No, I don’t know where that headline came from either. So don’t ask. Just embrace it. I did. It’s like Grace Jones. I don’t know where she comes from. It doesn’t matter, does it? What’s important is that she came from somewhere – some distant planet where beings are programmed to make music for us earthlings to have sex to? - and sang Slave to the Rhythm, Pull Up to the Bumper, My Jamaican Guy, Love is The Drug (eat your tongue out, Mr Ferry), Warm Leatherette and, more recently and just as satisfyingly, Williams’ Blood, Libertango and Hurricane.
I don’t want to ask questions about Grace Jones. And that’s not because I very fondly remember her slugging some TV interviewer (it could have been David Frost but I don’t really care, what only matters to me is that she had the balls to do it) because he asked a question she didn’t like. I just want her to be. What she is. Wherever she’s from. Whatever she wants to be. As long as she does it for me.
And as long as she keeps making music that makes me want to have sex within seven seconds of hearing her sing. I’ve been playing her tunes in my car on the way to parties and clubs since time began. And I think time began when I first heard Grace Jones. Enough. I have something to show you. Now if you’re one of those sticklers who simply must have their videos beautifully shot and edited with the sound just right, best you hop over this one to the second bit of vid I’m throwing your way later on.
But if you’re happy to just feel the unmatchable mad sexualness of the vibe of Miss Jones, stick around…
How was that for you? I would be interested to know. OK. that was filmed by some over-excited fan sitting in the sixth row so Martin Scorsese’s not about to put his hand up and say “I did it”. But that’s not the point, is it? The point is that our girl, our stellar turbo-sexual galactico, felt like swirling a hula-hoop around her waist for at least seven minutes while giving Paris a collective hard-on. And while she was introducing her band to the audience too. I like the fact that she can multi-task while so effortlessly and felinely and so sexually giving Parisians yet another 41 reasons to think about definitely having sex when they get home, if not much sooner. Like right there in the sixth row.