

### VINYL TIGER

Volume 1: the 80s

BY DAVE DI VITO

Copyright © 2015 Dave Di Vito

Ebook Edition

Written by Dave Di Vito

Edited by Lucy Greenberry

Cover Design by Shane Hearn

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Disclaimer: The material in this book is for mature audiences only and contains graphic content. It is intended only for those aged 18 and older.

This is the first volume of the complete work _Vinyl Tiger._

1.1 Edition

ISBN 978-0-9944870-3-2

Note

This is the first of three volumes of _Vinyl Tiger._

The complete novel _Vinyl Tiger_ is now widely available in digital and print versions.

_Volume 2: the 90s_ and _Volume 3: the 00s_ are also currently available.

# CONTENTS

# Those Early Years

# Brooklyn

# Burst

# It's Magic

# Felicidades | I'm Just Dancing

# Without You I'm Nothing

#  THOSE EARLY YEARS

"London is burning. Again," she sighed. Sitting at the window she could literally smell it. The acrid smell of burning rubber put her off her cigarette. She butt it out on the window and casually tossed it down to the street.

When there's that much unrest and restlessness circulating sometimes there's no option other than to fight. To don that cloth over your mouth, cut that lemon up, put it in your mouth, and fight your way forward. Moving through the murkiness and the wreckage all around you. Pushing through the obstacles.

Events unfold around us all the time. Sometimes we're involved in them, sometimes not. But the world tends to move like an obstacle course. A maze. If you're smart enough not to fit, not to kick and fuss; to surrender only to the inevitable, then you'll move forward. But if you focus too much on what you want and how something is supposed to be, then you'll be constantly disappointed by what you actually get. You get bogged down like a mouldy old stump in a dark forest. And your progress is halted.

When the barriers don't tumble down of their own accord you have to be alert enough to read the signs. The maze is easier to navigate if you can change your plans and ideas at a moment's notice and be prepared to take an alternate route. You can't just wave a wand and expect a golden pathway to appear, all shiny and pristine, because that shit only happens in fairy tales and the world is often a nasty place.

In a way you have to take a savage, wild approach to things. Follow your instincts, follow your heart and allow for the fact that not everybody in the urban jungle wants to see you shine. They have their own agendas that they're trying to push. And yours might simply run contrary to theirs. But their opposition should never stop you from pouncing when you sense that the moment is just right.

Long before he arrived in London, where almost daily he watched with wide eyes as the city tore itself apart, he'd already been looking for this kind of world.

He had what from the outside seemed like an idyllic youth. He lived in a perfectly nondescript city, did what was expected of him and rarely acted on his impulse to break the rules or to get up to mischief.

He'd excelled in his studies, not because he was particularly gifted or intelligent, but because he had no trouble understanding what was expected of him. A path of least resistance even if the actual demands of study offered no real challenge. Even then he had a way of recognising the end goal and just heading toward it, regardless of whether it was unpleasant or not. A single mindedness.

He'd been raised with a set of values that he abhorred. The things that his family placed value on seemed ridiculous to him. If anything, those values seemed to further isolate him from them. He already had a complex about not looking like anyone else in his family. His Eurasian appearance was like the white elephant no one dared acknowledge in his blue eyed household.

His parents were like sheep dressed as wolves. At home they harped on about _compassion_ and _peace and respect_ for others, but their daily lives were all but defined by their work ethic. Their long days working in middle class jungles. In factories and plants. It was only later when he ventured out of that world that he realised how much their values, which had seemed so ridiculous to him, had in fact formed him at his core. It was the internal conflict with this value system that would propel him to do the things he did.

If anything, the thing he resented most about that life was that it seemed like the easy way out. It was an offensive way of living only in that it didn't seem to hold any meaning for him. It just seemed so familiar and premeditated. Devoid of surprises. Ok, it was depressing to him.

He'd seen so many people of his generation who were already growing up and starting to dress like their own parents. People like his older siblings who were only a few years older than him but who were thinking, speaking and acting like people twice their age.

There may have been all kinds of movements rising up in different parts of the world, but for the most part, history seemed to be repeating itself. And he was dismayed that there seemed to be so little visible progress being made on his generation's part. At least in that neck of the woods that he called home; where his male peers invested all their time and energy into cars and sport, and their female peers seemed only too happy to second them.

He felt isolated by the lack of desire on their parts to forge forward in their own directions or to acknowledge the changing times. Something was burning inside of him, just as was occurring outwardly on the streets of London and other places. Something that resembled rage, but was more like a plea for change.

The voice inside constantly told him that this was not the road he should be taking. That his destiny wasn't simply something laid out for him like a set of social boxes that needed to be ticked off along the way. _Graduation? Tick. Employed? Tick. Coupled? Tick. Engaged? Tick. Married? Tick. First home? Tick._

So when he sensed that there were signs appearing to him, he wasted no time in throwing caution to the wind. Any ambition he had for the career in journalism that awaited him was ready to be diverted elsewhere. After a year at university on a scholarship and of living in a share house in the Melbourne inner city, which seemed a little more tolerable than where he'd grown up, he jumped at the first offer that was made to him. By that older man that he'd been seeing on the sly.

Of course there were dozens of reasons why they couldn't be seen out in public together. Not in that way. Yes, the older man was married. But the problem didn't rest with his wife. She knew about their arrangement and by all accounts was happy for him to come along for the ride and to guest star in their marriage.

But some semblance of discretion had to be kept up. Not only because society wasn't yet ready to support any show of affection on their parts. But because the foundation of their relationship wasn't solid. They weren't a couple. The silver fox was a professor that he studied under. He had been seduced by him, no doubt in the same way that other students before him had been. But they enjoyed being together because the sex was fun and because there were no heavy ties between the two of them.

For the professor, bouncing off of the teenager's unharnessed energy was intoxicating. Tasting his naivety and the untamed, restless ambition that seemed to colour the youth's approach to everything back then was utterly thrilling. He encountered students like that every so often. The ones who were so gripped by the desire to do something different that it often provoked them to act out defiantly in almost every context. That unconventional behaviour had a way of helping them redefine their own worlds and their places in them, and was an incredibly attractive proposition to those who'd reached a point where they'd felt that they'd already seen (and done) it all.

There was something about this student that seemed to differ from the others he'd taken under his wing and into his bed. This one had been the first to show a complete disdain for the couple's _new age_ tendencies. He seemed to think that theirs was a wholesale and unsubstantial embracing of Eastern thought and of Buddhism.

He'd grown up with it, he'd say, and it made him laugh how white people in particular, saw it as an exotic answer to _everything_. But all the same, the couple wanted him to come along with them on their annual spiritual pilgrimage to India. The professor pitched it as a way of helping his charge broaden his horizons.

The academic had suggested he join them for a little while on the ashram to see if it was his thing or not. _It could be a growing experience._ And it would help he and his wife avoid having to spend too much time on their own. Having a third or fourth wheel in this case would be a blessing. Their long marriage was testament to the fact that they'd minimised the time they'd spent alone together, right out from their honeymoon which they'd taken with friends on a Pacific Island in the sixties.

If the ashram was not his thing, the professor said, well, there was a whole country waiting to be roamed. An entire subcontinent to explore, to photograph and to sketch. It would be just the thing he needed to help inspire him for all those part time design projects he seemed to be working on.

So he broke the news that he was heading off to India to his loving, straightforward family over the Sunday dinner he was still required to attend. But he didn't explain who he was going with, 'cos that simply wasn't their business. He watched as they looked at him with a look of shock and disbelief, that _he_ , of all people, would be so stupid to think it a good idea to suspend his studies and risk his scholarship to go abroad.

They were furious and incapable of understanding that this was his ticket out of the maze in every conceivable way. That finally, the first real _interesting_ possibility was presenting itself. That he absolutely had to take advantage of the free ticket and the experience on offer because student housing, cadetships and all the part time work he had weren't fitting the bill.

He'd never been out of the country before. Not even on a plane before. But somehow his street smarts kicked in early. What he hadn't counted on was arriving in India and very quickly being made to feel like he was not an equal but a bit of entertainment.

Much of the first week there was groggy in his memory. He remembered that the ashram was as beautiful as they said it would be. He remembered the kind of terracotta landscape and the hot, dry air that seemed to drain him of his energy. Each day he was plied with _ganja_ by the professor. When he would turn down the joints they offered him they would instead slip it into his _lassi_ or whatever it was that he was being given to eat.

He'd pass out on his bed and wake up late the next day to find that he was soiled. Sometimes in his own bodily fluids and waste, but usually in that of others. It was only after a week or so that his body began to better tolerate what it was constantly being plied with. And it was only then, on what seemed like another typical day where he'd again been all but ignored during the day but been made the centre of attention in the king sized bed at night, that he realised what had been happening to him. He'd passed out again that night but had come to a little after 2 am. When he woke he saw that lying next to him was his professor and the professor's similarly aged, but fat and hairy friend. As they snored away he felt acute pain and discomfort all over. His skin was covered in red blotches and he stank. The mattress and sheet beneath him were only slightly damp but the smell that they and his body gave off made him realise just how the night's events had proceeded.

Those men, those married men, more than twice his age, had both taken turns in having their violent ways with him. They'd held him down and ploughed away at him, taking turns at restraining him by forcing his head down into the mattress while they emptied themselves into him as if it was a form of spiritual release. They'd slapped him around when he offered up his weakened resistance and had literally pissed all over him as he fell into a slumber. The acrid taste he had at the corner of his lips was one that he didn't recognise, but given that even his hair smelt like urine, he understood the level to which they'd taken things.

So although his instinct was to take swift and violent revenge with whatever he could find in the room, he instead began to think about how he could get out of there as soon as possible. His anger and discomfort authorised him to raid their wallets which he found in the back pockets of their pants and in the bedside drawers, and he took nearly all the cash that was in them. He felt the amounts were warranted by the level of humiliation he'd sustained.

He clearly understood the sign being communicated to him. That he, if he stayed, would be their plaything. Not a younger equal, not a person. Just a plaything.

He gathered his things and crept out of the bungalow and stealthily made his way through the grounds, having to walk a kilometre or so before he finally spotted a rickshaw driver who agreed to take him to the nearby train station. The same station where he had alighted just over a week before. He spoke slowly with the attendee in the booth and learned there was a train that would pass by, in just two ungodly hours' time. It was a sleeper train that would take him up into the hill stations in just six or seven hours.

He bought himself a ticket and searched for a faucet. In the darkness of the area behind the kiosk, he lathered up the soap from his bag and washed himself. He took great care to soap himself anywhere he could reach and then sat under the faucet to rinse himself off. He disposed of the small towel he had and returned to the platform, where there were the first signs of the nocturnal comings and goings of people. The occasional rat scampered by but he consoled himself with a fried pastry and a soft drink whose name he didn't recognise, but whose sugars restored the energy his body had been wringed of.

He doubted whether or not this had all been one huge mistake on his part. Coming to India and leaving the room. Was he simply over reacting to a night that had gotten out of hand? Perhaps the problem was his. Perhaps he wasn't as progressive and daring as he had thought he was. Maybe he had been naïve to not understand what the invitation had meant in the first place. And what would he do if they turned up at the station, the only logical place he would've gone, before the train arrived? But it hurt to think, let alone to sit on his ass, so he leaned his head against the grimy wall and propped his bottom up a bit so that it was not bearing all of his weight and compounding his agony. And from that uncomfortable position, more yogic than the entire week at the ashram had ever been, he kept an eye on both the clock and on the station gates.

As he waited nervously, he realised he hadn't really been at an ashram. Perhaps in name it was one, but really, it was just the vestige of a bygone era where people like the professor took delight in masking degradation with opportunism. He'd been in the company of pseudo ex hippies, who shrouded their wealth, their obnoxiousness and their questionable moral attitudes in the guise of being intellectually _open_ and _enlightened_.

Being aware that he had endured the kind of humiliating things he would never have otherwise consented to made him feel incredibly vulnerable when the waves of anger he felt temporarily subsided. Being in a foreign environment made everything that much more humiliating and alienating.

On the train people were transfixed by him, partly because sleep held no fascination for them. They marvelled at his (bleached) blond hair and his luminescent skin and at the contradiction of his Eurasian face. People also stared at him simply because he was something new and exotic for them to look at after having already been couped up in their compartments for hours on end.

Hearing that a foreigner was on board brought out visitors from other carriages who were equally taken by him. When that interest subsided, a turbaned Sikh explained that people would soon enough be clambering on board to offer some chai and some roti, but that in the meantime he could have some of his water, _"if you want it."_ The Sikh sensed that the youth was tiring of all of the attention, so struck up a conversation with him to help distract him from the staring.

He asked the foreigner where he was from and seemed stupefied when he answered _'Australia'_ instead of Turkey or Afghanistan or some neighbouring place. The Sikh asked what he was doing here and in reply was told that he was on holiday, that he wanted to explore the world, because the real explanation would've probably left him dumbfounded. Though he was young, the youth knew that when someone handed you kindness and water it wasn't the ideal moment to explain that you'd spent the week seeing none of the country but every inch of a pair of middle aged bodies. It would be such an uncouth thing to talk about at that hour especially with that soft, nurturing light that was slowly coming into the carriage. The light that finally made it not seem like a cage on rails.

By the time the train finally arrived at its destination he'd already been given a crash course in surviving the Indian rail system and had been taught to buy food and drink from the vendors who swarmed onto the train any time it was moving slow enough to board. In that long but short ride, he'd also been forced to hem in his spiralling emotions and to deal with the confronting desperation of the beggars who seemed to preternaturally sniff him out.

Drawing from his newly bulging wallet, he quickly availed himself of a cheap hotel room to stay in for a while, before he had to make his next decision. But within a week he was teaching English in an orphanage, simply because someone had asked him to and it seemed like it would be a good way to regroup. Soon enough, he was living with a British born Indian; the only other foreigner in town, and he would stay in that small town for months.

A combination of isolation and desperation quickly led to the two entering into what could be loosely termed a relationship together. In their downtime, and especially during those long evenings with limited electricity, they contented themselves with sex, reading by candle light or with the Brit, Anesh, teaching him how to play some of the more basic chords and progressions on the guitar.

For a while, things seemed idyllic. They enjoyed each other's company, they were both doing what they considered useful work at the orphanage and the months seemed to pass without drama, even when they both had to be taken over the border for what seemed like forever just to renew their visas.

But soon enough things soured, because, well, he didn't really know why. He just knew that there was more that he wanted to do and see and to experience, and that he'd never be able to do them if he stayed there in that little house in the hill town that, until that point, had meant everything to him. But the experiential expiry date had presented itself to him so quickly, as had Anesh's, who was kind and clever and creative, but like the first shop you see when you're shopping. And one must never content themselves with the first set of windows.

He didn't exactly break Anesh's heart when he apologised, saying that he had to leave, but his guilt encouraged him to leave the kids in the orphanage without saying goodbye to them, because, it reasoned, the last thing they needed was yet another adult kissing them off.

His restlessness and the Indian train system took him away from the lush, high altitude greenery and across the parched countryside to New Delhi, where he figured he could finally find a local hairdresser to dye his hair, which was now getting longer and that had become an awful combination of regrowth and orangey ends. It had become so long that he'd taken to wearing it in a top bun that resembled some kind of mutant pineapple. He settled on an auburn red colour and spent a few weeks exploring the city and further afield in Agra and the surrounds, writing postcards and collecting vinyl discs of Hindi pop. The cash that he'd taken as compensation for his indignity at the ashram came in handy again because he used it to buy a ticket to Bombay when Delhi's charms wore off and to rent a hotel room there for another couple of weeks.

By the time the six month mark of his time in India rolled around another opportunity presented itself. A visiting scout from a modelling agency had spotted him and his shining _henna_ head in an expat bar where he'd been bussing tables and had asked if he was interested in doing a little modelling.

The scout took him back to a hotel room, much _swisher_ than his own, and photographed him up against the wallpaper with a Polaroid camera, showing him the pictures before he scribbled something in kanji all over their white frames. The scout was sweet and respectful and seemed to ignore the possibility of trying anything untoward, instead instructing him to be downstairs in the foyer the next morning at 10am if he wanted a job.

The next morning he crossed town as instructed and was there early, which was good because the scout and two other _extraordinarily beautiful_ creatures were already waiting for him. He nervously introduced himself to the others after the Svengali failed to do so and made small talk with them during the minivan ride, learning that one was an Israeli and the other a German. Neither seemed to know anything about where they were going, both having also been spotted in bars over the last few days and made privy only to the same offer and unclear details.

At 11am they all arrived at a studio lot and were ushered into a warehouse, where they were made to strip down to their underwear. It was then that tailors and dressers started to swathe them in a range of outfits. At that point he didn't know much about fashion but he realised that these were probably not high end clothes that they were going to be modelling. He didn't know it yet, but his face and his likeness, as captured that day, along with those of Adi and Yevron's, would end up forever appearing on the awnings of a range of tailor shops across the subcontinent. The kinds that lure in travellers with the promise of a quick and cheap knock off designer suit or outfit. Even today, a walk through the backstreets in some Indian cities still offers a sighting or two of those images that are now as weathered as the fashions being modelled in them.

But this was just the first of a series of jobs they had lined up for him. He spent the night with Adi, who, despite his incredible gorgeousness was very approachable. Adi had given him the signal at a certain point during the day that things were going to go beyond simply standing in front of a camera together. The next day they all made their way over to the same hotel lobby and piled back into the same minivan but this time they were taken to an entirely different lot. He followed the same procedures again, now without the nerves or uncertainty of the first day, because a) he'd already fucked his brains out with one of the other models the night before, and, b) because he now at least partly knew what was expected of him. These factors combined to make him feel more relaxed and sure about himself despite the absurdity of the situation, and of the inadequateness he'd felt when he first saw the strapping gents he would model with.

The clothes were better made this time around and the photo shoot was longer and more demanding. He had to learn to follow instructions and to interpret the photographer which meant that he had no time to keep thinking about how absurd this opportunity was and of how it would never have happened if he'd stayed home in Melbourne, where all they were interested in were people who looked like his siblings with their perfect blue eyes and blonde hair. And not in someone like him. He'd always been the _exotic_ one even when the situation didn't call for it. The one who looked like he'd been trafficked in from some Asian plateau yet, somehow, everyone managed to pretend like there was no issue when it was clear he was the Martian of the family.

During a break the Svengali returned and expressed how impressed he was with the three of them. He explained that because of visa problems, Yevron wouldn't be able to, but that both Adi and he were invited to come to Tokyo to do some modelling work there. Adi accepted on the spot, leading the Svengali to turn to the Melbournian. _"So, what do you say?"_

Soft drinks, beer, shoes, tennis rackets. Foreign faces needed for some low key ad campaigns and catalogues there. And just like Adi had, he expressed that he was more than open to and grateful for the offer. A resounding _yes_.

The following week he and Adi hung out together while the paperwork was being prepared. Yevron had moved on to Goa for a few last weeks of rest and relaxation, giving he and Adi the chance to get know each other better. The sex was good but the companionship and conversation was better because it buffered everything else in Bombay which otherwise seemed like a giant stimulant. Their conversation felt like the only real and grounded thing in that otherwise over the top place.

In Tokyo they were ushered into an apartment complex near Koganei in the city's west, nowhere near the prestigious Ginza, where he'd learned the bulk of foreign models were living. He never got much of a chance to meet many of them, but from what he understood, the majority of them weren't there by happy chance. They'd paid their dues and as such were able to command top dollar. He and Adi on the other hand were just another couple of faces in the cheaper sub industry that had popped up, offering manufacturers and advertising agencies foreign faces at more manageable prices. They were housed with another foreigner, a reasonably good looking French guy who'd been working there forever but whose social skills and attitude towards his new roommates were questionable.

