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Diamanda Galas, for those to whom she needs an introduction, is one of a rare breed of singers who truly explore the full range of their voices as instruments, joining a list that includes Meredith Monk, Yoko Ono, Yma Sumac and Patty Waters, though, of course, each of these women works in a different field and method.
Over twenty years as a public singer (and a few more years before that as a keyboardist), Diamanda has released eleven albums of savage beauty and uncompromising exploration.
It hardly began that way. She was born in San Diego in the early 1950s (some sources say 1952; some say 1955), into a Greek Orthodox household, where support for her as a singer was less than overwhelming, though playing the piano was evidently okay.
As a teenager, she played in various new music ensembles, but did not sing.
She also spent some time, ironically enough, as a female drag prostitute, but decided that she could be a much better musician than a criminal (though she wryly states that there are parallels).
She made her public singing debut in 1979, and, right from the start, demonstrated her breathtaking and nearly frightening technique.
How to describe her voice? She has a full command of four octaves, and could doubtless push it a bit with falsetto. While she can sing conventionally, she prefers to use her voice in a more demanding and edgy way (as she has proposed, her voice is '...an instrument of destruction to (her) enemies.'). She frequently makes use of delays and electronic processing, but her voice devoid of such gimmicks is just as powerful and unforgettable.
Her first album was self-titled, but it is out of print and I can't say much about it, since I've not seen it. Her second, Litanies of Satan, was a collection of 'Litanies of Satan' and 'Wild Women With Steak Knives', two of her earliest pieces. I have not heard it either, but I am told it is extremely harrowing, as the titles alone would suggest. It keeps slipping in and out of print, so it's a tad elusive...
Saint of the Pit and The Divine Punishment rapidly followed. These are comparatively easy listening, though 'quiet' in her body of work does not necessarily mean 'mellow' - in fact, it is more as if someone were whispering threatening, or at least provocative, things behind your back. By setting Biblical and 19th Century French verse into her own electronic musical settings, she both gives the Scriptural material a sense of irony and modern application and lends credence to the notion that there were a lot of very morbid but insightful French poets!
By this point, Galas had begun to become very involved in the AIDS crisis in New York City, since it would take an exceptionally unobservant artist not to notice the havoc it was wreaking on the creative community. Furthermore, due to her background in immunology, she was likely to have encountered it anyway, and her interest in resisting the dominant discourse would have been attracted to the battle against ignorance that early AIDS education and funding drives consisted of.
And then her brother, Philip Dimitri-Galas, died of AIDS. That provided an additional impetus for her to focus her work on battling homophobia and AIDS, though she resists any interpretation that runs along the lines of: 'Poor Diamanda! Lost her brother, and now she's grief-stricken and obsessed...'. First of all, she was involved before, and, secondly, she prefers to pursue an active model of grief that tries to prevent both the need for unnecessary mourning and the tendency to forget the plague that surrounds us in the interest of being 'happy' ('happiness' plagued America in the 80s, thanks to that grinning corpse Reagan and his friend Bush, with their suggestions that it was alright to be selfish and hateful as long as you had 'family values' in the bank and a 'thousand points of light' shining through your ears...). In her own words: 'Remember that I was a fighter too...but to all cowards and voyeurs...there are no more tickets to the funeral!'
As an introduction to her work, You Must Be Certain of The Devil (1988) might be a good start, since it does have drums and guitar on a few tracks, and the pieces are loosely structured in a pop/dance vein.
The Plague Mass (1991) is a live recording of her exhausting, devastating and ultimately triumphant 'opera' about AIDS. Recorded in a cathedral, the natural echo adds to the eeriness of the whole thing. While far from easy to take, it is a vital, furious and genuinely hopeful document in the end.
The Singer (1992) was the first album by her I purchased. Musically, the settings are laid-back, with Diamanda accompanying herself on piano (one track with organ) through blues and gospel numbers, with some new lyrics by her, and one original composition.
Vocally, it is another matter. 'Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?' never sounded like that when I sang it in my brief childhood church experience. 'Let My People Go' has smoldering rage and determination that leap out of the speakers. 'Reap What You Sow' should have had a dedication to George Bush.
