulu could not bring shade to the table. I myself was once a victim of a reading by Miss LaRude, about which she later declared, "Honey, you know I don't mean it." And I knew. But damn, if reading was an Olympic sport, she would've cleaned up. Not only because she was good, but because she probably would have entered in various disguises and costumes, leaving the judges to think she was someone else entirely.

That was another of her gifts: understanding the art of artifice. One minute she was Carol Channing, the next she was a buxom blonde bimbo singing along to Julie Brown's "I'm  a Blonde." One of my favourite performances was when she decided to do a number from Thoroughly Modern Millie. At one point during the number, she opened up her robe, allowing two weighted pantyhose to fall to the ground. Her ersatz tits hit with a thud, and then she started to spin around. The centrifugal force of her motion made her boobs spin around at a great distance from her chest. She stopped on a dime, and they spun around her and hugged her until they stopped, thwacking her in the face. She then proceeded to spin the other way, all the while making  "Trinkt le Chaim" a song I will never forget. Now who else could do that?

It's been five years since Lulu passed away. No, I was not one of her many drag daughters. No, I was not a close confidant; I was never that lucky. But Lulu did introduce me to an idea of what drag could be, of what playing with gender and with the artificiality of it all can mean. It can mean beauty, laughter and love.

For that, I will always thank, and think of, Lulu.
 

 A wake-up call to those of you who wonder what that wonderful music you've been hearing lately is: disco. It never died.

Disco is everywhere you turn these days, from London’s Horse Meat Disco to DJ Harvey’s famed Sarcastic Disco parties. Crate diggers around the world have known the rewards that can be reaped from old disco records as the basis for hundreds of hip-hop, house and electro records. And one of the names you keep hearing, over and over again in the world of disco, is Larry Levan.

Levan was the DJ at the famed Paradise Garage, arguably the most important dance club to ever exist in New York City. Levan was the man behind the wheels of steel; he was the one who broke records, even if he had to force them onto the dancefloor. People lined up around the block, wanting to get in, hoping they might bump into someone who had a membership to this famed club. Watch any serious documentary or read any book about dance music and dance music culture, and Levan will be mentioned.

Disco was created in dark clubs full of sexual abandon. It was very gay, very black and Latino and very in-your-face. ABBA wasn’t disco; Dinosaur L was disco. Rod Stewart may have asked if he was sexy, but Loose Joints asked if it was all over your face. The Garage was a place where people who were considered to be “undesirable” during the Reagan years - due to their sexuality, their race, the socio-economic status, their serostatus – could find a space where they were not only wanted, but praised. There were other clubs, such as Nicky Siano’s The Gallery and David Mancuso’s almost mythological Loft, but the Garage and Levan were downtown, underground and downright sexy. When the “Disco Sucks” sentiment exploded, Levan and his fans simply went underground.

Levan remixed record upon record, visiting everything from singing strings to dubby disco. His playlists went outside the traditional “disco” genre, including everything from Kraftwerk to Marianne Faithful. Levan wasn’t a perfect DJ; he didn’t always mix well, and because of his drug use, he would even occasionally fall onto his turntables. But his sets weren’t about creating the perfect mix or a populist collection of the big hits.They were about communicating with his audience: this is what I am feeling, and this is where I want to take you. It wasn’t about what was right or wrong within a genre; it was about making everything right and tight. To take you on a trip, letting your feet take you to places you’ve never been.

My friend Mike was showing me his copy of Man Enough To Be a Woman, the autobiography of Jayne County. We had been talking about County and her in-your-face performances, things both of us were too young to have experienced during County’s heyday at Max’s Kansas City.

I first read about County when I was a teenager. I was fascinated by the culture that existed in New York City during the late ’70s, when the art world mixed with punk, and punk mixed with disco and dub, and everybody lived in cold-water flats. It was all romanticized in my adolescent mind. Max’s Kansas City was where that seismic shift in culture was happening, and Jayne County was one of the biggest shakers of the bunch.

County was a no-holds-barred performer. At Max’s, she was an iconoclast, a jarring and beautiful counterpoint to the über-femme of Warhol’s beauties. This is not to say that County was (or is) not beautiful, or even femme at times. But she didn’t take no shit, and she threw shade like it was bowling ball.

My favourite story about County – one that I especially like to tell straight dudes who think queers can’t be tough in rock ’n’ roll – is how she was performing one night, when “Handsome” Dick Manitoba decided to berate her while she was on stage. County took her mic stand and promptly thwacked Manitoba with the base of the stand, breaking Manitoba’s collarbone. “Who’s the faggot now?” I can imagine County saying.

Unfortunately, the masses weren’t ready for County’s songs about “Toilet Love.” But she is remembered by punk rock aficionados, queer history buffs and people like me. She recently appeared in Butt magazine and in the film Squeezebox and continues to write a blog, where she shows some of her art.

To Jayne County, a true pioneer.

This week marks the 23rd anniversary of World AIDS Day. One of the things that AIDS has made us do is talk about it, to learn and understand it and the lives it affects. I’d like to share a few stories, if I may, about the people with HIV/AIDS who have affected me. 

Often when discussing some of the first casualties of AIDS, writers will categorize an individual as being “one of the first celebrities to die from AIDS,” but as to which one was the first depends on what you define as a celebrity. For some it was Patrick Cowley, the man who helped forge the sound that would later be known as Hi-NRG. For others it would be Hibiscus, a leader of famed queer collective “The Cockettes.” But one name that often pops up is that of Klaus Nomi.