Although their work schedules often crossed, he and Adi managed to find the time to explore Tokyo during their free time. Often that meant curtailing their nights out to catch the last trains of the night, but occasionally, if schedule permitted, they pulled the odd all-nighter with a return back to the apartment with the morning's first trains.

Though their earnings paled in comparison to the city's real foreign elite of models, their free board and accommodation meant that whatever they earnt was theirs to keep. He wasn't sure if a return to Melbourne would be on the cards once the work dried up. His family seemed a little disturbed by how his gallivanting was somehow paying off for him. But it seemed to them like a holiday and holidays always have to end, " _Otherwise_ ," his mother reminded him in her letter, " _they aren't holidays, are they?_ "

The working visas were pricklier in Japan than elsewhere and as a result their permission to stay and work expired after three months.

Adi, in a very neutral tone, told him that he was planning to go back to his hometown near Hamburg. He knew that he would never visit Adi there but he made his promises to nonetheless.

A few days later the two of them said their goodbyes after being paid out in full by the modelling agency. They hugged it out at Tokyo station before Adi head into the sprawling station to find his train to Narita airport and the Melbournian to the _shinkansen_ (fast train) platforms for his onward journey to Kyoto. Though there was deep affection for one another on both their parts there also seemed to be some relief in knowing that the dusk that surrounded them also marked the resumption of their respective journeys down their own roads.

He'd vaguely decided to head to London between being paid out and spending a few days in the old imperial capital. After securing himself a flight he felt at ease to soak up the atmosphere of the quaint city and learned quickly that he was just a hop, skip and a jump from Osaka, whose record stores he scoured, adding old J-pop and _enka_ records to his growing vinyl collection. Though he loved his afternoons traipsing around Osaka, he preferred the sleepier Kyoto for its combination of old and new and for offering him the first substantial green vistas that he'd seen in months. By the time he actually left for London he'd fallen in love with the place and vowed to return, a feeling that had not presented itself to him at any time in India or Tokyo.

In London he found modelling was no longer an option for him, even though he'd amassed a reasonably impressive portfolio to draw from by the time he arrived. In London, Asia, where things had come so easily to him, suddenly seemed so far away.

" _Too edgy", "too ethnic", "too short"._ The British agents' words differed but the sense was always the same. Basically every one of his insecurities laid bare and verbalised. A refrain often delivered in stuffy, upper class accents or in accents that betrayed Britain's usual class hierarchy. Each time the tweed pterodactyls dismissed him from an audition or a casting call he understood that little bit more that he would need to pursue other options at some point.

He found a room in a house with four others and worked bussing tables, waiting, and occasionally doing some life modelling at an art college. The art college acted like a marketplace for him. It was there he picked up occasional lovers, some design work and a second hand guitar which he treated like a child. He could barely remember any of the things that Anesh had taught him but persisting and persevering with daily practice helped him fill the gaps in his schizophrenic work schedule.

Although he was working like a dog, getting paid fuck all, and had no firm idea of what lay next, he was content. Things were fun, especially in that share house that was falling apart at the seams. By virtue of his house mates' and his own outgoingness, he began to move in more rambunctious London circles.

The new people, the occasional drugs and the ever present music all brought him a plethora of new experiences and stimulants to draw from and helped him forget that he was effectively starting from scratch again.

He achieved different forms of notoriety as time passed. To some he was the guy who designed record sleeves for all kinds of punk and rock bands, many of whom he befriended in the process. To others he was the guy in the underground clubs that was impossible to ignore because he was often asked to wear the most outlandish of outfits by his up and coming designer friends. He was always prominent in those places, because most of the time he'd wrangled his way in getting paid to dance or to DJ.

Life in London inched him closer to what he imagined it was supposed to look like for him. It seemed to be better represented by those occasions when he was at some party sporting something like one of his designer friend's velvet fig leaves, an unruly crop of spiky blond hair and a pair of Dr. Martens while doing his thing dancing in a cage or hitting on some cashed up pharmacist or well to do rich kid. It certainly didn't resemble the life that he'd left behind back in his hometown.

When their housing situation became untenable on account of rising rent and the ever diminishing income among the five of them, he began squatting with a friend, Shelly. She called herself an _artist_ whenever she met somebody, but they, and most of their friends couldn't ever really make such grand claims.

They'd become presences on the underground scene in London, but beyond being immortalised in a post card, their influence was insulated by the walls of the clubs, gay bars and private parties that they frequented. These were the kind of places where he was celebrated as much for his caustic sense of humour as he was for the ingenuity of the DJ'ing work he did with his Asian music collection. Beyond that world, he and his friends were subject to all kinds of insults and derision from passers-by on the street. His ethnic inspired flamboyance didn't sit well with the gritty times. And a hyper coloured foreigner lurking their streets dared Londoners to stare and make comments about his outlandish garb and devil may care attitude.

Eventually though, the bottom even fell out of the underground work force. Money got tighter and tighter as nearly all of his cash in hand work disappeared. Things were so bad in London that many of his friends considered moving away from the city just to keep getting by.

Kicked out of their squat, he and Shelly temporarily camped out on friends' living room sofas and floors until they availed themselves of another squat, this time on the edge of Kensington with another friend, Lövda, where they would remain for the rest of his time in London.

The life modelling that he did had morphed into nude modelling for a few gay and straight porn rags here and there and it was at this time that he occasionally began to turn the odd trick when things got absolutely dire.

It probably would've been easy enough to take the step into the oldest profession more committedly, but the few times he did straight out fuck for money took every ounce of concentration and effort on his part that it didn't seem worth the paltry £20 or £30 that his clients would squeeze into his hand afterwards.

As the financial crunch tightened, he settled instead for private life modelling sessions with benefits for a select set of regulars with whom he didn't mind taking things further. Those special modelling sessions, in addition to pocket money, also meant having somewhere to have a hot shower or decent meal rather than having to rely on plates that always included some exotic form of tinned food as occurred at the draughty, glorified bedsit that he and the girls had commandeered.

All the whilst, he, his guitar and the used sheet music he picked up around the traps, were keeping each other company, and slowly, he learnt enough of the old staples and classics to feel confident when playing the guitar. He told himself that he just needed to know how and when to strum and where to place those fingers. He'd also taken to playing along with Shelly's boyfriend who he considered to be both a guitar virtuoso and a complete twat.

After a particularly tough six month run where he'd had to drop towel weekly, someone he met at one of his DJ gigs (where he worked under the moniker of _Vinyl Tiger_ ; a mildly racist nickname that he had collected somewhere along the way), asked if he would be interested in working afternoons at a record store.

The store manager interrogated him, checking to see if he could reel off the names of all the old Stooges albums or if he knew who Iannis Xenakis was. By virtue of the things he'd learnt from the people he hung around with, rather than through his own innate, eclectic taste, he managed to answer enough of the questions correctly to warrant being hired on the spot.

Once he started working there, for a couple of paltry pounds per hour, he found that despite the manager's insistence that this was a serious record store for collectors, people never really asked him about obscure records. They seemed to be more concerned with where they could find a copy of Blondie's _Parallel Lines_ or of the Buzzcock's _Love Bites_. The store also attracted a clientele that he had no trouble recognising. With a glint in their eyes, they'd ask where Grace Jones' _Fame_ album was, or where anything by Andrea True was. He made a point of walking people over to those titles, learning that it was London record store cruising at its finest. Conversations inevitably included comments like _'have we met before?'_ or _'you're so and so's friend right?'_ or the giveaway _'was that you dancing at Sombrero's?_ ' To clinch the deals, the conversations usually began to wind up with an open invitation of sorts. _'Are you planning on going to So and So's party?'_ or ' _are you coming up to Hacienda?'_ _'I hear such and such is coming to Bang this week. Will I see you there?"_

On one particularly slow afternoon, a 30 something guy was flicking through the second hand section of the discs. He watched him, waiting, wondering whether it would be a Buzzcocks or an Andrea True style conversation. Eventually, after seeing that everybody else had left the store, the shopper approached the counter and made an enquiry. About Joni Mitchell's _Blue_.

He glared at the tall, dark haired customer. All wide shoulders but glasses so thick that he brought Nana Maskouri to mind.

He looked at him with contempt. Not because he'd disturbed his NME reading, but because there were few things that riled him in the record store. "Why on earth would you want that tired old record?"

'Mr Maskouri' smiled in reply and blankly began to respond. "It's not for me...I scratched my friend's copy so deeply with the stylus that she won't talk to me until I replace it. Worse still, she insists on still playing it even though I scratched _Carey_ , the only damn song I can actually tolerate on the whole album."

He smiled at the customer's candour and found Mr Maskouri a copy of the LP. As he handed it over he decided to put it out there. "Lesbians are so protective of Joni Mitchell. It's so predictable," he said caustically.

"She is a bit," the thirty-something conceded with a laugh. "But she's a good friend."

"Who? Joni Mitchell?"

" _No_. Sarah."

He rung up the register and gave Mr Maskouri his change.

"What's your name baby?" he asked, handing him the receipt.

"Binyamiyn," the New Yorker replied. "But Ben is _more than fine_. Yours?"

"I'm Alekzandr," he said, popping his gum and smiling.

"Well it's very nice to meet you Alekzandr."

Alekz smiled cockily, looking his new acquaintance over and chewing away at his gum like it was a lifeline. They stood at the counter chatting for ages...a good half an hour or so, pausing briefly only when another customer came in.

On paper, he was a New York Jew, but in reality he was an entrepreneur who split so much of his time traveling between London and the Big Apple, that he didn't seem to belong to either place anymore. 'I'm always on business,' he explained.

"How long are you here for?"

"Oh about another ten days. Listen, do you have a number that I can call you on?" Ben asked.

"Not really. I mean I'm here from Monday to Friday in the afternoons, but my boss goes mental when I get too many personal calls."

"Because guys are always calling you?"

"Ha. No, nothing like that. It's more like my office number."

"For what?"

"I do gigs. I'm a DJ and a dancer."

"I didn't know."

"How would you? You're not from here."

He looked at Alekzandr and couldn't work out if the cockiness was grating or endearing. "Listen, I'm free tonight if you want to get some dinner and a drink."

Endearing it was, then?

Because it was a Tuesday night, and because they only had thirty two quid between them, they settled on the grungy curry place for a quick bite then a few pints at one of the pubs nearby before a nightcap at an off licence that Alekz frequented on the odd occasion.

It was the first real date he'd found himself on in years. And easily the first time he could remember being with someone and feeling, what, romantic?

From the morning after their date, when Alekz woke up in Ben's bed, they became a reasonably frequent couple. Frequent in the sense that they were together whenever Ben was in town. Sid Vicious may have died, and it may have rocked some of Alekz's circles in London, but he was too busy contemplating the new thing he was creating in his life to pay too much attention.

This new relationship wasn't marked by any of the tragedy or inevitability of Vicious' death, and made Alekz feel like the lone person in his world who seemed to want to celebrate something rather than grieve for somebody.

From the beginning Ben did what few others in Alekz's wide circles of friends were able to. He breathed fresh air into Alekz's life. For so long Alekz and company had been so stuck in survival mode that their thoughts seemed to ricochet exclusively from hand to mouth. To making the best of an eternally trying situation. With time, Ben's motivation and self-determination rubbed off on him. As the months passed and Vicious' mourning cloud dispersed, Alek began examining his life and goals, propelled by Ben's belief that he could be doing something more productive and rewarding with his time.

Music seemed to be the mantra being silently chanted in Alekzandr's head. _Music_ : the magic word that popped up when he was asked what he wanted to do next. One week, with Ben safely ensconced in New York, Alekz found the courage to try and piece together bits of a song that had been floating around in his head for months. There had been mornings he woke up to the Indian styled melody despite there being no radio in the room. Or days when he would scribble down little verses in the margins of old NMEs or whatever paper he was reading.

Sitting down to consciously document the sounds in his head was another thing entirely. But each morning for a week he tried. He made notes about the melodies he heard, trying to write them down phonetically if he couldn't recognise the notes. He tried to strum them back on the guitar and on the days when the music was too hard to focus on, he concentrated instead on the stanzas which seemed much easier to write and shape.

When Shelly's boyfriend was around he asked for help, singing out the missing parts of the melody that were haunting him and having the twat show him how to play the chords out on the guitar. When he felt that he'd been able to capture the essence of the song he hopped around the city, using his friends' equipment to record the various parts of the song he would need. The guitar, the keyboard chords, his vocals and a very simple programmed sequence. When he added that material together what he came up with was something he called _When You're Away_.

In the weeks in which Ben was in New York, Alekz continued to plug away at the other ideas that were now coming more frequently, his elaboration of them resulting in three more reasonably uncomplicated numbers; _Tiger Stripes, Beat_ and _Hand to Mouth_.

At the record store he racked his brain trying to think of the name of the record producer guy who would often come in. He hadn't seen him in months but remembered that he'd told him about his little studio in East London once. The guy seemed to pop up every now and then in NME with a little blurb about whichever latest protégé he was working with. Those protégés seemed to either go on to bigger and better things with someone else or to amount to nothing musically.

While he racked his brain to work out what his name was he continued plodding away at the record store and at his morning life drawing classes. Drumming up conversation with one of the students he knew, it dawned on him that the college had some of the equipment he might need to further develop his demos.

He set about trying to find someone he knew in the music department and to convince them to allow him to play around with the TEAC 2340 so that he could polish the quality of his demos. In reality he planned to simply rerecord the different parts of each track and feed each through the multitrack recorder which would unify the sounds in a way his crude demo recording equipment couldn't.

When the anonymous producer guy finally returned to the store, Alekz made a big song and dance of it. He handed him an envelope which he said had been expressly left for him by one of the stars of the local club scene, who knew he came here regularly. It must've been a day of weakness on the producer's part because he voluntarily accepted the package. Truth be told, he hadn't had a breakthrough act in a while and he needed someone fresh to work with.

Ryan, the producer type, took the songs home and listened to them but didn't think there was much to them. They sounded incredibly amateur to him and the overall songs weren't anywhere near as memorable as perhaps their melodies or occasional verses were. But a few days later he found that he still had a couple of the melodies floating around in his head and on replaying the tape reconsidered his options. He knew that the demo belonged to the store clerk. That voice was unmistakeable. He put his feelers out and found that he was indeed considered one of the growing stars on the local club circuit. But he was hesitant in returning to the store too soon. A few weeks later he saw a listing for _Vinyl Tiger_ at one of the local gay clubs and decided to head on down despite his better judgement.

He watched Alekz's set from a secluded corner of the club, and watched how the flamboyantly dressed DJ seemed to have no problems in mixing old Hindi records by people like Lata Mangeshkar or Manna Day with his own music and other songs from the street culture. At times he would step away from the turnstiles and dance as the songs played out, pulling people up onto the stage or diving down to dance with them for a few minutes.

When Ryan returned to the record store it was with a completely different impression of the young hustler. After having seen him in action he figured that there was enough crass appeal and oversized personality to suggest that he had potential after all.

"You know, it's thanks to you that I visited my first ever gay club the other night."

"Really?" he smiled. "Why? Were you looking for me?"

"Yes," he admitted, grimacing somewhat at the kid's overpowering cockiness. "But not in the way you think. It was research."

"Research for what?"

"To see if you were worth all the fuss you made over yourself when you gave me your tape."

"Oh," Alekz replied. Then he beamed. "And I guess you decided I was."

Alekz's goal was to mix that old classical, bombastic Hindi sound that careened around his head with something contemporary and synthetic. Ryan found that Alekzandr's clear concept was ridiculous but that it seemed there might be an audience for it given the reaction of the clubbers that night.

"You basically want me to turn your songs into ethnic disco moments?" he asked incredulously.

"Exactly! An ethnic disco that just explodes!" Alekz replied, almost with a squeal.

Using the four songs he'd written, the two set to work sporadically. Sometimes it was in the evenings after his shifts at the record store, otherwise in the early mornings before Ryan would spend the afternoons working with the other acts he was desperately trying to get off the ground.

Ryan knew his way around the studio and was particularly adept at programming the then new forms of sequencers and programmers available. Because money was so tight, they made an unorthodox but typical arrangement. In return for the ridiculously low upfront recording costs Ryan would be credited as a co-writer of each of the four songs. Meaning they'd split any song writing royalties in perpetuity.

The singer had convinced a few of his own musically able friends to donate their time for free to the recordings. He had bartered a deal with one group to design a couple of record sleeves for them in return for them spending a day in the studio with him. The shortfall in what he couldn't pay for from his wages was made up for by Ben, who shelled out the missing £400 in good faith and as an act of support.

_Tiger Stripes_ and _Beat_ were clearly the two strongest tracks on the demo tape and both the singer and Ryan tried to shop them around, meeting all kinds of resistance to the disco sound and to the singer's wafer thin vocals.

In the summer of 1979 the singer made his first proper live appearance at an underground club in West London. Rehearsing for a week beforehand with three of his friends (fellow part time cage dancers), they came up with a threadbare set of choreography for the four songs. Some simple props were co-opted into the act; some red chairs and four brightly coloured parasols that he'd found in Chinatown to go alongside the costumes that he and a friend of his had fashioned from the cheapest and most garish sari fabric that they could find.

He designed and printed off hundreds of flyers at the art college which he and his friends subsequently distributed everywhere they could; in record stores, at the clubs they made their weekly rounds in; even posting them to telegraph poles and walls in defiance of the _Post No Bills_ warnings, ensuring that their 'guerrilla publicity campaign' was being captured by a photographer friend for posterity.

The idea of performing didn't seem to be bothering him in the lead up. He felt sufficiently rehearsed and now just wanted it to be over and done with.

When 1am rolled around the night of his performance, he was a bundle of nerves but in good spirits. He'd done a line of coke with his dancers; it was his shout that night as a thanks to them.

It was finally coming together. The photos taken before the performance that night pointed to his first stage incarnation. He was wearing a garish, sleeveless jumpsuit in a fabric that seemed to have a mind and ecosystem all its own and that caused him to sweat in all number of places. His hair was back to being henna red, but slicked back like he'd just come out of the water. His caramel eyes glistened behind a wall of kohl, staring out from under the huge bindi he'd stuck on his forehead.

He was tall and lithe and laughingly told anyone and everyone that he was the reincarnation of Ziggy Stardust, by way of Kerala. Ben had brought his own Polaroid camera along and used up four film packs taking shots of Alekz and his mismatched dancers and of the regular crew who made up their extended London family.

There were a little over 150 people in the club but there was hardly any room for the stage that had been erected. It was perhaps only six or seven square meters but from when the lights went down and came back on for the opening strains of _Tiger Stripes_ , he prowled every inch of it, every centimetre. The gaudy Hindi sound and the pumping beats got the punters moving, but mostly, they were focused on him and the dancers and on the striking visual impression they made.

He used a microphone to sing over his backing tracks and the effect produced a cacophony of sounds that were sometimes jarring and off key. But people couldn't take their eyes off of what was happening on stage. Whatever the music lacked it was made up for with his stage presence. The choreography was sexy, smart and salacious and he probably got more applause after the first song on that account than he did for the actual song itself.

The second song, with its faster pace and melody, had the bulk of his friends who had commandeered the front area of the audience, in a frenzy to which he and the dancers responded by dancing even more vigorously as _Beat_ , a play on where gays meet out in the open, played out. _When You're Away_ , was introduced with a cute dedication to Ben and its mid-tempo slowed things down a little. The dancers had devised a more fluid routine where they were mostly dancing to the music while seated on their chairs. The effect seemed to be like they were just casually stretching and doing yoga in long, languid motions and in unison.

The excitement of finally bringing these songs to life for the first time, of singing them _live_ , gave him a huge adrenaline rush and this particular club, where he often danced in the skimpiest of outfits in its cages or DJ'ed, felt like home and a natural place to perform for the first time.

By the time the final song, _Hand To Mouth_ played out and his circle of friends had whipped up a deafening cacophony of applause and cat calls, he realised the gig was over.