Vena Cava (1993) is Plague Mass' entirely a capella cousin, though earlier warnings about the nature of 'quiet' in her work still apply. The liner notes say that it has more to do with onset of dementia and depression, and it is certainly subdued. The instruction on the CD 'Play Loud' is to be obeyed, but be near the volume control for those sudden outburst!
Sporting Life (1994) is the odd man out, if you will, in her body of work. It was done with contributions by Led Zeppelin's John Paul Jones on bass, pedal steel and production, and Pete Thomas on drums, as well as Diamanda on piano, organ and vocals, and, as such, is very close to rock. However, I find myself gleefully contemplating the possibility of Zep fans purchasing this and discovering that she makes Robert Plant sound positively wimpy (not to mention what they would think of the decidedly not-complimentary-to-macho-men lyrics). 'Do You Take This Man?' and 'Baby's Insane' are probably the best murder ballads in her body of work, while 'Skotoseme', 'Last Man Down' and 'Hex' have moments of unearthly beauty, despite their dark subject matter.
Schrei X (1996) can perhaps best be explained as what happens once the insanity hinted at in Vena Cava takes full hold. These very short pieces are utterly fragmented, often with only a handful of words that are repeated obsessively, and have no musical accompaniment. Of all of her works that I have heard, this is the only one I find a little too intense to listen to frequently...
Malediction and Prayer (1998) is sort of like The Singer done live (not literally - only two songs from it appear). Diamanda, accompanied only by her piano again, sings a wide array of songs ranging from a Johnny Cash number to a poem by Pasolini set to music.
With the exception of 'The Thrill Is Gone' and 'Insane Asylum', she tends to avoid wild vocal pyrotechnics, but it is still an alternately stunning and warm collection.
It is particularly heart-rending to me to hear 'Si La Muerte' ('If Death'...should come for me), knowing that she has Hep C and may very well die soon, but I know she would not appreciate that mawkish sentiment and is fighting with all her might.
What a long strange trip it's been...and, with any luck, we will have Diamanda along with us once we reach the Promised Land...
In July, 1998, it was 10 years since Nico died; in October, 1998, she would have been 60. It seemed the time to remember a Romantic artist who was 'unique', with all the curses and blessings of that label.
Nico was born Christa Paffgen in Cologne, Germany on October 16, 1938.
In Berlin, she spent the first part of her childhood in the way you might expect.
As she grew to be a beautiful woman by certain standards (blonde hair - grey eyes - six feet tall - a strong, high-cheekboned face), she became a model in order to survive in post-War Germany.
She did not like this, as she wanted to be noticed for herself, not for wearing someone's clothes well, and got out as soon as she could.
She made some movies in the early Sixties, notably Fellini's La Dolce Vita, and lingered around the beautiful and vapid (including French actor Alain Delon, by whom she would have her son Ari), since the powerful and interesting were occasionally found in such orbits.
Because of her associations with Brian Jones, she recorded a single in 1965,
"I'm Not Sayin' / The Last Mile". I have not heard it, but, as the A-side is by
Canadian Gordon Lightfoot, and is rather a darkly romantic song, it may have
suited her, though the B-side, being written by
Of course, beauty and vapidity were the hallmarks of the Warhol camp, into whose clutches she fell by the mid-Sixties, making such movies as The Chelsea Girls; I, A Man; The Closet and Velvet Underground and Nico.
That environment also contained the Velvet Underground, with which she did one album and recorded three songs, ranging from the delicate "I'll Be Your Mirror" to the ironic "Femme Fatale" to the proto-goth anthem "All Tomorrow's Parties" (she sang backup on "Sunday Morning" as well).
Evidently, her presence in the Velvets was imposed by Warhol, who wanted a beautiful figurine.
Accounts as to why she left vary both from and within those present, but the story this tale-weaver most frequently told was that she did not want to be 'a mannequin with a microphone'.
Her first solo album, Chelsea Girl (1968) was an off-shoot of her post-band gig singing covers in a seedy nightclub. Again, she felt used there, as the men who came there reacted to her looks rather than her deep, slow voice and either leered or threw things when she chastised them.
