On
one hand there is the idea that Grace Jones is no more than a celebrity, a freak only
marginally an entertainer. Or, worse, that she’s a limited vocalist and actress,
who was compelling only for the moment she was being manipulated by designer
Jean-Paul Goude and producer Chris Blackwell.
On
the other hand, there are her trilogy of albums from the early Eighties: Warm
Leatherette, Nightclubbing and Living My Life. They irresistibly embody funk
and sass and knowingness with a verve that seems, in retrospect, touching.
Unfortunately,
these triumphs did not lead to any more music. Rather than fulfilling her
destiny as the New Wave Nina Simone, she came to Hollywood, where she appeared
as Zula in Conan the Destroyer with the current governor
of California, and May Day, in A View to a Kill with a lesser James Bond. Some unimportant albums
followed. Then, 20 years of silence.
And
now she’s back. But as what? Who?
Grace
Jones actually appeared on the Hollywood Bowl stage at a reasonable hour. I
imagine those of us in the audience were the first people in history to see
Grace Jones before midnight.
It
began tremendously. She stood, extremely tall, completely draped by a flowing
mylar sheet—kind of a NASA ghost bhurka—and sang “This is,” from her new
album. It was hilarious and bizarre and she sounded great.
The evening unfolded with some wonderful and some not so wonderful things. It
was revealing that none of the best moments were disco numbers.
One
of the musical high points was Grace rocking out to “Love is the drug,” in
silver glitter boater and heart-shaped jodhpurs. This woman can really sing.
The
best theatrical coup came with “La vie en rose,” when she came out wearing a
wall made of gigantic red ruffles, which, when she spun around, revealed the
back half of her body entirely naked. (L.A. Weekly has a link to a bootleg video of this.)
The
music and the theater came together for “I’ve seen that face before.” She sang
with the most correct despair, while tangoing with a bizarre mannequin of
herself. It was poetic, musical, disturbing, original. I began to get the idea--this woman is genuinely wild, driven by forces and compelled by energies that ordinary mortals know nothing of.
The
downside of the evening was the wretched stage management. Couldn't anyone think of a better solution of how to deal with her costumes other than making her run off stage after each song (or before a song was over) to change? These
pauses were interminable. As Andy Warhol observed, being with Grace
Jones means lots of waiting around, and this is where we paid our dues. At
least she tried to smooth over these dead spots by keeping up a stream of
chatter, which was amiable.
Finally she came out in a relatively functional outfit, and with a whoop of “Let’s party!” launched into “Pull up to the
bumper” which got everyone to their feet. This seemed to signal the start of a
medley of her get-down classics. But before the song was finished it was 10:30 and the house lights
went on, and the show was over. The Bowl kicked us out.
I
think she was just getting warmed up.
It was a mess, but it was a mess with Grace Jones. I never thought I would see the day. And I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
The picture above is one of many amazing images from The World of Grace Jones.
... And don't miss Miranda Sawyer's already notorious 2008 piece for the Guardian about her night on the town with Grace.