They took their bows and then hugged and kissed one another on stage, still high on the rush of the lines they'd done and the thrill of a good first show in which they had averted any major disaster. The rest of the night was spent partying at the club with drink cards and some left over coke which kept the evening moving along quite nicely.

After dawn, he and Ben cabbed it back to Ben's apartment. It took Alekz nearly ten minutes to remove all the parts of his trademark summer look of heavy makeup, black leggings, bracelets and layers of shredded singlets and cut off tees. Once he had, he took the £20 that the club had paid him (the dancers had been paid £10 each) and lodged it within the pages of the Sylvia Plath anthology he was no longer reading. He vowed never to touch it, like he never again wanted to read Plath, before he showered off all the grime that had accumulated. He sucked off Ben who fell asleep from exhaustion before he could even climax before he himself passed out in a haze on the edge of the bed.

Over the following months he managed to get booked at some other clubs in London and even Manchester. Although the costumes were sometimes changed, the choreography stayed much the same for the shows. Some audiences were made of as little as 50 or 60 people but occasionally he filled the small venues he was playing in to capacity. Word had spread around London about his show and about the clubby _Kerala_ music he was making, and as a result, doors opened to him.

Ryan managed to secure him a deal with a tiny independent label to record a couple of singles after the label's head attended one of Alekz's gigs and had found himself shocked by all the commotion the tone deaf singer was capable of creating. The deal wasn't exactly artist friendly and nor was Ryan's cut in the grander scheme of things. But a deal's a deal and without the means to have someone look over the fine print Alekz decided to throw caution to the wind.

It was one of those situations in life when you think you're as close to something as you're ever going to get. You enter in to a pact even when you know it's probably not ideal because there are no other options on the table. Better something than nothing. We do it all the time in our daily lives.

Alekz figured that Ryan's deal for him was at least a start. A foot in the door to pursuing and developing his own sound. The label though, had different ideas. They wanted to tone down some of the _Hindi_ elements of the songs in order to make them more disco friendly. The belief was that they would sell more records across Europe where the demand for dance music was much stronger than in the UK. Too much ethnicity, they feared, might alienate too many potential buyers in that market.

So Ryan recalibrated the original tracks into more standard disco versions of their former selves but the singer hated the new mixes. The two of them began to argue nonstop in the lead up to the label's printing of the singles. Ryan too had grown fond of the original songs but wanted the chance to finally earn back some of his investment. At one point in a meeting in the studio, after having been played the final versions, Alekzandr threw a tantrum. In Ryan's hands, his songs had become something he no longer recognised or loved. And it made him so furious that he attempted to turn the room upside down.

"These are just songs. It always works like this," Ryan said, trying to console him and to contain the situation. "You play their game first and then you get to play yours. You have to trust in the people who do this for a living. It's in their interests to make sure you appeal to the widest possible audience."

But the singer was furious and inconsolable. Firstly, because he realised that in removing what made the records _his_ , they basically removed any motivation on his part to see them succeed. It could've been _anyone_ singing over the tinny disco track that they ended up with. He also hated the fact that Ryan had so easily outplayed and outsmarted him.

_Tiger Stripes_ was sent for pressing, protected as it was by the airtight contract that Alekz had signed. There was no budget for a promotional campaign but when push came to shove Alekz caved somewhat and agreed to perform at a series of shows that had been lined up for him. He also eventually agreed to design a cheap sleeve for the track after the label told him the alternative was a cheaper plain sleeve which would just make the single seem anonymous.

When it was put out to market, word of mouth helped it sell around 8,000 copies in the UK, and a similar number across Western Europe. Its moderate success led to _Beat_ also being issued as a single. The verses referring to cottaging were considered oblique enough that they were retained. _Beat_ sold about 9,000 copies in the UK but bombed in the European markets where it sold less than a third of the copies that had been shipped to stores.

The UK sales of the two singles had been sufficient enough to land him his first ever appearances in any charts, respectively peaking at No.73 and No.71 in the UK Top 75.

For Alekz the fact that they'd reached the chart at all meant that they were a success in his eyes. But the indie label had other ideas. They'd managed to recoup their miniscule investment but to them it was clear that to offer Alekz another set of releases wouldn't be worth their while. The returns wouldn't be worth the potential outlay they would face in having to develop him beyond anything other than a novelty club act.

Ryan came out of the arrangement best. In having helmed two singles that had made it, even into the lowest reaches of the charts, it was as if he'd placed a full page advertisement for his services. A stream of unknown talent managers beat a path to his door thereafter, with whom he negotiated very agreeable rates to produce their equally unknown protégés.

Once the whole _singles saga_ had cooled somewhat, and life had returned back to normal for Alekz, Ben found the courage to take the singer out of London for a weekend.

"You know I've been looking for something a little more substantial lately, don't you?"

"Work wise? Yeah," Alekz answered.

"I've been offered a good full time role. It's pretty well paid and I think it could be fun. It would mean that I'd become the only New York rep for the company."

Alekz looked at him for a few moments to decipher what had been said. "You brought me to fucking Brighton to tell me you won't be coming to London anymore? What does that mean? That we're ending things here and now?" the singer asked coldly.

"No. And Yes. I mean I can't keep coming here every month anymore. But I was thinking, considering how the label thing isn't working here for you, maybe you could come to New York. See if it fits you."

"But I don't know anybody in New York," he said, already smarting about the label comment.

"Well, you know me."

"But it would be like starting all over again."

"Yeah, but you would do really well there, you know? They'll love you there."

"Isn't that all a bit _A Star Is Born_?"

Ben laughed. "Maybe. A little. But seriously. You have these records now; you can at least shop them around even if they aren't really what you wanted them to be."

"No I can't. They belong to Ryan and the label. Not to me."

"Yes, but you can write some more songs...and you can tell them straight up that you've already sold thousands of records in Europe and the UK. Besides, your music would work really well there. They would go mad for it."

"I don't know. I've gotten kind of used to it here. Things are just starting to work out for me, even if they're not. I feel like I'd be throwing the baby out with the bath water if I just left things and started all over again."

"Yeah, but I've gotten used to you too."

The singer fidgeted with his bracelets. "I've gotten used to you too. I just need some time to think about it."

"Lekke, I can pay for the airfare." He tended to use his nickname for Alekz when he tried to pre-empt having his head bitten off.

"So can I. If I ever receive the royalties, but it's not about that. It's just, I don't know, it seems kind of crazy that I just up and leave because you have to."

"Well I don't want you to take it like a punishment. I'd hate that we had to stop seeing each other just because I have to take this job there. Besides, it's New York I'm asking you to come to, not Siberia."

"Can't you find something else here?"

"I was lucky enough to find what I did where I did. It's not the easiest time to be making money."

"You don't need to tell me about that. Where would I go?" Alekz asked, hopefully.

"Well, my parents had an old rental apartment in Brooklyn. It's small, but you could take it."

"Where would you be?"

"I'm sharing in Manhattan," he said dismissively. "I don't see what you have to lose though. Come over, give it a couple of months and if you don't like it, you can just come back to London."

"Wait, you would have me move country but you wouldn't live with me?"

"You're a free spirit Lekke. You need your own time, your own space. Besides, we can see each other as often as we want that way, but not all the time if we don't want to."

"But I want to see you all the time."

"No you don't," Ben chuckled.

"No. I know, you're right," the singer responded, with a chuckle. "I just wanted to see how it sounded," he said, the tension finally slipping away.

"Listen, think about it. Take a chance, see how it goes. London will be here waiting for you if you don't like it. And I'll be there, making sure you enjoy it. And if you sort things out with the label, then it's only a flight back. You're not moving back to Australia, you know."

The general consensus amongst his friends was that he was a fool to want to hang around here when New York was on offer. London, they constantly reminded him, had gone to the dogs, and how fabulous would it be if he went there? Then, they'd have somewhere to stay, somewhere to escape _to_?

"London," Shelly, who was sitting at the window, reminded him, "is burning. Again." She tossed her cigarette butt down on to the street. "Plus, Ben's a keeper. You'd be mad to throw him and the big apple away." She looked at him and figured it was the moment to get real. "There's a very real chance that if you let him go, you won't ever find anything like it again. Or for ages at least," Shelly warned him. "You fruits don't exactly mate for life. And what you two have is really good. I don't know how he puts up with you."

He hated the idea of giving up on everything he'd worked so hard for, but coursing through his veins was the fear, that his life, like that of so many other men he'd encountered, ran the risk of being one marked by boats simply passing in the night. He enjoyed his freedom but, young or not, he valued the intimacy with Ben over everything else.

The insecurity that passes through all of us screams at us through even the most stubborn and solid of walls we create. It pierces through the things that we will not cede even when our options are already so limited. How tragic, he thought, that his friends had reached the same conclusion his insecurity had. _This is your one chance._

Our insecurity convinces us, so comprehensively and blindingly, that even something destined to collapse into a haze of dust is still the right thing for us. The stuff of _all or nothing_ moments. So often, we let go of everything just to keep one thing. The inner surrender we make for a momentary truce with our consciences. We've all been there before.

# BROOKLYN

The royalties were much lower than he'd anticipated but he still had to fight tooth and nail to be paid those couple of hundred pounds. It was the most money he'd seen since leaving Tokyo. With it, he bought himself a one way ticket to NYC and shipped his meagre belongings to the Brooklyn address Ben had given him. Squatting doesn't exactly encourage you to rely on leaving things in storage.

The nerves he'd had from the week before his flight only dissipated when he saw Ben waiting for him outside arrivals. They hugged and Ben drove him all the way to the Brooklyn apartment while he, all wide eyed, took in the hazy silhouettes that they were zooming past. All those tall buildings seemed like elegant debutantes draped in smog.

The apartment wasn't quite what he'd expected. He had imagined that it was going to be some kind of brownstone building but instead it was a 1960s brick building with no elevator. His new home. The apartment was tiny, and a little dusty. Probably little more than 30 square metres in size with a fire escape that doubled as an unofficial balcony. It was spartanly furnished but Ben had changed the sheets and seen to the utilities.

They fucked and straight after went for a walk around the borough, the singer trying to take in his latest change of environment. _God damn New York City_. Or Brooklyn at least. Ben pointed out all the staples of the area; the local Korean, which would become his morning temple for cigarettes and whatever fruit was on offer, and some of the cheap eat places near the local park.

The singer wasted no time in hustling up some work. He quickly found some under the table waiting work and within weeks had wrangled some paid and unpaid session work as a backing vocalist. He was so haunted by the idea that he'd given up everything for Ben that he pursued any opportunity that arose to convince himself he'd made the right decision.

In addition to finding work, he made it his mission to meet and befriend as many people as he could, particularly in the clubs that he quickly began to frequent. Word had it that he'd had a couple of dance music hits in Europe, and his unique look made him hard to forget. But it wasn't only the clubs he'd hit. It was also the exhibitions, the underground fashion shows and the artist studios where he'd hang out that helped him connect with all kinds of people on the street scene. Two friendships in particular seemed to evolve quite effortlessly during that time with guys who he seemed to constantly be running into while out and about.

One, Jasper, was a film student who worked as a dancer and bus boy at a variety of clubs and events by night, and the other, Ian, a Kiwi who waited tables at a diner in the morning, worked as a courier in the afternoons and spent the rest of his time being an aspiring songwriter/musician.

After he'd performed a couple of well received DJ'ing gigs across New Jersey, Brooklyn and even on the Lower East side, he was encouraged by a couple of the venues to return with his own show. Soon enough he cajoled Jasper and Miles, another guy he'd added to his inner circle into helping him out by doing some backup dancing for him. He dusted off his old songs, his old routines and his old costumes which had finally arrived in the package that he'd shipped so many months earlier.

Though, as always, he had no phone, he was effectively always out and about working, socialising or generally keeping busy at trying to be seen. Without a phone he had no way of making regular demands on Ben, but Ben kept his word and was around as often as Alekz wanted. When asked why they never spent time together at Ben's Manhattan place, Ben would explain that he didn't want his flatmate to know that he was gay and that he preferred to spend his free time in the boroughs anyway. And Alekz chose not to press for further details, just as we agree to keep mum about certain crimes if it means keeping an inner voice at bay.

In New York, Alekz found that economics was truly international and that supply and demand functioned the same everywhere. He resumed his life modelling work on the sly and more than occasionally let a couple of his new regular patrons take things further, reckoning that it was worth the substantial increase in income if he occasionally jacked them off or blew them as they asked.

For someone who was basically a living unemployment statistic, his schedule was hectic. Waiting tables, going from ad hoc job to job and spending whatever free time he had writing, singing backup vocals and basically hanging around New York's Music Building in between.

For months, Ben and he usually spent Monday and Tuesday nights together in the Brooklyn apartment, which he'd transformed into an interesting, eclectically furnished abode, brimming with a growing collection of second hand goods and unwanted objects that he'd salvaged from the streets and repaired or at least cleaned.

London life had become a distant memory. A past life. He'd been quick in getting to know his new city and within months his social circle was equivalent to what it had been in London. But whereas he skirted the fringes of the London punk scene, here he seemed to be amidst a more hybrid music-art street scene. He was no more well known among those circles than anyone else, but people did tend to gush over him when he was with Ben, the two of them dubbed by some as the _perfect gay couple._

But it wasn't just the flatmate situation that was strange about Ben in NYC. He seemed like he didn't want to introduce the singer to many of his own friends. There were a couple of older gay friends that he'd presented Alekz to, but, beyond that, it seemed that much of his private and professional life was off limits.

Just why, he wasn't sure. But the curiosity sometimes got the better of him, and, on one particularly late night, out and about performing in an abandoned school cum art space, where he performed a couple of new songs he'd recorded at the Music Building, the singer insisted that they sleep in the Manhattan apartment, which was significantly closer than Brooklyn.

Ben seemed crestfallen at the singer's rabid insistence.

"I don't see what the problem is. I can even sleep on the sofa if your roomie is home. I can change into my hetero self if you want me to. I just want to see where you live and I don't want to spend the next hour traveling home, especially not in this state."

Ben sighed. "Of course I won't make you go out to Brooklyn tonight Alekz. But...I have something I should tell you. I mean, I've been meaning to say it for the longest time, but I never found the right time."

It didn't take much to wind him up. "Oh, are you kidding me? You're gonna try this kind of shit out on me at this hour?" the singer said, a little shocked that he couldn't ignore the gaps in Ben's story anymore. "Let me guess, you still live with your parents?"

"No."

"Oh, you have a _boyfriend_ ," he said after an uncomfortable silence in which one and one finally seemed to make two for him. He started to think about the patterns of time they spent together in a way he hadn't before. It was either they were together nearly half the week or they otherwise went days without seeing each other. It seemed to point to Ben being in another relationship.

"Maybe it is easier if I do just take you home. Then you can see for yourself."

"Oh I hate this cryptic shit. You should just tell me now."

"No, it's best if you do actually see where I live. Come on."

Silently, and angrily, the singer followed Ben into a cab that zipped them out to Two Bridges, which Ben flatly explained was where his parents had bought him an apartment a few years earlier, before they themselves packed up and moved to Tel Aviv.

The lift took them to the fifth floor of a reasonably pristine building where Ben led the singer down an anodyne corridor to the furthermost door, marked _504_. The singer, who was still wearing his costume under his second hand woollen trench, and who was carrying a shiny silver bag chock full of his stage props and makeup, was still angry, but more curious than ever with this new sterile place where the plants were made of plastic and where Ben seemed to fit in more than he did.

When the 504 door was opened, it revealed an absurdly spacious apartment tastefully decorated in contemporary furnishings. There were a few paintings and framed prints on the wall and the lighting was soft, kind of welcoming.

The singer clocked the room and quickly zoomed in on a photo frame on a far lamp stand. He put his bag down and his bracelets jingled as he then paced across the room to inspect it. Ben simply stood by the door watching him, knowing what was about to come. He'd been down this road before a few years earlier. Yet, he felt like it was the only way to fully explain the circumstances.

Looking at the photo sent things momentarily crumbling around Alekz, along with his bravado. That standard, familiar combination of black and white outfits and those ringed fingers, so prominent that their symbolism is impossible to ignore. He couldn't imagine why he'd had to come to Manhattan to learn of this.

His every instinct was to tear Ben apart, not just because Ben had humiliated him with just a quick cross town cab ride, but because he'd thought somehow that they were pretty rock solid, especially after so long together. _The perfect gay couple._ Fooling around with someone on the side was one thing in his books. But being married was another entirely.

"She's really pretty," the singer finally said. "Is she here too? Did you bring me here to introduce me to her?"

"No, she's in Tel Aviv. Well actually, I think she's in Haifa at the moment."

"Same fucking shit," he said angrily. Then realising that he was verging on hysteria, he softened his tone. "She there on holiday?"

"Not really," Ben said, moving awkwardly over to the sofa and sitting on it.

"Well, you both look pretty young in that photo." He said it as if it was the only compliment he was capable of making.

"I was 23. Pretty much the same age you are now. It was arranged by our parents."

"The photo?" he quipped, bringing it over to the sofa.

"The marriage," Ben said sternly.

"Yes of course. So, what, was it 12 years ago?"

"Close enough to 14 actually," Ben said sadly.

A rare moment of pity washed over the singer.

"Did they organise it because the two of you were seeing each other or was it more a blind thing? Like, because you never brought girls home?"

"Something like that. The second option," Ben confessed.

"I see. I don't see any pictures of any kids."

"We don't have any. We don't have that kind of relationship."

The cynical, sarcastic side of him came to life again. "You mean you don't sleep together?"

"No. Never. Well, twice. To consecrate it I guess. Once on the wedding night. And once on the honeymoon."

"I see. But I don't see why you needed to bring me here when you could've just told me."

Ben motioned for him to follow, and then turned on the light in a room off the small corridor. It was a bedroom, swathed in pastel pinks and peach. He then crossed the corridor and turned on the light in the opposite room. The light revealed another bedroom, another double bed, this time decked out in blue and white linen.

"I see," the singer said. "Very conventional. Your taste or hers?"

"I didn't bring you here to give you a lesson on interior design. I brought you here because you needed to see things with your own eyes. Not just hear the parts you don't usually tune out when I try to explain things to you."

The singer nodded in belated acknowledgement.

"You can be flippant about things all you want. Or we can talk about them," Ben said. "She spends most of the year in Israel with her family. She's looking after her parents who aren't well and she only comes to New York for the spring. We just have this arrangement that works for us. She doesn't ask me any questions, I don't ask her any, but at the same time, neither of us throws our lives in the other's face."

The singer hated married men for the most part. He usually found them to be sanctimonious, always able to justify their behaviour, as if everything was acceptable based on _their_ desires. In his experience, married men were as happy to justify a lack of interest in their spouses as they were willing to throw a little cash at him or someone like him. It was safe for them to pursue people like him who seemed to be living for the moment. But only from behind the sanctity of a life they could always fall back on, and that aspersions couldn't be cast onto. Because the certificate that binds two married people is more a license to do as they please than a symbol of a holy union.

He didn't care so much that they were so quick to render him _the other man_ or even a _tart for hire_. What bothered him was that married types were rarely forthright or honest about things. Married men were always obsessed with creating elaborate worlds of smoke and mirrors and in hiding their wedding bands. Their behaviour was deemed acceptable because as a single you are owed nothing, and as a single gay guy even less. But a married man can have his cake and eat it too. Perhaps it was just naivety but the truth seems to present itself only once you're well and truly behind the web.

"I know we are going to separate eventually. I don't know when. We have talked about it. Probably after her parents pass. But in the meantime, our arrangement stays, and that's why I wanted you to come here, to see for yourself. I wanted you to see that it isn't a simple case of me being a married man looking for some fun on the side. I'm someone who did something for the good of two families. Mine wouldn't accept the road I was taking and in the end, I guess their approval was more important to me. So, I've spent half of my adult life tied to someone who I barely know but who I respect and love in my own way."

