In the end, he’s said it all on the first page of the tour programme:
“Now I’m here. I’m me. And my music represents just me. And if people like the music and they like the way I present myself, then chances are they’ll like me. If they don’t then they won’t. It’s as simple as that.”
The letters are gold, in capitals, fixed with a golden certainty and conviction that in the end proves impenetrable, inexorable. I throw at him, bluntly, what I can, what I will. I saw, tell me. Tell me you have male sex, take cocaine, wallow in money, waste money, horde money. Tell me you’re lonely and hunted, fake, smug, unworthy, corrupt, insecure, sheltered and live and breathe a golden glamour that is impossible. Let me look at your world and then tell me your golden life isn’t real. And, in the end, he talks for fifty minutes almost without pause, with a ruthless confidence, a relentless assurance, a controlled clarity and purpose, so that it seems real. It seems the image and the real person have never been closer or less distinguishable. He is in control.
SOURCE: George Michael Interview in Blitz Magazine (June 1988)
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