@chekurriengq24 (^) JULY 2019
relived
EightIes
A
few weeks ago, in a bolt from the blue,
American GQ uploaded a glorious image
of George Michael to its Instagram. It took
about two minutes for the post to blow up,
a spontaneous digital outburst steeped in nostalgia and
childlike zeal. I double-tapped too, joining the virtual
embrace of a childhood hero. For many us who came of age
in the 1980s, George Michael was the gold standard: movie
star looks and bad boy edge with the voice of an angel.
Wham’s Make It Big was the rst record I fell in love with.
It was 1986, the year of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Top Gun
and Chernobyl. I still had milk teeth. The next summer, I
visited London for the rst time. It was heady: punks awash
in leather, aming pink hair, pierced tongues, dark make-
up. So weird, so cocky, so unlike home. My eyes opened.
These days London is more accessible, but less distinct,
less wild, more generic. I have to tread carefully here, and
not fall into the classic inter-generational trap of feeling
like things have gotten worse with time. The truth is, I
was too young to fully experience the hedonism, creativity
and super ciality of the 1980s. But I did have a glimpse.
And it was electric. To delve a little deeper into this period,
you could do worse than to hunt down ace photographer
Paige Powell’s important new book Beulah Land, a project
supported by Gucci. Powell grew up in Portland but moved
to New York in the 1980s, where she fell into Andy Warhol’s
inner circle, giving her a ringside view of the city’s explosive
arts scene. She even dated Jean-Michel Basquiat. In this
issue, we interview Powell about this era, and the unbridled
creativity it spawned. George Michael would have enjoyed
ipping through its sumptuous pages.
PHOTO: MAX HERMANS/THOMPSON PHOTO IMAGERY (CHE). IMAGE: GETTY IMAGES (GEORGE MICHAEL)
George Michael,
idol of an entire
generation
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