The singer's mind was all wrapped up in considering his options: to leave in a huff and raze everything. Leave Ben behind and raze everything. Leave the Brooklyn apartment and New York and raze everything on the way. Or, find a way to process things. Make them feasible, workable. Ben was a catch. Sweet, fun and sexy. They were poles apart but Ben was still capable of making Alekz melt inside, even if right now he was feeling demoted to the role of the unsophisticated, unequipped country cousin.

The New York Alekzandr had been so busy pushing himself, pushing against any and all resistance in order to create something for himself that he sometimes was simply not capable of seeing how layered and precarious his position was. He was in New York because of Ben even if he'd already proven to himself, at his paltry 22 years of age, that he was capable of making things happen when his will pushed him hard enough. He'd been reduced to this kind of moment before. Where despite his complicity in things, he still felt worthless. Like a play thing.

But his feelings for Ben made things different this time. His instinct may have been incessantly telling him to walk away (and to raze the apartment while he was at it), but his heart and his head were in the grip of confusion and realism. In a quieter moment his heart might've reminded him that this, _my dear_ , is the price one pays for living an interesting life.

But at that moment, his inner voice was only too willing to remind him that, here, in Ben's comfortable, clean, organized apartment, he was like a trampy piece of trade. A bejewelled, kohled and outrageously dressed intruder. The kind of person who knows full well that access to these kinds of interiors is always based on getting paid to get naked and nasty in them before being eventually asked to leave.

And there's nothing more isolating than when even your own insides are not on your side. When your heart and your head just want to disown you because they've grown tired of you not listening to them when you should've and they refuse to help you clean up the mess once everything around you has burnt down.

His inner ear was ready and waiting for pretty much anything. Arrangements of how and when he would need to vacate his apartment, of how they would go about avoiding each other and of how they would have to forget one another. He was even prepared for Ben to ask him to leave at that very moment.

But what he wasn't prepared for was Ben turning to him and holding him as he did in that very moment. Telling him that he was important. That he was everything after having had to sacrifice so much. And not to worry, because together, they'd get beyond this. That he _mustn't_ go.

He wasn't prepared for Ben's kind words, which were words that he didn't even have inside of himself. And so, he did something he'd promised himself he would never do. Even in the most trying of circumstances during the last four years. He cried. Not because Ben, the love of his life was married or had broken his heart, but because, in spite of how shitty he'd been in pushing Ben into this corner, Ben was still showing him the kind of compassion and respect that he himself wasn't capable of. And he cried, because the tears somehow softened the cruel realisation that some married men were somehow a force that he couldn't reckon with. An irresistible force of good, that despite all the smoke and mirrors, was so strong that he was powerless to resist.

#  BURST

" _Burst_ was such an on-off album. We started working on the songs in 1981 right after he won the dance music contract, but again he got dropped by his label after just two singles. We were told that we couldn't finish the other recordings that we had started, at least not with their money, and as we didn't have any money to continue, things came to a bit of a halt.

"When he eventually got another deal in 1982, the new label wasn't so crash hot on us recording an entire album. They wanted to keep things to singles, just another couple of twelve inches," recalled Ian Smith. "There just seemed to be a lot of inconsistency. We had recorded those original songs in 1981, and when they charted we at least thought _we have a chance at an album_. But there were staff changes and big division changes, and as he was one of the last on board, obviously he was one of the first to go. But even after we started at the new label, we had the feeling they weren't that interested in us. It was like they hadn't thought it through until they saw that we were in the studio. So they made it clear that there was very little money that they'd front for any recordings. They had given him $4,000 for the publishing rights for the four songs that he had written, and we used nearly all of that money to pay for the studio time. We didn't really have enough left over for anything else, so we had to both keep working to have a roof over our heads and to keep the work going.

"It got to the point that it had been, maybe seven or eight months since he had signed the new contract, and they _still_ didn't want to release anything we had made. We had recorded eight songs by then, mostly using our own money but they were ambivalent about them. Sometimes it seemed like they were ready to do something with them, but it was like anytime an opportunity like that arose, it was always followed by some explanation about the market not being right.

"We were doing so many odd jobs that we only spent a few afternoons here and there actually recording, but we couldn't get it together to finish the last songs. Basically whatever work we could find took precedence, because we were determined to have something to show. We wanted an album's worth of stuff in case he got dropped, and we needed money and studio time to make it happen. So, we persevered, but the whole time, we were so desperate for someone at that label to come to their senses and end the agony, or to at least just honour the contract for the twelve inches.

"I think the thing about him back then was that he just wasn't ambitious in that obvious way. He didn't want to be a star or something. It wasn't like you could smell his ambition from a mile off. He just wanted his work to be born publicly, to see if it could fly, but he was trapped in the machinations of record company politics that blocked us at every turn.

"But we were resourceful, and Jasper, who was studying film, had this ingenious idea of using the little money we had put aside for the last songs to instead film two videos for the tracks that Alekz was already performing. He was gigging pretty consistently downtown and in New Jersey clubs, and by that stage, he knew a lot of people in the clubs around New York and he had his own following.

"So Jasper and us, and a bunch of others, piled into a couple of cars that we borrowed and we headed down to Montauk, because we wanted to film a couple of videos that had a bit of a surfy vibe to them and Montauk was the closest place we could think of, even though it was nearly winter. They were kind of bonfire and surf videos with some terrible dancing that we thought was cool at the time, and they seemed to sum our vibe up. We were this weird collective of arty kids who were into mixing things up and there wasn't anyone else like us. Plus, he had that tan complexion and the long bleached blond hair, so Jasper just focused on shooting him and came up with some great footage.

"When we got back to New York and edited all the footage at the film school, we realised we had the makings of something, so I went with him for moral support to his label, and I saw this fire in him that day that I hadn't seen before. He reminded them that they were in danger of losing all the momentum he'd created with his first singles and with all his club audiences in NYC, who he felt were 'perpetually waiting for something' to be released. He was very persuasive. He just straight out tried to convince the guys at the label to get behind him, to at least give him a chance, considering he had funded the videos and all these new songs, and all they had to do was help him distribute them...that even by doing some limited edition pressings of the two tracks they'd be able to recoup the little money they had invested in him.

"That day, I was mesmerized by him. He was so articulate and passionate, and then, when they saw the videos, I think the marketing guys were finally thinking to themselves, ' _this could actually work'_. He just had something about him that worked more visually than it did only on the records. If you hadn't seen him live, or seen a video, you wouldn't have gotten his vibe or his strengths."

The label tentatively pressed ahead, issuing 50,000 copies of the twelve inch _I Love You_ , in October 1982, and sent a re-mastered version of Jasper's video clip to MTV. The song was picked up in clubs up and down the East coast, and the singer booked a succession of dates throughout New York, Philadelphia, Miami and Boston. On the back of the dance chart success of his first two singles, the new single, a bittersweet dance track talking about that inevitable moment when you can't take back those three words after first muttering them, started picking up considerable play in the clubs nationwide, and became the first of his songs to make it onto MTV rotation.

_I Love You_ was already a top ten hit on the dance charts when the limited first run sold out eight weeks after the label issued the track. Its moderate sales sent him into the lower reaches of the US mainstream charts. A second pressing of another 100,000 copies was more widely distributed, and with increased club and MTV interest, the song began generating heat on the West Coast too, where it was added to some dance and pop radio station playlists. As the weeks of February and March 1983 passed, his single slowly climbed the pop chart, finally entering the top forty in April. Finally, after almost a year and a half of inaction, the label protégé was starting to gain some traction.

As the song slowly climbed the top forty, his label kicked into gear. A spate of interviews were organised with the music press and a few teen mags. A couple of photo sessions were also haphazardly organised with a range of photographers he knew in New York. Lots of "personality shoots" in makeshift studios and on the streets of the Lower East Side, that documented him in his long blonde hair and thrift shop wares. A dozen or so would be repeatedly be used in the press over the following months to capitalize on his obvious visual appeal and help introduce him to audiences.

Despite already having scored a couple of dance hits, it was only his crossover into the pop chart that prompted his label to generate some publicity for him. Over the course of a half a dozen interviews in two weeks, he had the intention of giving up little of his past. He planned instead to simply explain that he'd been living and working in New York for the last few years, after having spent a couple of years in London, and that he spent all his time working on his music, going to clubs, both to hang out and to perform. If push came to shove, he would indicate that he came from a multiethnic background and that he had a range of cultural and social influences that he drew inspiration from. He spent a week mentally interviewing himself in preparation.

But the reality of the interviews was quite different. The label had briefed interviewers on him beforehand only by way of a hastily prepared press bio. One that was full of errors. According to them, he was a New York born club kid with a bent for surfing. An artist who had already achieved success across the pond and who was now experimenting with mixing 'disco music' and graffiti culture. The inference was that he was niche, cool, but that not even they considered him a candidate for the pop world. He simply wasn't seen as being a winning prospect to cross over for pop audiences by the label. They worried that his unique style was a little too risqué for audiences, and for their reputation. One record label publicist privately told a journalist at the time, "I don't have any idea what to do with him. At this point, it would've been easier if they'd put him in with the punk division you know? He's off kilter. But not even in a Lee Bowery or David Bowie kind of way. Just, unmarketable but kind of poppy at the same time. A&R are on another planet with this one."

The reality was that he could have been any one of hundreds of one hit wonders on the club circuit who remained faceless to the wider public, and who probably couldn't even be recognised by the DJs that spun his records on a regular basis had his single not crossed over to MTV.

Those first interviews were nerve racking for the singer. So many stifled ideas and commentaries running through his head, like all those false starts over the years. He was so busy being shunted from performance to performance that nobody had time to brief him or prepare him about what worked in the press and what didn't.

When he sat the print interviews, on the phone in his label offices, or at grungy little coffee shops and diners across New York, he had an inkling of what was going on. He had expected long, insightful exchanges, but as soon as he had introduced himself and heard the first questions, could see that wasn't to be the case. They were so tedious as to not even worry him. He went through the motions of answering the inane questions, and relied on his wit to overcome their monotony.

Jasper had previously warned him that embellishment and exaggeration were tools that too many pop singers failed to call upon, and that he couldn't face that risk. The only memorable interview from that period he could remember was one he did in person with a British journalist working for a US music magazine, and one of the only ones that was free of embellishment.

Interviewer: What are three things you would like people to know about you?

Alekzandr: I'm all about having fun. Um, I grew up in a Buddhist Christian house so my beliefs are like a car crash of reincarnation, sin and redemption. And this morning was the first morning I didn't skip breakfast this week, because a friend of mine was working at the coffee shop downstairs and he hit me up with a doughnut and coffee when he saw me walking past. He and I were out til really late last night and I got him to work on time, so it was like a big thank you.

Interviewer: Your new song is called 'I Love You'. How many times have you said it? And how many times have you meant it?

Alekzandr: God, I probably say it about ten times a day. I say it to my friends and sometimes I say it to random strangers. Like last week, I was on the subway and someone moved over for me to sit down and it just seemed like an appropriate moment to share the feeling. Romantically I don't have any problems saying it. I've lost count of how many people I've said it to but, when I say it, I always mean it in some form, even if the next day I probably realise that I didn't really mean it in the way that perhaps they wanted me to, if you know what I mean.

Interviewer: What's on the horizon for you?

Alekzandr: Well I've spent the last year working on my debut album, which I'm hoping will be finished and released soon. In the meantime I've got some club shows to prepare for, so more rehearsals, hanging out and seeing what else is going on here in New York. Same as always.

When _I Love You_ cracked the US top twenty in June 1983, after reaching No.1 on the dance charts, his parent label suddenly became very interested in the singer they'd previously ignored. _Kiss Me_ , the second song for which a video had already been made, and which had already racked up weeks of airplay and spins in the clubs, was rush released, and the public reaction to its more pop friendly club beat finally sent the label into overdrive. Suddenly the walls came crashing down, and the opportunities multiplied for the singer. He found himself being suddenly supported where, for so long, he'd been caged in and cornered by the very label he'd been working for.

The singer was ordered back into the studio to rework much of the album. Days before he and his song writing partner and producer, Ian, were due to begin working on the final songs they'd penned they were called into the label offices, where it was explained to them that they'd no longer be at the production helm for the material. A producer, sourced by the label, they were told, had been tasked with remixing and revising their work, and would be producing the remaining tracks for the album.

"I still remember that day," the singer later confessed to a journalist, long after having moved on from the label. "Ian felt like I'd double crossed him, but it was news to me in that particular moment too. I had never even heard of the guy they were going to give all of the control over my work to. It was this absolutely bittersweet moment where it's like, _yes we're going ahead with your project_ but at the same time it was also, _but it's not really your project anymore. Shut up and be thankful_ , and if you're smart, you'll treat it like a learning experience. It was like this ghost following me from label to label that only ever said the same things, and I felt incredibly disempowered. But when you play with the big guns, it's a common price to pay, and it made me really rethink the idea of representing myself and instead got me thinking about making alliances that would strengthen my position."

In hindsight it'd been a prudent move on the part of the record label. Allen Black, the producer, had added another layer to the sound, modifying some of the tracks so they would appeal not only to dance audiences, but also to R&B formats. He added more texture and depth to the songs that the singer and Ian had originally created, and his involvement and experienced ear, along with his control over the experienced session musicians brought in to fill out the tracks, salvaged the album from being a one trick pony, full of otherwise similar sounding songs. The singer sat in on all of the remixing and production, observing, and making his opinions known at every possible moment.

"In a way he was very precocious at the time, and working with him in the studio all the time was tough, because I knew I was tearing apart what he'd worked on," Black recalled. "But we found somewhat of a compromise most of the time and I think, in the end, we both realised that we were both doing something that was forced on us, so we just did our best to make the most of it."

"By the time the album was released, it'd been in the making stages for almost two years, and he was just happy to have a full album done," Ian continued to explain, on the unauthorised television special that came some ten years' later. "It became something that he could promote, and that he could use to promote himself outside the US to the other label bases around the world. My nose was out of joint, but he promised me that he'd make it up to me on the next record. I was really put out, and we didn't speak for months but, in the end, it worked out for me too. My name was stamped all over those songs, and a lot of work came my way as a result of it."

Emerging from the studio with a completed album, the singer also finally secured himself the services of a manager, Michael Estes, who was his A&R guy at his old label. Estes had contacted the singer to offer his services as a manager, explaining that he'd been hung out to dry with a recent label reshuffle, and that he wanted to resume their partnership "in order to take your career to the next level."

"Michael and he had such a great relationship, that he felt like he could just concentrate on the next steps. I think him finally having a real manager was what legitimised things for him," Ian recalled. "Before that, I think he felt like there was nobody to champion him and what we'd done."

Estes quickly took control of the fate of his new and only client, who now had two simultaneous top forty hits in the chart, setting about to improve relations with the label and introducing a sense of ordered management into the singer's routines. During the summer, the label issued the album, _Burst_ , and another single from the album, _Without You_ , to capitalise on all of the momentum.

By the end of the summer of 1983, _Burst_ , and its three singles were all simultaneously in various US charts. He'd exploded based on word of mouth and a growing amount of video and radio airplay. _Kiss Me_ followed _I Love You_ into the US top twenty, but _Without You_ went even further, peaking at No.8 in November, giving the singer his first US top ten hit. His music was already charting throughout Europe, Asia, Latin America and his native Australia, exploding with multiple singles in different markets at the same time, the singles often competing with each other in the charts.

In a bid to get things under control Estes had the US arm of the label agree to postponing the release of the album's final single until the new year, so that the other markets could catch up a little and to give the artist some time to do some publicity in the US and beyond in the meantime.

Estes absolutely championed the singer, steering him through the demands the various international affiliates and press were making on him, the year's sudden pop sensation. At first he based his office out of his apartment but within months had found an office in Manhattan to rent.

He cherry picked the singer's media appearances throughout all the territories, trying to limit the amount of exposure to a few television appearances and printed press interviews. It turned out to be a savvy move, given how quickly things had exploded, and how the singer had literally been thrust into the mainstream in the course of a couple of months, after years in the underground.

The singer divided people. Most critics seconded the _singing himbo_ moniker that an LA-based critic had coined, while only a select few suggested he had the first makings of a new, important talent. For all of his chutzpah, ability to charm, and street smarts, the singer was ruffling feathers at the same time with his cheeky cult personality.

Estes was under no illusions as to whether the label had wasted so many opportunities and had set their own act off on the wrong foot. That said, there was work to do, mainly publicising his client, and ensuring that when negotiations began for the next contract, he had his artist in a strong bargaining position.

The two of them, along with a publicist and two backing dancers, travelled to ten different countries in the space of six weeks, on a junket designed to give the international label affiliates a chance to meet their new chart sensation and for the media and audiences to get some face time with him.

A three week promotional tour in the UK and Europe boasted appearances on a number of primetime music and variety shows and gave the singer his first real taste of the international media. It was a reverse situation of sorts, in that his first televised interviews were for the most part conducted overseas, despite already having notched up multiple chart entries in the US, where only MTV had aired any on camera interviews, and even then only in passing.

With three simultaneous hits in the charts, the singer and his dancers mimed and tracked performances to a rotation of the singles to keep it interesting in the European promos, whereas during his week in Tokyo and two weeks in Australia, he was routinely asked to choose specific songs for specific television appearances, including a pre-taping for the upcoming release _All My Love_.

It was a whirlwind, threadbare and chaotic tour, but in London he managed to wrangle a few of his old London friends into coming to a club appearance he was making, after which he had the opportunity to whittle the night away with them. In Tokyo he was invited to meet with the international, Japanese and Asian heads of his parent record label, where he essentially let Michael do the talking. His increasing visibility and marketability suddenly made him and Michael important players in the pop world.

On a personal level, the promotional jaunt had been a blast. For Alekzandr, more than anything else, it'd felt like the first tangible validation of all the hard work he'd put in over the years. For his label it was a relatively small expenditure which, on the back of the success of all the singles and the growing album sales, enabled them to test him in different markets. They'd invested so little in him compared to what they'd put into some of their then current roster of acts that he was already earning money for them.

His original British label, sensing the growing mania for his music, re-released _Tiger Stripes_ and _Beat_ , much to the singer's distress, in the brief lull before the _Burst_ album's last single. Buying of the re-released singles propelled them into the UK top twenty, despite a failed attempt on his current label's part to get an injunction to stop their release. The unauthorised re-releases enabled him to clock up a whopping five top twenty chart entries in six months, attesting to his sudden and huge appeal.

He was one of a number of new artists making waves in the pop world, but the extent of his sudden explosion was unparalleled at the time. At _Burst's_ height, he was constantly compared to other reasonably newcomers, like Nik Kershaw and Howard Jones, or seen as a contender in the making for Simon Le Bon's or Boy George's crowns, the latter an artist with whom he definitely shared something. But with just a debut album, he'd grafted his own reputation as a club act offering something more. Someone who'd arrived on the scene with a previously unheard kind of music, even if he looked as rag tag as the rest of his chart mates.

All that time in the dingy London, New Jersey and New York clubs and his obscure past in Asia and beyond, gave him more than a whiff of authenticity, even in comparison to those more musically gifted contemporaries. Furthermore, his remarkable look and the flare with which he flaunted contradictions; of gender, of his contradictory Eurasian and bleach blond appearance, along with that unique take on club and street cultures, all contributed to him being considered one of the new masters of what one author later termed _holocaust chic_.

But more than anything else, it was _his music_ that was perfectly capturing the new wave sensibility, that cross between club and pop culture that was born from the loins of synthesizers, but had never been heard before with such an international bent. Stripped to its basic components it seemed simplistic and almost banal, but this was music that was designed to be experienced in a blaze of fashion and in those heady, edgy clubs that beckoned the new generation of clubbers.

