Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

41. He Blows Hot and Cold: Pt- I

A/N-
(I didn't edit this yet, I apologise in advance🫠)
Enjoy😌

H.G.
New York, USA
14th September.

MTV's first annual 'Video Music Awards' was certainly an... experience.

Held in Radio City Music Hall, hosted by Ghostbuster's Dan Aykroyd, and No Frill's Bette Midler, the VMA's promised to be a much 'hipper' version of the Grammy's. I don't know about all that, because the VMA's seemed just as tedious and long.

Awards were doled out for hours by presenters who desperately tried to get some laughs during their brief stint in the spotlight. Herbie Hancock won an incredible five awards for his acclaimed 'Rockit' video. The very en vogue, Michael Jackson, received three awards, which were accepted by Diana Ross in his absence. Cyndi Lauper, the most nominated artist of the night, only walked away with one award in the end for 'Girl's Just Want To Have Fun'. Of course then the audience was treated (and I use that term loosely) with a whole host of live performances from the likes of ZZ Top and Huey Lewis and the News, as well as a pre taped David Bowie rendition of 'Blue Jean'. There were more of course but I'm trying to wipe them from my mind.

Rod Stewart gave a rather rambunctious performance of 'Infatuation', which left me trying to determine all night whether it was his metallic blue suit, sparkling golden shoes or voice which gave me a headache. The free drinks obviously rushed to my head in the middle of one of Rod's little dance breaks because I found myself wishing that Freddie was at my side. Only so that I could make some bitchy comment, and have him scold me through the laughter he attempted to stifle. I put my flute of champagne down when that traitorous thought decided to worm its way into my mind.

Only when the guests of the award show spilled off in different directions to the various after parties, did I touch another drop of alcohol again. Being stuck between two of my fellow music critics from Rolling Stone, in the middle of a bustling Hard Rock Café, had made whiskey not a want, but a need.

Dave Martin, reedy and rough, whacked me on the back, "Griff, seriously man, what's your secret?"

"It's the accent," Chris Bernard, short and smug, grunted, "Means he doesn't even have to try with the women here."

"Yeah," Dave hummed, "But didn't Madonna live in London for years? Surely she's immune to the accent by now, it must be something else."

Ah yes... Madonna.

I suppose I can't speak about the first ever VMA's without mentioning the most 'iconic' moment to emerge from it. Madonna had writhed about on stage in an ivory lace ensemble that purposely went against any image of a virginal bride in white whilst singing along to 'Like A Virgin'. It wasn't my cup of tea, but it was objectively a good way to get publicity. If Madonna wasn't a well known name before, it would be the name on everyone's lips for weeks to come. Bad publicity is good publicity and all that jazz.

Thanks to Alex Moore, who had fucking told his dear friend Madonna that I was mad for her, I would also come be associated with the pop star after tonight.

On the way into the Hard Rock Cafe, I had been conversing with Nick Rhodes from Duran Duran, and his wife Julie Anne Friedman, when I was set upon by the blonde. Either Madonna wouldn't know what a boundary was if it were to slap her on the head, or she was drunk, but the girl literally threw her arms around me. A kiss was then smacked on my cheek when I turned my chin from meeting her oncoming lips head on. The over amorous American proceeded to coo that she had heard so much about me from Alex. I was "hotter" than she expected, which was brilliant because apparently Alex had wanted to set us up. I mumbled that hot was a measure of temperature and she laughed. It wasn't my intention to be funny.