Nomi was an anomaly in the pop world at a time where anomalies were becoming increasingly common (Laurie Anderson, anyone?). His visual aesthetic was that of Weimar Republic meets Japanese theatre, while his music mixed early electronic sounds with classic pop ditties. And then there was that voice.

Nomi was a countertenor, an often underappreciated vocal range that many in the world of pop music found bizarre, if not unsettling. But Nomi’s voice shone best when he was singing from a classical repertoire, recording everything from German Lieder to early opera arias. Even though he made his reputation by putting an often kitschy wrench into songs such as “Lightning Strikes,” he made a point of releasing some of his more classically minded recordings as B-sides to his singles. Case in point: “Cold Song,” from a 17-century English opera by Purcell, which was the B-side to one of his first singles, “Nomi Song.”

Nomi would even go on to perform with David Bowie on Saturday Night Live, with Klaus providing backup vocals (along with Joey Arias) on “The Man Who Sold the World.” But almost as quickly as he came into our world, he left.

Nomi died in 1983 due to complications from AIDS. Around the same time, the scene in downtown New York began to crumble. Disco had gone (way) underground, the former artists who used to live in squats were now superstars (Basquiat) and New York City itself was getting “cleaned up” for tourists. But there are people who will never forget Nomi. In 2004, Andrew Horn released the documentary The Nomi Song, featuring interviews and rare concert footage. His likeness recently appeared on the animated television series The Venture Bros, alongside Iggy Pop and his former friend David Bowie.

 There will never be another Nomi.

Actor/writer/artist/student/jack-of-all-trades James Franco recently directed a film called Sal, about the life of actor Sal Mineo. The film opened at the Venice Film Festival in September.

Mineo is best remembered for his performance as Plato in 1955’s Rebel Without a Cause. When I first heard about Sal, I was excited. Mineo, as an actor and a celebrity, has always fascinated me. The first time I watched Rebel Without a Cause, all I could think about was how the most rebellious act in the film wasn’t the fights between youths or the hyper-aware Jim Stark (as portrayed by James Dean) trying to explain why he’s so unhappy. It was the bond between Jim and Plato.

Fast forward to the 5:40 mark for a touching moment between Dean and Mineo.

I wondered what it would’ve been like to have been a gay kid living in the 1950s and seeing Mineo look at Dean in a way that only I probably picked up. It was almost like the film spoke in a secret code or handshake. Mineo’s depiction of Plato – a misunderstood and undervalued young man – could even be considered to be a parable for his career. Mineo was often typecast as “the troubled one.” He even tried to play a more dangerous side to this type in the 1965 film Who Killed Teddy Bear?

Mineo’s career stalled somewhat in the late 1960s. But the role that may have pigeonholed him is also that which makes him memorable. I, for one, am anxiously waiting for Sal to finish its tour of the festival circuit and find its way into theatres.

Author’s note: “Paris Is Still Burning” is the first in a series of op-eds on queer history that will appear on this blog. It will feature both local (ie, Atlantic Canadian) historical content (and context) and larger historical events.

It’s 1990, and I am a kid living in rural Nova Scotia watching Siskel & Ebert. It’s a Saturday afternoon and they are talking about a recent documentary. All of a sudden, a black drag queen in a gold lamé dress, with puffed sleeves that are bigger than a tire, is on the television. Off screen, someone is yelling for everyone to get off the floor. “Learn it, and learn it well,” they say.

What I am learning is that there is a world out there.

It’s been more than 20 years since Jennie Livingston’s Paris Is Burning was released. The film depicts the lives of a group of predominantly black and Latino gay men and transgender women living in New York City during the late '80s. They are members of “houses,” congregations and fraternities who battle each other during balls or pageants, competing in various categories in which they emulate certain ideals of straight society. Executive realness anyone?

The film is also known for being one of the few detailed portraits of voguing during its initial heyday. Although people may have been acquainted with the term and elements of the dance thanks to Madonna, Paris Is Burning took an academic and sociological glance at what was mostly viewed as a dancefloor fad.

Twenty years later, the film still resonates in the queer community. I have conversations with young queers who were barely out of diapers when the film came out yet can recite great lengths of dialogue from it. They can read someone or throw shade, having been taught by no less than Dorian Corey and Venus Xtravaganza.

But the balls and voguing did not go the way of the gay dinosaur. They simply went back underground, and new generations of houses have come about, while some of the old stalwarts still hear the names ring out during the balls. The House of Ninja and the House of Xtravaganza are two that still produce dancers and voguers who will leave you gagging.

Fast forward to the 1:27 mark.

For a white kid from a middle-class family living in a fishing village of 300 people, you would think I had nothing in common with anyone or anything on that screen. But I felt a kinship and a sense of belonging. I wanted to be like them: these were people who dreamed themselves into existence, even when reality was trying to shake them awake into living nightmares. Once in a while, in front of all their peers, they could be whoever and whatever they wanted. And that gave a shy and closeted kid a lot of hope.

  *

Addendum: Jennie Livingston, the director of Paris Is Burning is still making films. She is currently looking to make a film about the subject of death and identity. You can find out more on her Kickstarter site.

Butch Queen Bonus: In 2010, Cabin Fever Records put out a 12-inch recording called “Shade,” by The Realness. This quasi-bootleg record samples dialogue from the film in a booty-shaking, duck-walking track.

A must for those who want to be real.