His unlikely success also pointed to a changing of the guard, and the ushering in of a transgressive, queer take on pop culture. Everything before had been about fitting into a _white man's world_. This was after all, still a period in which _Black_ was a _category_ given to a genre. The pioneering seventies work of David Bowie and the glam rockers had been quashed again by that oppressive, male dominated rock culture brought on by The Stones and Led Zeppelin and carried on by any number of Californian bands who simply carried the same torches. Dance music was _disco_ and these were songs that played out for months in the clubs before they ever made it over to radio. Nevertheless when the songs arrived on the airwaves, it was clear; something was changing.

The jaunt represented the first time in his life since leaving Australia that his days didn't purely consist of living hand to mouth or of disappointments acting as chasers to sheer happiness. He'd spent so many years enduring the consequences of his hard choices that he'd often forgotten there was always an upside to life. For now, he had an inkling at least of what it could be like. He now had _a team_ of people to rely on and didn't have to feel so David versus Goliath about things, even if he and most of his friends had bonded on that very basis.

He snuck away from appearances and press appointments to head into the fashionable and alternative areas of the cities he was visiting. In the evenings he'd pop into some of the hottest clubs of the time, and filled his suitcases with acquisitions during his days. He naturally made a number of notes of the trends that he witnessed when he remembered to do so the following mornings. But on the morning of his final day in Tokyo, Michael found the singer crying in his bed when he went in to wake him.

"Hey? What's wrong?" Michael said, sitting on the bed, putting his hand on the singer's shoulder.

"Nothing," he replied, trying to rub the tears out of his eyes and stop himself from crying and from further embarrassment. But without success.

Michael took off his shoes and his jacket and hopped onto the bed, lying next to the singer.

"It's a day off today. You don't have to do anything today. We're flying out tonight."

The singer didn't reply for what seemed like an eternity, until he finally muttered, "I know," before sobbing again.

Michael lay holding him for a moment, thinking. The singer sobbed all the while, and Michael racked his brain thinking about what could've happened in the final hours of the night before to upset him so. Nothing. They'd danced like mad men until they made their way back to the hotel. Exhausting that possibility, he began to think about the day ahead, and finally, it clicked.

"Oh. Alè, it's going to be fine. You're just nervous. And tired. We've had a busy couple of weeks. Your family are going to be so happy to see you."

The singer's sobs turned into those ugly, full blown kind of tears. Michael continued to hold him, to help him ride out the anxiety, whispering the affirmation repeatedly.

He did his best to pull himself together. When the sobbing stopped, he began to explain himself. "I haven't seen them in over six years. I've forgotten how to relate to them. I only know them through letters and sometimes a phone call every now and then. What am I going to say to them? How am I going to explain everything to them?"

"They're going to be over the moon to see you. And when they see what you've accomplished, if they haven't already, they'll be stoked for you. And, more importantly, you're going to have time to spend with them. And you'll be able to go back and see them again in the new year again and spend even more time with them...you have to think of it more like the start of a new period with them, and the end of this period where you just weren't able to see them. Everything will feel normal within half an hour with them. Trust me, families are all the same," he thoughtfully explained. "They spend the first day obsessing about how long it's been and how much they missed you, and the next day you're fighting over corn flakes. It's universal. Happens to me all the time when I go back to Puerto Rico. Except for the cornflakes. My mum insists on _funche_."

The singer chuckled half-heartedly and Michael told him to get up, pack and get ready for the day. "Mitsuko is taking us to Kamakurra for the day. She wanted to show you her hometown."

He couldn't sleep on the plane ride from Tokyo to Sydney.

He spent the entire time rationing his thoughts and his memories. Things that he _could_ share with his family and oldest friends about all of those years, and things that he absolutely _couldn't_.

He knew he had to steer clear of the tough times, the years in London. He knew he couldn't talk too much about his clubbing life in New York either, about how he'd been so fond of ecstasy for so long that he couldn't even remember when it was that he'd first tried it. He knew they'd ask him about where he was living now in New York, and that he'd have to try to avoid any reference to the cockroaches in his last building, or to the fact that he'd been sharing a room with four others for the six months after things had gone so terribly wrong with Ben. And about when the place had been broken into and they'd stolen the only valuables he had: his grandfather's old watch and a silver bracelet that his parents had given him for his eighteenth birthday before he'd flown off on his adventure. The one that was still continuing all these years on.

He wouldn't talk about the things he'd had to do, initially as one offs, and later more frequently to pay the rent and to get himself a hot meal at least once a day. Like when he finally began working as an escort in the spring of 1982 because the late hours of the night were the only ones he still had free to make more money and the record contract hadn't been the life changing moment he'd hoped for. Or of the chubby, paint stained fingers that he'd let enter into him or simply caress every part of his body, because he needed the cash or the warm bed to sleep in that he got in return. Even if those hands belonged to his last private client; some fat, snoring pig who thought he was an artist, though he had less perceivable talent than a grade schooler.

He forbid himself from talking about the two year affair that he'd had with Ben, that only finally ended when Ben's wife had worked everything out, after her neighbours had so kindly informed her of the singer's sleep overs. He'd been spotted leaving the apartment over a succession of early mornings. She'd issued her husband with an ultimatum, and even after that, she'd left him, divorcing him and moving back to her family in Israel in the process. It had left Ben resentful of the singer. Like Alekz had been the only person guilty of something, and from deep within his hurt, he somehow thought it had been all a part of the singer's plan to bring him down, to destroy him in some kind of retribution. Worse still was when Ben called him an opportunist and loathsome. It had reduced him to the most isolated state he'd ever experienced. _The perfect gay boyfriend and the perfect gay_ _couple_. He didn't know it then, not even during the flight back to his homeland, but he wouldn't see or hear from Ben again until 1988, when his management had suddenly begun fielding calls on his behalf.

He couldn't talk about how his perception of his own body had changed. How he, until only recently, had come to view it merely as a paying part of his arsenal. He couldn't even talk proudly about those times that he refused people his body. Like the time back in 1980 when an A&R rep came to one of his shows in New Jersey and cornered him in his dressing room, promising him he would sign him to the label if he would just suck him off that very minute. The rep had even helpfully unzipped on the occasion, showing off a forest of thick, wiry black pubes. The idea had tempted him, but seemed to go against the idea of making it on his own terms, not as a result of his other talents.

His catalogue of thoughts seemed to be full of such experiences; like on one of his nights doing silver service at the home of some rich entertainment agent on the Upper East Side. One of the guests, whom the singer wanted to give a copy of his demo tape to, instead offered him a $10 tip for a hand job on the terrace, even though it was practically snowing out. These were battle scars to be shared with friends over a drink, not with family.

So what could he talk about that he could be publicly proud of? He could talk about how his time in India helping at the orphanage had left a mark on him, and that he couldn't understand why after a period of doing so much good there he'd been subjected to so much bad. But that had negative tinges, so really, he couldn't. And it also left the impression that he'd done nothing worthwhile in the six years since.

He could talk about how he had a great group of friends: all creative, intelligent, insightful people who supported each other, like an adopted family, and of how there was a real spirit of community that existed between them all. Or he could talk about his new place that he'd finally moved into over the summer when the first meagre royalty cheque had arrived from the new record label. And how it was small, and humble, but it was in Manhattan, and clean and safe, and how he treated it like a base, letting his friends crash there or hang out, or even shower... _no, they can't know about the struggle stuff_ _otherwise there'll be a lecture about how inappropriate that is for someone in their mid-20s._

Or his new love. But nothing was official. He was seeing her, but not monogamously. And he didn't want to give them the impression that it was anything too serious, otherwise there might be some kind of expectation that he was going to get married or something ridiculous like that. That he would somehow become his brother just by admitting to it. Married, parent, lifeless.

So he decided he had to talk about them. To learn what they were up to. How things were for them. And how much he'd missed them all this time. And that he was finally starting to get into a position where the distance might not present such a huge problem for them any longer. He had a phone line of his own for the first time in his life, and if things continued the way they were going, the royalties were going to make for a comfortable period in his life for the first time in, well, ever.

It's strange how we arrive at a point of wellbeing, or success, or happiness, and suddenly everything in the lead up changes. We might have been having all the fun in the world in struggle town, but once things have been earned, and are starting to be handed to us, we recalibrate our thoughts. We start to tell ourselves that the fun we had during those testing times was more likely us making the best of torrid situations. We get so caught up in our comfort that we forget there was joy in the discomfort too, and that those moments are no more real or fake than the good times.

He took his connecting flight from Sydney down to Melbourne. It was a relief to hear that accent that he'd all but forgotten after all those years away. He picked up a couple of newspapers and read them for the short duration of his flight, talking a little with his dancers and Michael, who'd slept for the international flight, and who was now all super enthusiastic about Australia, a place he hadn't visited in almost five years when one of his groups had made it big there and he'd gone along for the ride.

Landing in Melbourne, the troupe headed straight to the hotel in the Central Business District and checked in before being ushered to the record label office, where the singer was greeted by the Australian division manager and some high level execs. He spent a couple of hours poring over the schedule and making notes and posing for a couple of photos with the local staff before asking that they call him a cab.

The taxi dropped Michael off at the hotel, and the singer continued all the way out to the suburbs to his family home, filled with trepidation. It was almost six full years to the day since he'd stepped foot in that north western suburb. The fear he had that he would no longer recognise it diminished: there were a few more houses but, for the most part, it looked the same; drab, clean, suburban.

The taxi stopped in the driveway and he took his suitcase filled with gifts from Japan and Europe and an overnight bag out of the trunk. For the first time in his memory he rang the doorbell because he no longer had the keys to the house. They were probably somewhere in India or England now.

He'd swept his hair back into a neat pony tail, and was looking a little less edgy than usual in a simple jeans and top ensemble. The door opened, and standing there in front of him was his father, a little portlier, a little greyer, and happier than he'd ever remembered him looking.

"Alè," he cried, kissing his son on both cheeks and pulling him in for a long, tender embrace which brought tears to both their eyes. They composed themselves, letting out matching sighs, before his father took hold of the suitcase and carried it along the corridor for his son, who dutifully closed the door behind him.

"Your mum's on her way home. She was at your aunt's. You're blond."

"Yeah a few years now," he said, sitting down on the sofa, his dad sitting next to him. "Oh dad, I'm so happy to see you. So, so happy."

"Oh my, I can't tell you how long I've been waiting for this day. You look good."

"I'm sure I look ridiculous."

"No. You young people all look ridiculous, but you, you look good. You look a little tired."

"I didn't sleep on the plane. I was too n...excited."

"I don't think your mum slept a wink last night either. She had the day off today and was fretting so I told her to leave the house, to go visit her sister so she could calm down a bit. She was driving me crazy."

"And Sofia? And Domenic?"

"They're at work. They're coming for dinner. I think Sofia's husband is coming too, but I don't know about Jennifer. Domenic's wife is pregnant. She might come."

"She's pregnant? When's the baby due?"

"Next year. But she's having some problems. A bit tired and sick in the mornings so she said she'd see how she feels, but Domenic will definitely come."

"What are they like? Patrick and Jennifer?"

"Well I am surprised that you didn't come to the weddings. We could've even paid for the tickets somehow."

"Oh I know. It just felt like it would've been a bit rude of me. I'm the brother that lives overseas that has never met you. _Welcome to the family!_ And Domenic got married right when I was moving to New York, so it was just bad timing. Plus I couldn't afford it. Anyway, you didn't answer my question."

"Well. Patrick is okay. A bit boring. After all these years he still continues on about the food here. _Fantastic. Amazing. Oh My Goodness._ But he's a good man. Domenic is a slave to Jennifer. He's funny. She's the boss. But she's nice. I like her."

"Does mum like them?"

"She likes Patrick and doesn't like Jennifer. But it's a badly kept secret. I think she's just happy to see them settled. And you? Any news?"

"You mean am I getting married?"

"Yes. So I can have a heart attack now."

"No. No chance of it."

"You were always different to those two. I remember you in the car with me one day. You were about twelve or thirteen years old. And I was trying to find out if you had a girlfriend. And then you said something like, _'I'm never going to get married. It's a prison and it's depressing, the idea that you have to spend the rest of your life with one person.'_ I just wanted to know if you had a girlfriend. But I never forgot that. I knew you were different to the other two."

"You got that right. I still am."

"So...when you want to tell me your news you can tell me. With you I can never be prepared for what you're going to say or do. But it's not a problem for me. Your mother's another story. But you have to remember this. You never need to feel like you can't tell me something. I might not understand it, but I understand you."

"I wouldn't know where to start dad," the singer said, taking off his shoes and tucking his feet under his thighs. "I always find myself in situations that I could never have imagined and..."

"Don't force yourself Alekzandr. All the time in the world."

"All you need to know right now is that I have some great friends, my work is going well finally, and the other stuff, well, I'm working that out as I go."

"I have no doubt. I love all three of you. But you were the boldest one. I knew you'd find your way eventually. Maybe you've started to. But I'm not your mother. I want to know what you're doing. You can be bold with me too. I understand that you don't want to talk about things with your mum, that you don't want her to stress or be worried about you. But with me, you disappoint me when you don't share with me."

"When I understand the things that've happened, then I'll tell you about them."

"That's your prerogative. Alekz, let me tell you something. The details are different, but really, everything boils down to the same kind of things in life. The same problems that happen in love happened years ago. The same problems with working with other people happen to everybody. The situations are identical, it's just that the particulars change. I've been at it a lot longer than you have. I went out alone when I was young too. I wasn't always just your dad."

"I understand."

"You know I'm starting to see you in the papers now. And on television. And it's not that you're a stranger. It's just that I don't want to rely on the journalists to know about what's going on in your life. I want to hear it from you. Your career has taken off. So you have to get into the habit of not leaving me awake wondering how much I read is true. That's what you owe me as a son. I won't _judge you_. I'll just listen to you."

"What are you on about? Have you been reading one of mum's self-help books? You know that stuff is nonsense. What is it that you think you know dad?"

"No Alekz, what do you need to tell me?"

"There are too many things that've happened in the last six years to explain to you. Wouldn't it be easier if you just asked me what you particularly want to know?"

"For the last six years I've heard from you a handful of times each year. Out of respect for you I've never pushed you when it was clear to me that things weren't like how you were telling me. Your mum probably knows better too, but she doesn't dwell on that. She's just happy to hear from you. I'm happy to hear from you too, and I'm so happy to see you today, but we've a lot of catching up to do. A Christmas card or a birthday card isn't going to cut it this time around."

The singer looked at his father, resentful. Not resentful at him, but rather, resentful that he was going to have to try and make his way through his maze of conversational and non-conversational experiences.

He began almost backwards, methodically and slowly. He talked about the promotional tour and how he'd been given the opportunity to travel to places he'd never been before; to Rome, to West Berlin and Paris. And how, after years of record label false starts, he and his creative friends had taken things into their own hands, which led to a sudden and quick explosion of public support. He explained how he'd been able to hire a manager with whom he'd worked in the past, and how Michael was already negotiating a contract for a second album which the label was now suddenly desperate for. He explained the complicated nature of the earnings process and that he was already earning royalties that had got him his own rented apartment in Manhattan, the first time in a long time in which he hasn't had to share a room, and that once a more substantial cheque came through he would buy his first place.

He made a brief mention of having been in a series of short and long term relationships both in London and New York, but that he didn't see anything permanent coming out of any of the relationships he was in. He admitted to his dad that his NYC life was occasionally wild, without feeling the need to be specific, other than to say that he was surrounded by grounded friends, and that the idea that he only moved in trashy drug laden circles was grossly inaccurate and that he should ignore those kinds of comments in the articles written about him.

Olivero was about to ask him for the specifics, particularly regarding the subjects his son was skirting around but, on hearing the arrival of his wife's car, he decided against it.

His reunion with his mother was just as touching as it'd been with his father, and after she reluctantly loosened her grip on him, her questions were fired out at surface level, focusing on the now, with only a few mentions of the gaps in the timeline she'd constructed for the past six years. She had, to some point, accepted that the letters he would regularly send defined the extent to which he was happy to share the details of his life, so she didn't feel as disconnected with him as Olivero did. She'd started to understand her place in his adult world.

At some point Michael called the house to check on his client. "I'm having dinner with one of the execs at the label tonight. The dancers seem to have disappeared somewhere into the city but I figured they'd be out all night anyway. How are you with your family?"

"Everything's okay. Thanks Michael."

"Well, I'll see you tomorrow I guess. Try and be here by eleven so we can go over some things."

"I was thinking I would sleep at the hotel tonight."

"Were they expecting you to stay the night?"

"Yeah."

"Well maybe you should. Don't try and avoid the _funche_. Everything will feel normal after you've all had a little argument or a disagreement. Tonight everyone's on their best behaviour. You be on yours. I'll see you in the morning. Remember. Eleven. Bye."

Over dinner he felt like he had less in common with his siblings than he did with their partners, neither of whom he was particularly interested in other than in an anthropological sense. As they ate and he answered their questions about the last few meteoric months, he realised how different he was from them, from them all. It was a strange feeling to feel as if he'd more in common with his parents than he did with his siblings and their partners. But they seemed content with their married lots, and agreed to times and dates the following week for dinners at their respective homes so that he could see them and spend some time with them. It seemed like the polite thing to do.

Collectively they seemed like they were _lunchtime friends_ , people you could probably spend part of an afternoon with, but with whom the idea of an evening together was out of the question. Domenic took some photos of them all, and lots of individual ones, followed by couples with Alekz, couples without Alekz, all that kind of thing. "I'll take them to the chemist downstairs from my office tomorrow and order some reprints," he explained after filing his camera back in its bag. It had to be the most middle class statement Alekz had heard in years. And it riled him that either he was the black sheep and wrong in pursuing his non 9-to-5 life, or that they were all just out of their minds to have found happiness in that conventional world of suburbs, clerical careers, marriage and babies on the horizon. He wasn't that much younger than them, they were only in their early thirties but they sounded to him like they were already middle aged.

He left the room and returned with the gifts he'd haphazardly chosen. He'd veered on the safe side, but wasn't sure how things would go down nonetheless. He handed his parents their gifts first, followed by Sofia and Patrick, and finally Domenic and Jennifer theirs. He had bought something thoughtful, chic and exotic for them all, and sat watching them chat amongst themselves as they unwrapped their gifts.

Everybody looked at him with shock.

"What's wrong?" the singer asked as it became apparent each and every person at the table was having the same, dumbfounded reaction to the gifts. "Did I do something wrong?"

"Alekz, these are beautiful, but they're too extravagant," Domenic explained. "We can't accept these."

"Why?"

"Because, well, you can't afford it. And it's unnecessary anyway."

A moment of frustration, accompanied by relief, passed over the singer. It was time for the pointless argument that would help clear the air. Then normality could be resumed.

"Well Dom, it's not really for you to decide what I can and can't afford. I figured I haven't been sending you presents for your birthday, nor for your weddings as I, well, you know, I did send you the paintings I did for you both...but, I just thought it would be nice for me to bring you something, as a little way for me to say, 'hey, happy birthday times six, and congratulations'. I didn't realise it would create a funeral scene."

Heated chitchat ensued but he only participated half-heartedly, as Michael's cornflakes theory seemed to ring true. Of course, he shouldn't have doubted that his family wouldn't be able to wait it out until the morning after to begin airing some form of grievances, but he really didn't care about it. He'd survived his first trip home.

He did, however, decide to go back to the hotel for the night. He figured it would give his parents some time to chat openly with each other, and Patrick and Sofia had to pass through the city to get to their house anyway, so they'd be able to drop him off at the hotel.

He called Michael's room but got no answer, so instead showered and fell fast asleep the minute he put his head on the pillow. Big few days, and some major jet lag with his name all over it.

The promotional appearances and media interviews went well, the singer also pre-taping a number of different performances of his tracks to be aired over the coming weeks on most of the music and variety shows in Australasia. He flew up to Sydney for a few nights to carry out another couple of appearances before bidding farewell to his dancers, who were flying back to New York as all the pre-tapings had been completed.