It is pretty with its minimal guitars, strings and flute, but Nico disowned it because of that beauty, and it does age badly, as well as suffer from flat production and a rushed schedule. Only such pieces as "It Was A Pleasure Then" (an eight-minute feedback drone) and the title track (a lovely but heartless song, and the only track the flute feels necessary on) suggest directions forward.
Nico was not Judy Collins or Joan Baez, and the faux-folk feel would be history by her next album - she was beginning to find her own voice and words.
The Marble Index (1969), arranged and largely performed by John Cale (he would collaborate with Nico on five LPs), signaled a change from its cover alone.
Gone was the vulnerable blonde woman who graced the cover of Chelsea Girl. She stands imperious, wrapped in dark clothing, tall as the sky and sporting a much darker reddish-blonde shade (it would eventually be dyed to a deliberately unattractive dark brown).
The music inside is forbidding, though not without a certain beauty.
John Cale said of it: 'Nico, how do you sell suicide?' - and he was not too far off. It is a deathly record, with its groaning Indian organ, ominous strings, solemnly tolling tuned percussion and Nico's deep, cavernous alto voice. However, it is brilliant, and no-one has made anything that sounds remotely like it (perhaps some Siouxsie and the Banshees, but even there they throw in rock influences) - which is a tribute to her genius and a mixed blessing, as it stands alone on an island.
On which point, Desertshore (1971) followed.
A friend of mine who is a classical fan likes this record, and it is strangely pleasant. There are massed keyboards, some trumpet and strings, as well as Nico's voice at its most controlled and some of her best harmonium playing. Lyrically, a song like 'Afraid' (from which I lifted this article's title) is vulnerable, but also isolated.
The title of this regrettably short LP is apt, as Nico would spend most of the rest of her life in exile within herself, or on the run in search of chemical escape.
The End is her masterpiece, or at least her final major work, as it contains ambitious arrangements and benefits from Brian Eno (synths) and Phil Manzanera (guitars), as well as John Cale on multiple instruments, and comprises her best songs vocally and melody-wise. The covers of "The End" and, of all things, "Deutschland Uber Alles" are signs of courage and daring at the very least.
From this point on, the output becomes dicey. In addition to live records, Nico managed two more LPs - the regrettable recording with a rock band, Drama of Exile (1981/1983; in explanation of the date, it was released in two versions, due to various deals she made when she was junk-sick. Look for the 'Version Originale' from France, that has just been re-issued, because it is by far the better of the two, and contains the single 'Vegas/Saeta', which were good attempts at rock), and the average Camera Obscura (1985), a synth-drenched record with a romantic, doomy rendition of "My Funny Valentine".
Looking back, one of the last songs she recorded, "Das Lied Vom Einsamen Madchen" (The Song of The Lonely Girl), though a cover, sums it up best:
"Because she was lonely / and so blonde her hair / and her heart as dead as stone / he called 'poor child, come / you'll never be lonely again.'"
And so, exiled on Ibiza and trying to kick heroin, she went out on her bicycle, wrapped in her trademark dark robes, and suffered a stroke, whose treatment was delayed both by the refusal of local hospitals to admit this bohemian 'hippie' and the destruction of her veins by drug injection, and died - and a dark genius passed from the Earth.
Since this is a nominally queer 'zine, it makes sense to discuss the figures who have helped me in my evolution as a queer person; inspired me; or been admired by me.
After all, even though 'the community' is a source of ambivalent and uncertain feelings for me, I do have a sense of identity and solidarity with the fringes of queer culture.
As this is a music section, I will focus on that sub-culture; besides, it has always been my favourite area of art, as it combines words and performance in an accessible but thought-provoking manner.
So, without further ado, the obligatory top ten list (though not
necessarily in order of preference):
(1)Lou Reed - Well, when I was a young fag of 17 or so, he was to die for.
"Sister Ray" was the second best song about Killer Queens.
"Coney Island Baby", with its line about how the straightest dude he ever knew was standing right by him all the time and its dedication to his trannie girlfriend Rachel, not to mention that I always assumed he wanted to play something other than football with the coach, was the ultimate tearjerker.
"Some Kinda Love", with its assertion that 'no kinds of love are better than others' was affirming.
Plus, he was cute, and, if he could play guitar and sing, so could I.
