As I’ve undoubtedly stated before, I often gravitate towards art that frightens me. Grace Jones ‘ A One Man Show created in 1982 by Jones with then- partner Jean Paul Goude, is one such example. Channel 4 screened it a few years later and I was still in my early teens. It remains a formative experience.
Jones, possessed of an incredible singing voice and also a brilliant dancer, broke the mould for pop music. Can it even be considered pop music? It transcends genre, with Sly and Robbie’s choppy, spooky production, somewhere between reggae and soul, and detours into creepy chanson.
Miss Grace Jones, who based her onstage persona on her abusive preacher grandfather Mas P, cut an androgynous figure in tailored suits,flat -top haircut and heels. She referenced the Black subversion of Josephine Baker, the surrealism of Tristan Tsara and the elegance of Vogue magazine. Few shows then or since have been so sexy, disturbing and witty. All bangers are present and correct here: My Jamaican Guy, Walking In The Rain, Private Life, Living My Life, Libertango.
Witness her speeding up figure, running like a demented cartoon character up and down staircases. There’s an army of Jones clones marching like Nazis, and some sculptural, strange costumes. Or she’s a Black Edith Piaf with an accordion, doing her capricious cabaret serenade, only for the camera to pull back, revealing a barren alien landscape. The question is thus raised: who’s she performing to? Is she creating art in a vacuum, howling into the void? And what is art for, anyway? What’s its function?
This was the closest my teen self had got to performance art, but I never forgot it. There have been nods to the film in recent years, not least from excellent artists like St Vincent, FKA twigs and Bjork, to lesser wannabes like Lady Gaga and Charli XCX, but there’s only one Grace Jones. This film sealed her reputation forever.
Hit The North 