Back at the Sydney hotel he and Michael had dinner with a journalist from the Australian edition of _Rolling Stone_. Part of the interview had already been conducted during the day, while the continuation over dinner was focused on the new electronic direction pop was taking, edging back into the mainstream with the growing obsession with new wave and no wave music. The three of them then went to a small live music bar in the inner city to watch one of the fledgling synth bands of the period before Michael and the singer returned to the hotel.

He and Michael had originally met when Michael had signed him to the old label back in 1981. Back then, Michael's interest in him wasn't just musical, and when the singer had made that discovery after perhaps Michael's fourth or fifth visit, he quickly weighed up the pros and cons. He found Michael attractive. He found his moppy, dark hair sexy, along with Michael's almost Hebraic features and a manly physique that was more than serviceable. He'd known Michael wasn't personally _that_ into his music, but he was interested enough, and knew that having him onside would only amount to something positive.

That night after the fourth or fifth gig in New Jersey, Michael, already friendly with the singer, whom he had signed just days before, made his way to the dressing room; literally a converted supplies closet that still stank of acrid cleaning products. He knocked first, and entered only after being invited in.

The singer had scored a little coke earlier that evening, and was in the process of cutting it into two lines when he beckoned Michael over. Michael had looked him over, as the singer began to roll up the dollar bill. He had his long, bleached blonde hair in a makeshift pony tail at the top of his head, his favourite Star of David tank top sitting loosely over his olive torso, and the super tight black leggings and high top red trainers on, looking faintly poppy, faintly ridiculous, and definitely like a character. Even Michael noted how ridiculous he looked, even if he somehow managed to pull it off.

Michael snorted the first line, and then offered the bill to the singer, caressing his finger as he passed it over. The singer flashed his luminous brown eyes and a smile at Michael, and then inhaled the line in a long, elegant swoop.

He smiled sweetly and sat himself down on the dodgy armchair, made of that fire retardant material which is so itchy to sit on, the hallmark piece of student housing and second hand furniture markets that nobody touches until desperation sets in.

"Do you have time to hang around for a bit?" the singer had asked.

"I have another gig at 1 tonight that I'm going to see. Do you wanna come with me?"

"Are you going alone?"

"No, I'm with the guys. They're watching the band outside. They all thought you were great tonight by the way."

"I'm not interested in what they thought," he said coquettishly. "Why don't you come and sit over here then, if you're not in a rush, and tell me what _you_ thought of me."

Michael had felt the energy surging throughout his body as he looked down at the singer. Well, he was really more a dancer, or maybe more an art pop performer back then. Hell, he didn't really know what to think of him, even now, but he had every faith that signing him had been a good move on his part.

"I'm not sure that's such a great idea. I mean, I don't think I'd be capable of just sitting there and having a conversation with you."

"Well," the singer said, spreading his legs a little, "I'm pretty sure then that we don't have anything else left to talk about now that the deal is done anyway. But if you unzip those jeans right now, I'm pretty sure that I'll be able to give you something to think about for a while."

A broad smile lit up Michael's face at that moment that night, and he quickly, hurriedly unbuckled, and tore his pants down to his knees, striding across to the singer who made good on his offer.

After that initial tryst, they never really resumed anything along those lines. It seemed to be a partly coke infused moment, partly cynical opportunism on both their parts and partly like the natural conclusion of a month long period of flirtation. But now, in Sydney, in Michael's hotel room, the opportunity was representing itself. Once again, there was a little bit of coke on offer that the journalist had scored at the Newtown venue, and each was at a loose end of sorts, pulsating with that kind of live energy that only a good orgasm can successfully make use of.

That night in Sydney when the singer lined the bench top with two reasonably generous lines of coke, Michael's mind and groin both began to race. It was a balmy Sydney night, so he took off his jacket, shoes, and his pants before the singer called him over for the first line. As Michael snorted the line, the singer stripped completely naked. He sat himself on Michael's lap and as he felt his manager's member spring into solid form, he snorted the line, turned his head and began kissing him. He dropped to his knees and fellated him, just as he had on that late night all those years before, but this time, Michael had other ideas. He led him over to the bed and spent the next half hour in a variety of positions with him until they were both spent.

The following morning over breakfast in Michael's room, they spoke candidly about what'd happened the night before, and agreed that for the moment, they wouldn't take things between them too seriously, not on that level anyway. Not at this stage.

Michael flew out that day, Alekz after another week back in Melbourne. Once they were both back in New York, the two intermittently got together whenever they could. In Michael's car, in Alekz's apartment, in dressing rooms and Michael's office. Michael's secretary had been on the phone outside the office one time whilst Michael aggressively had his way with the singer. Another time Alekz's girlfriend Thena was in the Korean downstairs whilst he gave Michael a blowjob on the kitchen counter before Michael casually took the stairwell down to the street.

It was easy _and_ complicated. The strings were already attached, but neither wanted a full blown commitment from the other. Michael loved the singer, but he saw it as the same kind of love that tended to evaporate when exposed to routine, to surety, to commitment. He didn't want to make something more of it than it was and ruin its essence in the process. The way that water distorts things when you look through it, even though you think it can only make things clearer.

The sex the singer enjoyed with Michael; rough, often rushed but intimate; met his needs in ways that that with Thena never could or would. He could lavish the word _love_ on Michael for a million reasons, not only for his burly, hirsute physique, or for his innate sweetness, but also because he viewed him as his own protector. But at, that point, he wasn't _in love_ with him, so it wasn't hard to distinguish his other relationships from that with Michael. They were having fun together, but they also had to work together and to know when to draw the line.

For his part, Michael quickly learned the managerial ropes, and flush with the success of the first album, began planting the idea of the singer starting up his own label on completion of the current record deal, should the second album do well.

By the end of _Burst's_ impressive run, the album had racked up over two million sales worldwide. Buoyed as much by its gritty visual elements as it was by the seemingly endless run of singles, which culminated in yet a worldwide top ten hit in February 1984 with _All My Love,_ album sales eventually reached eight million copies worldwide, aided no doubt by the introduction of CDs which forced everybody to go out and buy their favourite LPs all over again.

The debut album had swirled out of an on and off scenario, but now the singer was finding more and more certainty in what he wanted to set out to achieve, and with whom he planned to do it.

#  IT'S MAGIC

When they'd met for the first time, their trajectories were both running reasonably flat. He was a graphic designer/cum waiter/cum gigging _disco_ singer and a proverbial jack of all trades. She'd had no illusions about her own career path, focusing largely on modelling work and the good graces of her personality to get herself by. She'd spent most of her late teen years working as a model, but after turning 20 or so, found that her body and face had changed, unfortunately not in line with the prevailing tastes of the time, leaving her mainstream modelling career to run aground. Nonetheless, her bank account remained in reasonably good condition. But by the time the two of them got things sorted and started to be something of a regular deal, he was already riding high. So much had changed for him in such a short time.

In total, six singles had been released from the debut album, including the four bona fide tracks which were worldwide top twenty hits. Their success on the US charts led to him being nominated for the chart's _Singles Artist of the Year_ and _Best New Talent_ awards for the 1983 chart year, although he wound up winning neither.

As the album and a couple of the singles continued to chart well into 1984, he was pushed back into the studio to begin work on the follow up, and forbidden by Estes from doing any further press until the new album was all but ready. Well into 1984 he had a huge media presence generated only by the collateral success of his debut album which continued to sell. And she too had created more than a whiff of interest in her own projects in the meantime.

They became fast friends long before anything took off for him. Without planning it, they'd see each other almost weekly at the downtown clubs and makeshift parties on the Lower East Side, which they both gravitated towards. He was gigging consistently, either on his own or with his dancers, or working as a backing vocalist for a range of acts he'd met and befriended at the Music Building or on the scene. He scribbled each of the gig dates in red pen into his diaries. Had he ever sat back and counted them he would've realised that in the space of two years he'd rack up over 100 solo performances and almost double that as a backing vocalist. During that time he was often performing twice a week, which led to more and more studio time as a backing vocalist for acts like European disco and new wave bands who, more often than not, imploded before they achieved anything substantial.

During those early years in New York their paths only ever converged at night, at clubs, bars or at the fringe exhibition openings; sometimes even alongside nondescript buildings, where their friends tagged the walls with their silly nicknames and apolitical graffiti.

But one time he finally saw her in the daylight. One sunny May day in 1980, he'd been laying on the grass at Prospect Park, having only been rostered to work a lunchtime shift, and free of his usual bedtime romps with his _Guardian Angels_ , as he called them, he was free to enjoy his day, choosing to get some sun and read the book one of the Angels had given him; _Nocturnes For The King Of Naples_. He'd started reading it on the subway a few days earlier, but as he slowly read, more and more found himself shifting uncomfortably due to both the novel's racy content and the betrayal of his flimsy outfits, which did little to hide his bodily reaction to the material.

The book was mesmerising; he was totally engrossed, and appreciated the pencil annotations his lover had made here and there, as if it was a form of chivalry. But when he saw her walking nearby, he stood up in one sweeping motion, sending the book and his Radio Shack transistor radio scuttling down to his feet. "Hey!" he yelled, not quite remembering her name. Andrea? Anthea? _Athena_. "Athena!"

His lower region seemed to be betraying him again, but he didn't really care now. She walked over smiling and gesticulating in surprise, waving her hands around and rolling her head back a little as if to say " _what on earth are you doing here?_ " But she gave him a peck on the cheek and instead asked if he was enjoying the sun, which he affirmed.

"What are you doing in Brooklyn?" he asked, looking over his ancient, badly scuffed Ray Bans that he'd taken to with a felt pen to try and mask the scratches and paint flecks.

"A friend of mine lives near the park and I was having lunch with her."

"Oh great," he enthused, looking her over.

"No really, it was terrible. It was supposed to be a dry run for when she cooks for her boyfriend, but she hasn't got a chance. It was a nice gesture, but we decided it would be best if she just made a reservation somewhere instead. Anyway, what are you doing in Brooklyn?"

"Oh, I live here."

"Doesn't anyone live downtown anymore?" she asked rhetorically, looking him over.

"Is that where you live?" he asked, trying inconspicuously to fold his arms over his bare chest.

"I live in the Village. Well, technically, I've been staying in the village. One of the girls I work with is in London. I'm paying her share while she is away but it's not a real sublet. I have to find somewhere else in a couple of months. But you know what? I don't mind Brooklyn. I guess it's a lot cheaper out here too."

Although a million thoughts raced through his mind about her, he was most curious to know what it was that she actually did during the day. She talked about modelling, as if to remind herself that she once had a profession, but then explained that she now had a part time gig in a commercial art gallery, where, _how did she put it?_ ; she was "paid to simply be; to remind collectors and customers that this was a young and hip art space" that she worked in, and that they shouldn't associate it with its septuagenarian owner.

She too was Australian born, but had been one of the lucky few who had been scouted at a young age and sent off by her local agency to the affiliate New York branch at just 15 or 16. She liked the financial freedom that the work had offered, but often hated the idea of the job. "I mean, really, how ridiculous that in this day and age the papers in Wollongong and even Sydney were printing stories about how I was a 'success story' and an inspiration to young girls. Really? How so? By dropping out of school to let a bunch of old men take photos of me wearing other people's clothes? I find it ridiculous, but, really I'm just doing really small campaigns these days for friends. I do some editorial stuff, but I think I'm going to have to start doing something that is more consistent soon enough. Or go to Japan or something. Maybe I will enjoy the work again. Have you ever been? To Japan, I mean."

"You know, you talk a lot," he laughed, surprised that she was more a drifter than a model these days.

She blushed. "Oh I do, I do. I can't help it...I get started and then I just never know when to stop. Hey, I have to get the subway back to town. I've got a meeting with my agent."

"Shall I walk you to the station?"

"Yeah, sure, I mean, only if you are done here. It would be stupid for you to walk all that way, and then come back," she explained awkwardly, still taking him in with her eyes.

"No I'm done here," he said without missing a beat.

He put his top back on and they continued talking while walking the short distance to the subway entrance. They had both confirmed that they were due to at least pop in to _Club 57_ or _Holiday_ on Friday. As they said their goodbyes he leant in and kissed her on the lips, exchanging his gum and cigarette taste for her cherry flavoured lip balm. He smiled and waved, content enough that he'd made her both smile and blush and without bothering to wait as she passed through the turnstiles, simply turned around and walked off, she turning back to see only the back of his head.

They did see each other that weekend, briefly at _Holiday_ , where they exchanged a kiss, a few words and some outright flirting, but she was heading off to another party, and he was staying put on account of his crew being all together for the first time in weeks.

After that, he didn't see her again for the longest time, and the machinations of his career kicked into gear shortly thereafter; landing him a semi-permanent gig at _57_ , coming third in a NYC radio talent search, and leveraging the opportunity into a singles deal. Their paths didn't cross again until months after his debut US single had come out in 1981 and had made a good impression on the dance charts, picking up airplay on some of the West Coast stations along the way.

Since having been forced on from Ben, he'd taken up with his two _Angels_ ; one a chivalrous attorney who only asked that he kept his Sunday afternoons free, the other a Swiss born engineer who once brought him back a selection of kitschy nationalistic t-shirts from around Europe and Israel, which he immediately incorporated into his stage wardrobe.

He learned to almost love them both in his own way but never allowed himself to get too deep with them. With Allen, the attorney, he shared the ins and outs of his life, giving Allen the chance to live vicariously through him, taking Allen beyond his otherwise closeted world as a family man with two grown sons and a wife whom he still dearly loved, even if it was no longer in the biblical sense. Allen, in some part of his psyche could always make the imaginative leap to burning his bridges and committing to something more permanent with the singer, but in reality, never would. Whether they were sharing a meal, or watching television, reading the paper, or even having sex, there was something tender that informed every moment. With Lev though, it was more carnal. Lev too had a family, in Connecticut, and more time for the singer in New York than Allen. But ultimately, theirs was a sexual relationship based on goodwill. Lev, to his credit, never gave Alekzandr the impression that he wanted anything more than a good time, but, never reduced to him a play thing either. He raised no claim of ownership or jealousy, knew of Allen and the singer's relationship with him, as well as the past he'd shared with Ben, whom he also vaguely knew. But he considered it all to be fair game given his own commitments and complications. The singer for his part had trained himself to be much more discreet and resigned about matters of the heart after the events that transpired with Ben.

He loved Allen and Lev both as you might love a friend, but he wasn't _in love with them_ and for Alekzandr this was the key distinction that helped him categorise all the lovers in his life from day one. When he and Athena finally ran into each other again in 1982, it was at one of his gigs at _57_. He sang four songs, including two completely new ones that he had recently written with Ian. Allen had come as he'd asked for an invite. It wasn't really a date. More an opportunity for Allen to watch Alekz perform. But for Alekz it was the first of many nights to be loved and in love. He didn't know it then, but in that room at _57_ , he was in the company of the handful of people who would basically define the eighties for him; Ian, Jasper, Michael, and, of course, Athena, who rushed up to him after the performance with a congratulatory hug.

"I haven't seen you in, forever. I thought you must have overdosed or something," he deadpanned.

She smiled, and pushed at him playfully. "No. Nothing that dramatic. I've been in Tokyo for the last year or so. Last dash of my modelling career before I have to retire from old age or something," she admitted.

"What are you doing back in New York?"

"I didn't know where else to go. Besides, someone sent me a copy of your tape. I figured I had to check you out in person at least and see if it was the real deal or if you were faking it all."

"Seriously?"

"No, silly! But I knew you were on tonight and I had heard your tape. So I wanted to come by and say 'hi'. I came to get my things and pack up. I'm moving to L.A for a bit. My agent got me a part in a soap. I'm officially an actress now."

"God the world is fucking fantastic sometimes! An actress? Let's have a drink to celebrate," he said, casually brushing away a friend who was trying to cut in.

They talked and talked in between what seemed like a million introductions and interruptions. Tokyo; Ginza, Shinjuku, Harajuku and Yokohama; being cast as a nurse in a long running hospital soap...her trajectory had definitely lifted since they'd last seen each other. He felt like his own propellers were barely moving in comparison to her Concorde like career, even though he felt like he might finally be getting things off the ground.

She seemed less affected now by what she'd seen and experienced. She described a mercenary modelling industry and how she'd been glad of the experience in Japan, but knew it was now time to let that side of her career slide.

In Tokyo she'd made friends quickly and lived in a _real model house_ with three other girls, who collectively would turn heads on the subway when they made their way out for bookings and shoots. It seemed something of a false industry to her; all the Westerners in town were garden style pretty; but because they were so ethnically different they all seemed to be like gorgeous strutting aliens. So it led to months on end of people simply staring at them in even the most mundane of moments; trips to the pharmacy or the supermarket...even waiting on train platforms. All humdrum moments that seemed out of this world because they often seemed to be marked by jaw dropping stares from locals. He had never been capable of making the same observation. He wondered perhaps if she had spent so much of her life being ogled that she simply had a heightened awareness of such things.

But she'd found the Japanese experience isolating. She'd made contacts and a few local friends, but really, her world had gravitated around the other Western girls and boys who were there for the novelty, the excitement, and of course the lucrative campaigns that they just couldn't land anywhere else at the time. It wasn't so different from his own short stint there, he decided.

"I would go back in a heartbeat, but only as a tourist. Couldn't live there. Besides I'm so busy these days: restaurants, clubs, studios...it never stops," he explained wearily.

"You know my agent could probably find you some work if you didn't want to be waiting tables anymore."

"What modelling?"

"Of course."

"I tried that," he laughed embarrassedly. "Besides, I am anti models. That world doesn't really appeal to me. You're the exception."

"Why?"

"Because you're really cool," he said, confused as to why he would need to explain such a statement.

She smiled. "No, I mean, why are you anti model? I mean, I'm not saying it's the most useful thing on earth, and I have huge issues with some aspects of it, but...I don't know, it can be a lot of fun."

"Yeah, if you're six feet tall, rake thin and gorgeous. I mean no offence, but there's just no creativity in it. Besides you were pretty cynical about it all a couple of years ago."

"I know. But Tokyo was fun. And stimulating and interesting at a human level you know? I feel like it fleshed me out a bit, made me think about things and got me to reflect on what I want to do. In a way it was a really creative time for me. There were some amazing campaigns, some amazing photos and editorials that I got to be a part of."

"Yeah I don't know. I always think of models as mannequins. Yeah, I understand it's not easy, but, I just couldn't do it; I couldn't do something knowing that I am just an element of someone else's vision. I don't see the point of it."

"I'm not going to defend the modelling industry or being a model. But in a way, it's a kind of like acting in the best kind of scenario. Besides, didn't you say you had done some modelling before?"

"If you could call it that. But I can't defend it or be that enthusiastic about it. I'm happy for you. Seriously, imagine how it will feel when you're old, to be able to look back at these years and all those photos you've had taken. It will be like a time machine. You can tell your children that you were once drop dead gorgeous. You've either got it or you don't though. You've got it."

"I don't want to be the one to break it you, but, yeah, come a little closer, I don't want anyone to hear...you've got it too. You're six feet tall and gorgeous. You're like me. I'm the acting model, but you're a new version...the singing model."

He laughed and kissed her, "Give me your phone number. You can't leave New York with us only having spent half hour blocks of time together after all these years. We need at least an hour together."

She smiled, and pulled out one of her _meishi_ , her Japanese calling cards, onto the back of which she scrawled down her number. Yes, same friend's apartment, _but this time on the couch_ she explained.

Though he went home that night with Allen who had made himself scarce at the club, afraid that he might be _outed_ , the next day he called her and they met for lunch. He was still on a bit of a buzz after the night before; he'd done a line or two of coke and had had trouble sleeping. Although she was on his mind, he fucked Allen roughly until he'd used up every bit of the energy he had coursing through his body before he passed out on the bed for a couple of hours.