In short, he was the sort of tough, tender and tortured icon I could
relate to then - and now.
(2) Diamanda Galas - It's true she's probably straight - but her decision not to breed, her aspiration to 'become a big old dyke like Bessie Smith' and her general 'queerness' (old sense) give her an honourary pass, in my view.
This 'demonic diva' sings with beauty, agony, fury and passion that I can only dream of, and her piano playing is more powerful than a wall of guitars.
You can have Barbra, sisters - here's my
grande dame.
(3) Pansy Division - The first male queercore band I
started to collect stuff by.
I concede the shtick is getting old to me now, but, initially, I was shocked and then excited.
Plus, again, I could play their stuff after one listen, which is a bonus
for guitar geeks like me...
(4) Bob Mould - I must confess I had no idea about his 'team status' until he came out, but I've liked him since I first heard him.
Maybe it's that vaguely hopeful desperation in his voice and songs.
Maybe it's his cuddly bearishness.
Maybe it's his reluctance to be a 'good role model' for corporate alternative and queer culture.
I know it's not because I can play his songs - because, with one exception, I can't.
I suspect it might be another Pete Townshend situation, where I can say: 'See - fags can play loud guitars!'
(5) Nico - The voice of this late chanteuse. The
anti-beauty that still exuded style. For these reasons alone, I adored her.
She was queer, having affairs with at least Coco Chanel and Edie Sedgwick.
There was androgyny in her singing and writing voice, and she had a strong sense of otherness and personal timing that I admired deeply.
Of course, I must confess I would rather have someone with me on the
"Desertshore" to share my "Drama of Exile"...
(6) GB Jones - Whether it be for her films, such as
"Yo-Yo Gang" and "Troublemakers"; her music with Fifth Column;
her drawings and photographs; or her 'zines (JDs, Double Bill and Bitch Nation), she makes
my list as a renaissance grrrl and a DIY hero.
I could just gush and gush...but I would suggest dropping her a line at P.O. Box 55,
Stn. E, Toronto, Ontario, CANADA, M6H 4E1 and find out for yourself the enormous range of
work she has done.
(7) Team Dresch - Unfortunately, this band has called it
a day after two albums, three singles and a handful of compilation tracks.
However, Donna Dresch (guitar, bass, head of Chainsaw Records); Jody Bleyle (guitar, bass, vocals and head of CandyAss Records); Kaia Wilson (guitar, vocals and now head of Mr. Lady Records and Video) and a variety of drummers made hard-rocking lesbian punk that had intelligence and wit and anger and pain all wrapped up in a devastatingly powerful package.
Donna and Jody are carrying on as Electricians (or Team
Dresch - it seems to vary), and Kaia has two solo albums in a folk-rock mode
(and a new one with the Butchies).
(8) Jayne County - This trannie, stonewall vet actress/songwriter has held a special place in my heart since I first heard her material.
Her combination of vulgarity, razor-sharp politics and screamingly black humour is just the living end, child.
Furthermore, she is a mistress of the self-defense microphone-stand swing,
and there aren't too many in that category (to explain, she once broke the shoulder of a
fellow musician/homophobe to shut him up).
(9) Boy George - You read that right, so don't bother checking again.
At my school in the 80s, it was not cool to like him - but I did.
Not so much for the music, though I do own one Culture Club album and listen to it very occasionally.
It was more for his persona and the way it irritated (and probably turned on) jocks - the way he was treated by the media in the drug scandal (shades of Oscar Wilde) - and his brilliant, no-holds-barred 1995 autobiography, Take It Like A Man.
Plus, he put out one brilliant solo album, "Cheapness And
Beauty" (1995), that, for a major-label release, just burned with queer politics,
glam, fury and bitchiness. For that, I will always love the Boy.
(10) Cole Porter - Again, there is no reason to verify your vision.
We all have quirky favourites, and this is mine.
The wit and subliminal queerness of this man's work (witness 'Baby, I'm the bottom and you're the top' or the lyrics about sailors and queens in 'Too Darned Hot') cannot be underestimated, and his tunes are enduring as well.
Besides it was his music that was turned to for the first major AIDS benefit album, as
you may recall, with
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