RECORD MIRROR magazine

3.11.83

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When I met Marilyn on a sweet semi-sunny afternoon, I was immediately disarmed with a firm but easy handshake and completely captivated by his careless charm and instant smile.

"You're very hippie," Marilyn observed pleasantly as we accommodated ourselves on some very squishy furniture in Haysi's West End warehouse. Yes, but only as a protest against 'trendy' clothes. I'm supposed to look opulent, I explain. "I like hippies," he says with a grin, and fixing me with a hypnotic hazel gaze at the same time.

"Blue hat for a blue....blecch!" he sings, half to himself, in a wicked imitation of Nick Heyward. "Do you know he said my single was coffee table music?" (That's 'Calling Your Name' to you and me). Marilyn wrinkles his nose disdainfully, then he puts his be-dreadlocked head on one side and narrows his beautiful almond eyes at me. "You'll probably hate it too, come to think of it," he says. Why should I? What's it like? "Mowtown." I'll like it, then, I squeal indignantly. I used to sing in a motown band before I started this! "Oh well, then you'll probably like it," he shrugs, chewing gum at breakneck speed.

I heard you were inspired by knickers, I state, taking out my note-pad. "Inspired by what?" Asks Marilyn, a slight smile beginning. Knickers, coming through the post for someone else. "Oh yeah, but I've always intended to do my own thing, man." Who were the knickers for then? "Oh," Marilyn makes a bored mouth, "Some blonde hunk in Los Angeles, in a soap opera that hasn't been syndicated worldwide yet. I can't remember his name. Oh yeah, Lester, Terry Lester. I had to answer his fan-mail."

You get the impression that if you were to tear your clothes off, light a fire and dance around it under Marilyn's nose, it's doubtful if he'd even notice. If he did, the most he'd do would be to raise one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and blink amiably at you, patiently waiting for you to finish. So, in the end, I decide it's best to abandon any shock tactics and simply plod through the line of questions on my knee.

Okay, so why did you scoot off to LA and a post-bag full of knickers,then? "I s'pose I just wanted to see another culture, I was bored with England," he shrugs, turning sideways on the sofa to face me. "I felt I'd done everything I wanted to do; the only other thing I wanted to do was to make a record, and I couldn't do that because Paul (Caplin) was starting up Haysi Fantayzee. So I went to LA." Under the flawlessly made-up gaze of Marilyn, I suddenly become aware of my own hurried make-up job, and cringe, digging out old hack question number one: So tell me about your own music. What sort of things do you draw on when you write a song? "Um, well, when I draw, I draw on paper," he grins, boyishly. Alright, I was asking for that. "But no, what I sing about is, um, lots of different things, whatever I feel that day. The past. What's happened to me. Different situations. You know."

Marilyn doesn't look at the ceiling or the floor when he's searching for words; instead he looks right at you, which can be very unnerving. No use trying to stare him down; better just to blush and be rewarded with a triumphant chuckle and a wicked grin. Alright then, time for trusty old chestnut number two: what about musical influences? Is there one artist you really admire? "Diana Ross," he answers enthusiastically and without hesitation. "Just everything about her. The way she entertains people, she's so professional. I'd love to meet her."

Apart from knickers, I hear rotten school days were instrumental in making you want to get on. Vicious school mates. What was that all about, then? <web-author's note - what a bloody stupid question. Does she not know how fascist schools are?> "Oh, they just called me queer and poof and stuff like that - the usual." He shrugs, again. Mmm, they called me the Gyppo at school, I tell him, by way of commiseration. "There you go, then," Marilyn sighs self-mockingly, "You and me both, Blanche!" So it made you really determined to show them all, did it? "Yeah, but I grew out of that pretty quickly. Now I'm showing myself what I can do."

There's been a lot of media fuss over the fact that you're friends with a certain Mr. O'Dowd. Does that bother you? I mean, do you think it's going to be hard to shake off the 'Boy George's chum' tag? <Another web-author's note - oh for f**k's sake, not again!!> Marilyn prods his lower lip with his index finger thoughtfully for a minute before answering. "I'd never deny my friendship with him," he states calmly, "But no, I don't like it when people keep going on about it. If they want to know about him, they should ask him, not me. What can I say? If you're friends with someone, you're friends with someone. Who cares?" Don't you think it's silly though, that you're constantly being compared with him, when I would have thought that you're far more comparable with Haysi Fantayzee? "Yeah, I mean, it's ridiculous, Blanche! Because here I am, I'm working in Haysi Fantayzee's office," Marilyn says, getting animated for the first time, "You know, no-one has ever mentioned Haysi in any of my interviews before, and I'm here in their studio and people are comparing me to someone who's even further away than they are. It's just ridiculous - stupidity!" He shakes his head, chewing furiously. Why do you think they do it, then? "Because people feel more comfortable when they can lump you into a category," he states concisely, "And I'm not the sort of person you can lump into a category - as you'll find out!" he adds, grinning like a naughty schoolboy and wiggling his eyebrows at me. Giggle, giggle, giggle...

Well, anyway. You got bored with nightclubbing, didn't you? What was it like, actually having a teenage social-life? Marilyn smiles and bats his eyelashes. "Well, Marge," he scratches the back of his neck and puts on an earnest Clare Rayner face, "My school-life was the nightclubs. I was, like, being childish then, but I'm moving into adulthood now."

How old are you then? "Twenty...I'll be 21 in November." (Cue floods of flowers and knickers through the post...)

Well, you're obviously not bothered about becoming a star, with all the trappings of fame, are you? I ask, as his whole manner seems to indicate that he couldn't care less. "Um, well," Marilyn leans back against the sofa and ties several dreadlocks together behind his head. "Stars to me are dying planets so I don't think I'm one of those. I'm just doing what I've got to do, and if people like it, great, and if they don't, tough cookie." He turns a blinding smile on me: "It's no skin off my nose."

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