When he arrived at the restaurant, he was dressed in his stage leggings from the night before and a crumbled up t-shirt that was slowly regaining its shape with his body heat. He felt underdressed but she'd chosen a reasonably priced place to meet at in the village so he figured he'd get away with the sloppy look. She was already there, looking amazing as always when he swaggered in with a coy smile, hiding behind those flaking Ray Bans.

"Congratulations on last night. You seemed to be having a ball. Everyone was," she said as he sat down after kissing her on the cheek.

"It's a bit of a blur already, but I think it went well," he said, pouring himself a glass of water.

"I'm booked for the red eye tomorrow. I have a million things to do. Mostly pack up my stuff really," she said, more to break the silence than anything else.

"Are you excited about it?"

"Yeah. I guess since Tokyo, I feel like New York doesn't feel like home anymore. But at least I have a blast here. I have no idea what LA is going to be like though."

"Be nice to be back by the coast again though." He thought for a moment. "The Pacific Ocean. It's in our systems you know."

"Yeah but you're from Melbourne. How would you know?"

"It's a state of mind. My mates and I used to drive out to the coast every now and then. I miss that. I love New York. Even though it's been a tough couple of years, the one thing that has bothered me the most has been being away from the _real_ water all this time. I mean we go occasionally here, and we're on the water, but it's not the same, is it?" He seemed nervous.

"Well when you get that big album contract you can come out and see me. We can go to the beach. You can surf. Hell, maybe even I will."

"Yeah you don't seem like the type who would be happy just watching her man do something."

"I didn't realise I was your woman Alekz," she interjected cheekily.

"Oh I didn't mean it in that way," he said correcting her.

"What is it with you anyway? Everyone I ask has a different take on what you're up to," she stated, sipping on her water. She managed to deliver it in a way that subdued the frustration of what she felt about it all. Like she had to hold her feelings for him against him.

He knew what she was referring to. "I don't have any hang ups I guess. I've been seeing a few people for a long time, and I'm a believer in just being upfront about those kinds of things. Everyone I'm with or have been with knows what I'm about."

"So, are you gay? Or just bi? Or, and sorry if I'm being so direct about this, I don't mean it in an insulting way. Are you going through an experimental phase?"

"I just don't see the point in putting myself in a box. I don't think you can reduce something as complex as emotions down to a single word or a single feeling. I just date the people I want to, the people that interest me. I'm usually pretty good at reading the situation. I don't go looking for trouble despite what you might have heard about me."

She interpreted what he said and took a punt on the angle through which she'd frame it. "I don't know if I could put myself in that kind of situation. I guess I'm more conventional than I like to think. I think monogamy is under rated and I think, whilst it's all fine to talk in generalisations, everyone involved in that kind of situation needs to be on the same page, otherwise it's a recipe for disaster. And being clear about what or who you want is important."

"I agree with you. Partly. I think monogamy is a wonderful thing, and people don't underrate it. They just think it's a really difficult thing to master. I love the idea of it. But I think you can find love anywhere. With a man or a woman. But I haven't been looking for it, and for a long time, no one I've been with has been looking for it with me," he said, his voice trailing off elsewhere.

As he scrutinized her watching him, trying to imagine what the machinations in her brain were, how the information was being processed, he decided to leave nothing to chance, irritated that he had to ostensibly define himself.

"I think it's a really noble thing, even just to consider or imagine being with someone. That's like the highest possible form of flattery or respect that you can pay to somebody. When I see you, I always get taken to another place. You're a ticket holder; I get a little bit lost in my fantasy, but then I remember; I don't know you all that well, and every time I see you, you're off somewhere...I don't know, to another party, to the Village, to Tokyo or LA. None of those places are in my plans, and the idea of just a one night stand or a little bit of fun together seems really trivial. So I'm just trying to enjoy you while I have you, and I'm pretty sure I haven't really cornered you yet, not unless I did and I forgot about it."

"You didn't," she acknowledged. "You've put some thought into it though, hey?"

"Yeah I have, but I know that you have too. It's a question of timing I guess. Our timing hasn't been right to do anything other than to just enjoy the moments when I have you in front of me. It's not about whether I'm gay or bi or experimenting. It's about having no expectations. No conditions. No definitions. Just two people shooting the shit and getting to know each other. That's how relationships are born."

"You know, I thought when you called me this morning I was going to have to shave my legs or put my game on. You've really surprised me."

"Well on the one hand I'd love to go to bed with you. Today." he watched her and saw that she was thinking, not responding. He changed his tack. "That would've been the obvious thing to try for. But I didn't call you to try and get myself laid. You've already seduced me a million times," he said sarcastically.

"Oh you too. So pardon my ignorance, but where does this leave us? Now that I'm leaving too?"

"It leaves us as friends I hope. You know where I am, and I know where you are. But let's stay in touch, hey? Our paths will cross again and when the timing is right something will happen. I don't want to mess you around."

Their paths would cross again. In the middle of 1983 she finished up on the soap and had returned to NYC, tracking him down. His career was finally, emphatically, taking off, and after the role, she too had a higher visibility than before, having landed an endorsement campaign for a perfume and a record deal. They both were starting to see their faces in tabloids and have their names bantered about in the media, but they were both conscious of how precarious their new standings were. They were two new stars; not _young Hollywood stars,_ but rather strangely exotic NYC blow ins who were starting to come good. But it was as if they were also waiting for that imminent moment when someone would simply pull that rug out from under them and return them to their hustling lives.

By the time they hooked up again, he'd long let things completely slide with Alan and Lev to focus on his burgeoning career and the new chapter of his life. His heart hadn't really been in keeping it going with them. Those relationships had served their purposes.

Despite all the promotional work they were doing, Athena and Alekz managed to spend a good deal of time together; she bunking down with him at his NYC rental and the two of them shutting themselves in whenever their agendas allowed them to. It was the first time he had let himself get romantically involved with a friend, but it seemed to be working out between them when they were actually together. He felt settled and happy when she was around, even if his heart and eyes began to wander the minute their schedules separated them. In many ways they were equals. They were equally mercenary but at the mercy of others. In her he saw an opportunity to follow one side of his heart to its logical conclusion. In him she saw the chance to live on the wilder side of things; he was challenging and unconventional, but he was capable of communicating with her in a way that no other man had been.

Things were going so well, that before he took off for the London recording sessions for _Magic_ she made him a completely out of the box proposal. He laughed on hearing it, but realising she was completely serious, he sized her up, and laughed again, this time through nerves. He needed some time to think about it.

In the aftermath of the _Burst_ album, it seemed clear that the singer had struck a chord with the international market, though in most English speaking territories, critics perceived him as more of a male disco tart than a new major talent _per se._ As such, the labels of _Singing Himbo_ and _The Popportunist_ that some of them had coined, stuck, following him thereafter for years.

An unauthorised biography, printed in 1991, suggested that this first career period was defined by _confusion_ and _mostly happy accidents_ , with the record label reluctantly playing catch up to the clamouring, runaway success of the singer's career train. The biographer, famous for his juicy exposés on celebrities and on the more interesting members of royalty, further noted that the singer's manager of the time, Michael Estes, and his grandiose ideas for the singer, further complicated relations for Alekz at his record labels. The label were already confused as to how to handle their unconventional upstart and of how to divide the work required to maximise their vested interest.

Estes was an ardent fan, a supporter, but above all, a friend who hadn't directly managed any other act before, and the common perception at the time was that the two of them were on a learning curve. This further compounded the problem of competing agendas that was playing out between his US and foreign labels. But the singer was loyal to Estes if no one else, and often deflected negative feedback about Estes's abilities, outright rejecting offers from more experienced management teams, instead sticking to his guns and standing by Estes, who, in his mind, _had already saved his life._

The preparation of his second album coincided with the labels' grooming of him for larger scale live performances. Estes's idea too was to push his charge towards the pop sphere and away from his club beginnings. By tying his music in with film soundtracks and a mid-sized arenas tour, Estes hoped this would help establish Alekzandr as a credible pop act and widen his appeal. His labels though, were worried about having to school their new golden goose in the art of stadium performance, terrified that he wouldn't be able to deliver the goods. Any failure on his part would sully their reputation in the process. Instead, they wanted him to take a safer route by recording a purely pop/rock album which could pave the way for an intimate, controlled tour.

To help quash the mixed reviews from the critics, who had variously labelled his debut album as _lightweight, repetitive, and more than a little underwhelming,_ the label all but vetoed the singer's DIY partnership with Ian Smith, insisting instead that the singer work on the new album with more established names and that the first major live appearances happened in international territories...not in the US.

The singer had begun meeting with Michael and various label Vice Presidents in January 1984 to begin sounding out the direction the second album would take. His label wanted tried and tested, radio friendly pop rock. Michael and the singer on the other hand, wanted something poppy, but still club friendly. They wanted a more organic progression from the debut album.

Having been elevated almost by accident to a priority act, the label suddenly felt the need to be heavily involved in the singer's work, and as such, from beginning to end had a hand in every stage of the second album's development. At one of the first meetings they proffered a list of potential producers that they had sourced. The singer and Michael looked over the list before exchanging glances. Quietly, Michael informed the singer that this was in fact a _Money List_ , a roll call of the period's top dollar producers. But it was a list full of names associated with rock artists, pop rock artists in particular, and this was a direction that was diametrically opposite to that which they themselves wanted to take.

After reading the list, the singer whispered something to Michael and then pushed his own list across the table, back towards the execs. "The names on your list are not going to work," the singer said contemptuously.

"What do you mean? These guys are the hottest tickets in town at the moment," replied one of the executives. The singer sized up the VP, who he usually referred to as Pug, due to the unfortunate pattern of wrinkles on his face.

"They're all rock producers. And they're great at what they do. But I'm not a rock act. By your standards I'm a club act, and can you imagine what people will think if I suddenly come out with that kind of material? Also, these guys have pretty much worked with _everyone_ in the last twelve months. You can't turn on a radio without hearing their songs. But once you hear them, you kind of forget who it is that you're actually listening to. I need to make something that's going to stand out, not blend in," the singer explained.

"The list in front of you is ours. Fresh choices. These guys are cutting edge. They are the future of music this year. And we all want to work together," Estes said succinctly, as if it were a done deal.

A list of five producers was offered up, including a British pair who had just scored a worldwide smash that very month, alongside a series of names whose most recent collaborations were now breaking through to radio. The list obviously meant nothing to Pug.

"I am not sure going with _untested_ producers is such a good idea this time around," said one of the more diplomatic VPs. "This has to be a consolidation of sorts, and one of the best ways to do that is to work with someone who knows their stuff, and who the market has already responded to."

"Well the idea here is to work with these guys who are already starting to explode. They've heard a couple of the demos that Alekz has worked on, and have some ideas as to where they want to take them. In our scenario, we'd like to do a few tracks with the British guys which will focus on developing the synth stuff into something a bit more pop friendly and melodic. Then the remainder of the album with this guy, No.4, who will marry the synth pieces to live music. If we completely swap genres and go with a pop rock sound like you are suggesting, we run the risk of losing everyone that bought the first album. He's a club act right now. But if we develop his current sound into something a little richer and more varied, we'll be able to come to the market with a few different options for singles and build his audience more solidly," Michael explained. "Basically, we'd like the okay to pursue these producers and begin working on the album. We can manage to do that within the budget easily and by mixing them we'll have a deeper combination of sounds to choose from."

"It's hard to fluke things twice. You saw how _Burst_ turned out better when we brought someone that knew what they were doing on board. We can't run the risk of unknowns. This is going to be a major investment for us," the Pug reminded them.

"They are not unknowns," Alekz countered. "And besides, I'm not exactly convinced that butchering my music was all for the good. But anyway, these two guys are starting to have hits in Europe and the UK. I saw with my own eyes how the kids are going mad for their songs; in London, Paris and Tokyo. I want to work with them before everyone in New York does. I'm telling you this is absolutely the time to work with them before they explode and it's too late," the singer said, tucking a couple of tufts of his now darker hair behind his ears and looking over at Michael.

The VPs were determined to take the hard line. But if the album did at least as well as the first album, then the label had some means of recouping some of the money that the dance division had been losing recently.

"Michael," said the more diplomatic VP after whispering with his colleagues. "I'm going to give you a provisional go ahead, but on the basis that I hear things as they are moving along. And regularly. I need something that we can sell in _this_ country first and foremost. We need some sure fire hits for the money. It's in Alekz's interests that we have hits here in order to land him hits elsewhere."

"Well, we'll work from our list then and you guys can get the contracts ready," Michael said in a final manner.

"We want to hear the tracks as soon as they are ready. Let's make this a great project."

In the elevator, Michael gave the singer a lascivious look.

"I'm not sucking you off in the elevator," the singer said, smiling sarcastically.

"We are going to make this album, and while we're doing that, I'm going to start planning our own record label. After this album is done and on its way, we're going it alone," he said, becoming more serious. "I know a couple of acts that we can bring over to get the ball rolling, and we'll work in a distribution deal with these knobs so that all they do is the heavy lifting. No more creative interference."

The singer looked at him wide eyed. They'd briefly talked about the idea a few times, but he hadn't seen Michael so committed to the idea before. In the past, it'd always been brought up in frustration with the way in which the label had been treating them.

"You know I trust you," said the singer, "but I also think we should bring in someone from an accounting side of things to work out what it's going to cost. I'm definitely open to it, and I know that you'd run a great label, but I need to see figures, numbers. I need to know exactly how we'd make it happen and what we'd need to achieve to make it work."

Michael placed his hand on the singer's shoulder and looked him in the eye. He thought for a moment of how Alekz was growing more confident to demand that people be clear with their expectations of him, to know what it was that they would bring to his party. Alekz was becoming more and more outspoken. Estes couldn't wait to get down to the car park, to convince the singer that a quick session in the back of the car amidst all of the abandoned cars in the basement would be a rush. He wanted to fill that outspoken mouth in the little window of time he had left with the singer that day before he'd be back at the apartment with Athena.

"I will set it up. Now I have a favour to ask of you."

The first day in the studio with the British duo was bizarre to say the least because from the outset, they treated him like an old friend. It was the first time in a long time that he'd found himself for a prolonged period back in London, his old stomping ground. The last few times he'd passed through had all been a mad whirl; interviews in hotel rooms, at radio stations, quick mimed performances on a couple of the music shows, and a one off night at the Brixton Academy to further promote his first album which had been an incredibly slow burner in the UK. The week after the show at Brixton and the taped appearance of _All My Love_ for the televised countdown show, was the week when, his album, after more than thirty weeks in the chart, had finally cracked the top five in the UK.

The weirdness was also emotional, because he knew he would be in town for the next seven weeks to work on the bulk of the album's songs. If all went well, at least five songs would be at some kind of advanced stage by the end of the trip. But it wasn't the music that was bothering him, nor working with Sam and Mike who were on a high coming off the recent success of some of the acts they'd produced. The weirdness stemmed simply from being back in his old adopted city.

His old life in London had been a blue print for his old New York life, but was always somehow heavier; a harder slog. But there was something that still burned for him here. It was like an experience that he hadn't ever quite seen through all the way. Now that he was in town, he wasn't sure who to contact from those old days...after all, last year's gig to which he'd invited some of his old friends, had turned out to be more uncomfortable than he'd hoped. Unlike in NYC, some of his old London friends saw him as being a sell-out.

Not having kept in touch with his old friends left him doubtful as to who would actually want to see him and who would simply want to jump onto the gravy train. After all, the royalties were finally starting to come in. And with Thena out of view, he wasn't sure that he was up to the romantic temptations of his old circles. London was simply leaving him unsure.

He decided that his constant platonic fall back, Terri, who had always unselfishly offered up her couch in those winter months when he was between homes, on the condition that he not bring the party home, deserved a look in. He dialled the number from memory and was slightly aghast when she picked up after just a ring.

"Tez is that you?"

"Katz is that you? Where are you?"

"I'm in Shoreditch. I'm staying in an apartment for a while."

"When did you arrive?" she asked.

"Yesterday. Can I see you?"

"Are you kidding? Of course. When my love?"

"Anytime. If you want to do dinner tonight I'm free."

"You know I had plans to...no, fuck that, yes, yes. Do you want to come to me and we'll go to the Prince?"

It hadn't been quite what the singer had in mind, but it was probably a good thing to head back to the old local that they'd routinely hit on weekends for a much needed lunch feast when either of them had come into a bit of cash. Although the royalties were starting to come in, he wasn't yet availing himself of the finer things in life. He still knew how the city's transport system ticked even if he now felt like a foreigner. As if his original warrior status had been revoked and transferred to New York where he now felt much more at ease.

After spending the day stocking up his cupboard at the local Tesco and writing corrections in his lyric book, he casually sauntered out into the city boroughs, catching a bus and the tube and walking the familiar streets of Terri's burb without even looking at the street signs or checking on landmarks. He had missed the misty, fresh Spring nights, and was happy to be out and about again, particularly in Brockley, which had always been his unofficial fall back home away from home (away from home).

He rasped on the door of the brick single, and just like on the phone earlier, was a little startled when Terri immediately answered.

"Were you waiting at the door for me? Fuck you look good, you cow," he sneered, kissing her on both cheeks.

"You look good enough to eat my little cup cake," she smiled excitedly. "Oh my gosh, you're completely different. And your hair's black. God it's cold tonight, I'm going to freeze my tits off."

Silently they sized each other up, each equally conscious of the other. Terri looked fantastic, she was in shape and blonde as ever, and the house looked like it had been improved over the years. He noticed 'his' old sofa was gone, replaced by a bigger, presumably more comfortable one in a strange olive tone. Terri had refurnished the house, and by filling it with 1950s furniture had stripped it of its original drab sixties look.

New York had improved him. It still surprised her that he had struggled so much in London when he seemed to have been able to get as far as he had in New York in roughly the same amount of time. He'd lost the adorable puppy fat that used to fill out his face, his hair was shorter and darker than she ever remembered it being, and for the first time, he smelt good. He didn't smell as if he was maintaining his cleanliness in public toilets and hotel bathrooms any longer. The light cologne suited him. His edgy dress sense was thankfully still there, and that comforted her in some small way. It was the only vestige of familiarity for her.

She didn't feel self-conscious at all. She'd thought she would. Years had passed since she had seen him, on account of having been abroad when he last passed through, but during that time, she'd read about him, watched him, listened to him. Hearing that peculiar voice which seemed an octave higher than his frame should have demanded had reminded her of him. He who had disappeared. But he didn't seem to be acting like a star. That rotten, common way that upstarts tend to reinvent themselves at just the hint of some success hadn't yet reached or spoilt him.

"Oh my God. I need to know everything."

"No," he said. "You first."

They caught up amiably. She was doing alright, teaching at university, dating a banker for a year and a half now, with a wedding date set for the summer. She was happy, had made her peace with her old life and was now somewhere in that murky land between being a political left winger and a moderate lefty. She explained that she barely kept any contact with their old mutual friends, but he knew that she could be relied upon to steer him through the gossip mill, indirectly telling him who it would be a bad idea to contact and who would be good to get back in touch with. She had moved on, but still had a finger in that pie.

He detailed the personal side of his life and as he did, she noted to herself how spending time with someone you love is as much about the things that you say as it is the silent observations you make about them when you're in their presence. He wasn't saying a lot that she hadn't already guessed, but what she was observing with him was that he had a new level of self-awareness in place of some of his old self consciousness. She was glad of the development that was evident in him, and wondered whether it was his time in New York that had shaped him into a stronger, more confident version of himself or whether it was simply collateral growth after years of trans-Atlantic scrapping.

She told him of how her mother had died and he was instantly horrified that he hadn't been there for her in the way she had been there for him so many times. They never made it to the pub that night, instead ducking out for a quick take away, and he, like on so many other occasions in his life, slept on the couch in her living room, erasing any idea in her mind that he was now a _star_ and not the same conflicted kid she once knew; the one who bristled all outspoken like, but who, in reality, had the gentlest of natures underneath the brash exterior.

In the morning, after making breakfast for her as she readied herself for another day at the university, he accompanied her to the station and then decided to walk on a little through the boroughs before eventually taking a bus back home for the remainder of the journey. Once he arrived back at the apartment he called Thena and told her about everything that he'd been up to during his first adventurous days.

He enjoyed his time in the studio this time around, listening carefully and offering his opinions on all of the aspects of the sounds the team were creating. This time, he was determined to treat the making of his album like an apprenticeship; to learn how the sound board worked, monitor the musicians and the equipment and learn how great producers get the best out of both. He wanted to follow the logic and organisation of his producers' thoughts so that he too could one day emulate them.

His assertiveness rarely let him down and he'd disagree when he felt he needed to or when one or the other suggested something, or added something to the track that he didn't feel was necessary or suited the song. In effect, he was acting like his own executive producer, happily vetoing bad ideas with a smile and a soft word rather than in the defensive way that had marked his time with Allen on _Burst_.

The sessions moved along well, and when Michael arrived and set up camp for a fortnight in the house with the singer, the London experience got just that little bit better. He'd already been out and about reconnecting with a selection of his old friends, as initially guided by Terri, but for all of those that had made it through those trying years of the late seventies and early eighties, there were others that hadn't. He tried not to be judgemental when some's stories of descents into crime or drug addiction were narrated to him, but he freely acknowledged that they'd been to hell and back for the most part. He acknowledged the abstract sadness one feels when hearing that someone you know has passed away. But he internalised the feeling as conviction that he'd been somehow stronger than his peers for having survived where they hadn't. He never wanted to live those years again and would forever, and exaggeratedly, liken his London days to having been days of war.

Michael had a host of contacts in London and set about having Alekz meet his new peers, loathe to spend all of his time in London sitting in on the depressing reunions the singer seemed to feel obliged to attend or convene.

It was clear that they'd missed each other and they buried themselves into each other's lives to compensate, spending their free time being intimate and socializing. For the singer it was confusing to realise that he was so in tune with Michael that his relationship with Thena seemed to exist on some lighter plane in comparison. But at the same time he felt no guilt whatsoever being so intimate and absorbed in Michael, because being with him fulfilled something equally true in him, in an equally potent way that being with Athena did.

On the rare occasions that he did put some thought into it, what worried him was how quickly his rampant desire for Michael seemed to sideline Thena with a ricochet of equal force. For that first week, he lapped up the attention Michael gave him, and for once, steered Michael around the city, showing him the London he had loved and loathed in constantly shifting measures, and introducing him to a handful of his remaining friends, Terri amongst them. But it wasn't his old London. It was London with an expense account.

He wasn't sure how he'd cope when Michael would leave the following week to leave him alone for the last fortnight of recording. Michael too had realised the depth of his feelings for the singer. The idea of being together, for him at least, wasn't one over which the spectre of daily life still hovered with ominous force. He'd given it much thought, and was convinced that if they were careful, they would be able to manage their personal and professional lives with some success. But he wasn't sure as to when he could manipulate the timing to suit him. There were too many outside factors that first needed to be dealt with.

Something had changed for Alekz too. He was no longer brash enough to think that everything was in black and white. He knew that being with Michael was satisfying, but he wasn't sure that he was simply responding to being in constant company after weeks of living on his own. He enjoyed playing a role in both Athena and Michael's lives, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to fully commit to either. Right now, it was easier being in a different part of the world and enjoying the rush of being loved and of loving.

But he didn't know whether he'd ever be prepared to let things come to a head once he'd return to New York. He was afraid that there would simply be lingering hostility on someone in the triangle's part if he didn't continue to play his cards close to his chest. So he burrowed down and began to compartmentalise during Michael's final days in London, withdrawing his affection somewhat as if to prepare for the fact that he was going to be (momentarily) alone again.

In the meantime, he had to prepare himself for what lay in wait for him beyond JFK airport where he himself would eventually touch down. The relationship with Thena that he had refused to clarify to his father back in Australia just six months earlier, had morphed into something more solid and was waiting for him in New York. He had only a few solitary weeks in London left to reconsider her proposal before he would have to give her an answer. Marriage proposals can't exactly be swept under the rug.

He recalled the end part of that discussion that had taken place the week before he was flying out to London. "I know how ridiculous it is that we are together. We'll probably never get to spend any real time together. But you know what you mean to me, and I know how important you are to me," she had said one afternoon in bed with him. "So what if we just snuck out and got married? Completely secretly. Whatever happens, whatever we are doing, we always know that we've got each other. And we can catch up on all the normal stuff as soon as the crazy stuff calms down. Plus, it's like the ultimate intimacy, just between the two of us, and no one else's business. How fantastic would that be? You'll be my husband, and I will be your wife...what a trip!"

He hadn't been able to do anything other than laugh after initially hearing her idea. But now that Michael was back in New York, and he was alone with his thoughts again, it was all he could think about. Somewhere, this idea of a hidden pact appealed to him. But he couldn't tell anyone about it. Not Terri. Not Jasper. Not his parents. Certainly not Michael.

When he returned to New York to begin working on the second half of his album, Thena was already there, adding the finishing touches to her own album. He had supplied three of the tracks, able to write for her without the help of a songwriter, a producer or any other fall back. He saw the donation of the tracks as an experiment, and had no real attachment to the songs; he certainly had no intention of ever recording them for himself.

They were uncomplicated dance pop songs. Simple, effective pop and nothing more, and as such, he was happy to hand them over to her and her team who could try and make something of them. He wasn't a born musician, just as everyone seemed to enjoy reminding him, but he had a good ear and knew how to work his way around a melody. And he had pushed himself to write or co-write the bulk of songs for his own new album.

When he boarded his flight to NYC, five of the London songs had been pretty much finished, as hoped for. They would need to be mixed and mastered, even if the label honchos didn't seem so crash hot on what he'd done there. They feared the music was a little too European, a little too British sounding, as if such a thing was even possible. _Dangerous_ though, the song he'd penned, seemed to go down well with them, and he watched nervously until they were tapping their pens and their feet to the beat. To him it was the one clear single to have come out of the London recordings, even though another, _Broken Heart_ had also gone down well with the suits.

For the NYC recordings the singer was paired with Daniel Millard, a record label compromise. Negotiations with the singer's preferred choice had fallen through, and with time being of the essence, the label stepped in and anointed Millard the second producer of the album. Nothing breeds security in the music industry like a current _King Maker_ , and Millard, in the space of a few months, had come through with two huge breakthrough hits on the American charts for two wildly dissimilar artists.

Millard was a remarkable musician and already had a formidable reputation as a taskmaster. An inspired genius who was prone to controlling the direction of entire albums, sometimes in direct opposition to the artist's own wishes, but capable of astonishing, ground breaking results.

In the weeks leading up to their first day in the studio together, the singer and the producer had played a postal game of cat and mouse; the singer sending him his rough demos, Millard listening to the songs and then resending them to him, altered, changed...improved, but not always to the singer's liking. The singer would carefully re-study the tracks. They were working from a selection of seven they hoped would become the album's backbone. So he'd make notes, suggestions, and then post them back again. Millard found the process infuriating, but recognised that the untrained singer was regularly making startling judgement calls that suggested he shouldn't be ignored. More importantly, he had negotiated himself a handsome rate with the record label that made it worth his while to at least occasionally placate the singer.

The singer was incredibly nervous the day he joined Millard in the studio. He knew that this was a world class producer he was working with, and from experience, not someone who was incredibly open to suggestion. By the time they entered the studio, they had the familiarity of two pen pals. They didn't know each other in a living, breathing kind of way, but rather only through each other's handwriting and thoughts. But they shared a lingering resentment for the way each seemed to be pushing the other out of his comfort zone.

Millard could sense the singer's nerves, but wanted to get the best from him. He needed results from the singer. On the first day he smiled, explained that he had enjoyed the to and fro of their pre-studio work, but that it was now time they focused on perfecting what they had already planned out.

Millard rarely smiled throughout the rest of their studio time together. Despite some tense stand offs, in which Millard demanded the singer continually rewrite lyrics and harmonies, or re-sing parts ad infinitum, they mostly maintained a level of decorum with one another. But the lingering resentment from the demo process carried over throughout the studio time. Every day in the studio became an exercise in compromise, to the point that most anything they worked on together was an unsatisfying compromise on both their parts.

They first worked on _Just Us_ , one of two songs the label had secured from an up and coming glam rock musician. In a way, it was like starting with Switzerland; something neutral, something that neither had written, and that both could reinterpret and add their own stamps to. They decided to use their partly completed demo as the basis of the track and to simply embellish it, focusing on the elements that they felt were missing. But quickly they realised they couldn't agree on what was missing and what was superfluous. Millard insisted the singer re-write parts of the verses that he felt weren't marrying well with his new electro glam arrangement. Even though it was Alekz's record, it was also technically his, a Millard record, and he didn't want to be associated with lyrics that he wasn't so mad about. The singer felt obliged to remain true to the spirit of the original; a simple, poppy tune, but with each command to rewrite the material found himself moving further and further way from the intent of the song. What had originally been planned as an open and shut, three or four day recording, turned into a nine day-long session. The end result was completely unlike anything either had expected. But by then neither wanted to work on it any longer.

For the singer, the NYC sessions were arduous and trying. He felt that he was constantly battling to be heard. He adopted a quiet, studied assertion, which was his way of keeping his nerves at bay, and his only way of letting Millard know that he absolutely meant business. Even if that meant that he would leave the studio at the end of the day exhausted, unhappy and sometimes furious.

The singer simply didn't have the confidence to treat Millard like a collaborator, or someone in his service. Perhaps it was an age thing. Having someone older and more experienced than you makes it harder to direct and manage them. And Millard increasingly treated the singer like a paying intern, a formal nuisance. Alekz found he wasn't prepared to simply allow someone else to define the direction of _his_ music, not without a fight at least. So he fought to try and have his voice heard even if they weren't his words or feelings that were being expressed. Time after time the clash between them both simply muddled what could've potentially have been some remarkable work. The singer's clout wasn't yet such that he could slay a King Maker, and the King Maker wasn't diplomatic enough to make the best of this up and coming member of the pop scene.

Michael would pop into the studio from time to time, as would Athena, and in the second week, with most of the work on _Just Us_ completed, work began on _Magic_ , the second of the sourced compositions. Millard again insisted that they embellish and reshape their partly completed demo. But after a number of run throughs the song began to radically change. Millard had reworked some of the chords, the middle eight and even the tempo of the song, so as to appease his own tastes (and conceivably to also gain a co-writing credit in the process). And in retaliation for the myriad of changes, the singer again insisted on his own, leaving them now with two songs that represented only a hasty series of compromises between the two of them. Millard again insisted the singer rewrite the lyrics on the spot in the studio, much to the later chagrin of the original writer, whose own version of the song eventually charted alongside the singer's in their native Australia.

The day after the vocals had been recorded, the label VPs came by to check on proceedings. The VPs were charmed by Millard and his explanation of the changes to the tracks, him intimating that he'd had to take control of the situation. The singer made a mental note to rip him to shreds at the end of their time together.

The singer copied the songs onto a cassette and arranged to resume work with Millard once he was back from L.A, where Millard would be working on with another artist for a fortnight. The thought occurred to him to light a candle for the unlucky son of a bitch that would have to suffer Millard's totalitarianism during that time.

In the meantime though, Alekz's depression lifted momentarily when he finally moved into the apartment that he'd purchased outright. Thena's things were also moved in. She'd finished her own album, but was flying to and from L.A for promotional work in support of the bubble gum pop album. But during a five day break from her schedule, which coincided with his first week out of the studio, they and the elderly couple from Thena's old apartment block met at a city office. The couple, who were completely oblivious to these rising stars, agreed to act as witnesses, watching quietly as the two, standing under a giant US flag inside city hall, were declared husband and wife.

It had seemed like the right thing to do. The ceremony was quick and painless and it gave him and her both an instant sense of gratification. Right after their ceremony, they head out to the airport and boarded a chartered flight to Puerto Rico for a three day honeymoon. The only acknowledgement they made of their new marital status, aside from the two matching Polaroids they had snapped at the ceremony, was in the matching ear piercings they had done in San Juan. They had a chemist's assistant feed matching diamond stud earrings into their new piercings in lieu of wedding rings and celebrated afterwards at their beachfront hotel, from which they never stepped out until it was time to take their flights; hers directly back to LA and his to NYC. Those three days were spent lounging about, making love and eating. Moments that were constantly interspersed with giddy, complicit excitement that they _had finally done it._

As soon as he arrived back at his new home in New York he placed two calls. The first was to Thena's LA number to check in and congratulate her on becoming his wife. The second was more like the barking of orders. "What are you doing?...aha...well when you're finished doing that, come over to my apartment and do me. I want you to come over and fuck me so hard that I don't know what day it is."

Michael arrived later that afternoon, as instructed, and stayed for three days, making no attempt to leave the apartment each morning incognito.

As it was only a twenty minute walk to his offices from the apartment, Michael leisurely started his days in the apartment, strolling around in his underwear, secretly resenting that Thena's touch was already apparent in the apartment that he'd only just finished securing for the singer after months of negotiation.

He didn't think she wasn't a bad person. In fact, he found her to be lovely; beautiful, articulate, charming, with a lovely husky voice which came as a thorough surprise. But, she could have been anyone and he still would've felt the same. She was an adversary. And beyond all the platitudes that he could bestow on her; on her winning personality, on her amazing rack, on her Aegean face, at the end of the day she was just an obstacle that stood between them.

Through a combination of his and the singer's own complicity (and Athena's own lack of awareness), he knew she was oblivious to the real nature of their relationship and to the depth of their devotion to each other. He couldn't really distrust Athena, it was more that, he didn't think there was any point of Alekzandr and her being together. And he couldn't understand why the singer had been in such a rush to have her move in after he'd returned from London. Something about it all made him question what was going on.

It was June by the time Alekz went back into the studios with Millard, and they furiously worked away at completing the last two tracks; songs that he'd written with Ian, who had only recently begun to forgive the singer. This time, both Millard and the singer adored the numbers, and the recording was much more straightforward. The singer ventured that if Michael's plan came through with the boutique label, he'd straight out convince Ian to bury the hatchet and produce the next album. Ian's song writing was so accomplished that in the vocal booth, the singer had to again furiously rewrite lyrics, this time by his own volition, feeling that they were far too lightweight in comparison to Ian's moody, brooding music.

On the completion of those tracks, the album was finally finished, but only given the go ahead for mastering by the label after three of the London songs, and one of Ian's pieces were reworked to their satisfaction. A remixer was brought in to redo the pieces, under the singer's hawking supervision. The result was a stripping back of the electronic elements of the original numbers that rendered the music even less like dance pop. More compromises that left Alekz and Michael underwhelmed but the label representatives more than happy that they likely had an another hit record on their hands.

Alekz spent most of the month of July working on the visual concepts of the artwork alongside the label's creative directors. A variety of mock ups had been produced for the cover art; all pouty and dark and edgy and far removed from the blond male ingénue that they had presented on the _Burst_ album. A creative director was also brought on board to help steer the look of the new video, for _Magic_ , in which the singer donned a dark, spiky wig and sported a _Goth-lite_ look.

With Thena's first single released in mid-July in the hope that it would become a summer hit, she too was required to be at her label's disposal, and spent the summer on the publicity trail, making appearances at summer festivals, on television, and at other events throughout the US and Canada. At a loss while Thena was criss-crossing the country, on a whim after completing the video, Alekz decided that spending a couple of weeks in the Greek Islands to escape the NYC heat was what he needed. Jasper was working on a film, so he would be on his own.

He called into Michael's office and left a print out of the travel arrangements that the travel agent had confirmed for him. He then called Thena and told her that he was planning on traveling around the Mediterranean for a few weeks and that he would be back at the end of August. She was delighted that he was taking a break for himself, mentioning that although she would love to join him, it assuaged her sense of guilt that she wasn't able to spend any time with him, what with all the promotional work she was tied up in.

He spent his first night in Athens, and in the morning after he woke, he walked around the quarter until he found a barber shop, where, using his hands, he communicated to the barber that he wanted his hair cut short. " _Short, short, short! Just a fringe!_ " He didn't want anybody recognising him while he was here, but more importantly, it was too hot to be going around Greece with shoulder length hair. The barber made quick work of his hair, and for the first time in nearly six years, his hair was short but for the long fringe which ran half way down his cheek. He looked at himself in the mirror with curiosity, smiled, paid the barber and walked back out into the street.

He spent a few days wandering the city with his camera and his notebook, spending his days at the local beaches, and his nights on foot surveying the city and its districts, occasionally stopping for a drink or a cocktail, whatever he could be bothered with. His hotel was discreet, had a pool, and he was left undisturbed by the relaxed staff when it was too hot to face the city landmarks.

After Athens he set off on a two week trip around the islands, visiting Rhodes, Kos and Santorini, checking into all manner of hotels, and seeking out the most isolated of beaches where he could be alone and undisturbed. He read of _Dorian Gray_ and of _Maurice_ and sketched and wrote.

It was the first time in years that he found himself truly alone, and though there were times when he pined for Athena or Michael or Jasper's company, he mostly felt like a lone tiger who needed to be wandering around unobserved. He had plenty of company with his thoughts and his imagination anyway. He thanked his lucky stars that Michael had forced him to get his driver's license all those months earlier, as he felt that the experience of trekking around the islands alone by car was a way of putting his obsessions with love and his career to the side. Any companion who'd have broached those typical conversation topics would've only been a distraction to learning to enjoy the silence, to being comfortable with himself again before he'd have to inevitably subject himself to another onslaught of interest, of media and of juggling the disparate, pulling desires of his heart.

At one particular moment on his second week in the islands, the singer looked out over the water from his vantage point on the edge of Symi. The beer was cheap and a little nasty, but still cold, and the view was serene, desolate even. Nothing like anything he could've stumbled across in the places that he'd called home at various parts of his life. Nothing like Darjeeling, New York or London or Melbourne.

He'd been in Greece long enough for the views to feel familiar even if it all still seemed foreign. He loved the water views. Loved the feeling in the air; that shitty strong wind that passed through the air around that late part of the day. It cleared his mind. But it was like a stopover, a side step from normal life. Where the looming deadline or reality is always in the back of your mind. Those familiar thoughts that would always flood back into his mind.

Michael. He thought about him all the time. When he lay in bed and conjured up his image, it was more than enough to stir up a reaction. That strong nose, those eyes and that wavy dark hair. He knew that if he lined up a thousand naked bodies in front of him, he'd have no trouble whatsoever locating Michael's from the crowd; the thick bushy area of his pubes, the strong thighs and calves that made a seamless line to his ankles. The dents in his shoulder blades and that little welcome mat above his righteous ass, which sat so high and meaty that it was an exhilarating rush to look at when he occasionally was allowed to take it from behind.

He loved that Michael was his protector. He loved how his masculine nature was always tempered by his sweet side, that despite more than a decade in the business he hadn't let himself become cynical or blasé, but instead had retained his passion and love for what he did. He loved the sense of security that he gave just from the mere fact that he was almost a decade older than him. And the assault of all of those senses was always more than enough to help him gush out a load before falling asleep contented.

He didn't think of Athena with any of the intensity he seemed to reserve for Michael. She didn't seem like a part of his psyche. In truth he rarely thought of her during those days in Greece. Maybe sometimes when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw the shining diamond stud in his ear. But she didn't command his imagination. Didn't captivate his thoughts the way Michael so easily did, and he certainly never felt the need to jerk off while thinking about her. He had to be _with_ her to _experience_ her. To appreciate her. When he was with her, it was the be all and end all. But how often were they together?

The day after he returned to New York, the singer made his way to the studio to listen to the mastered version of his new album. He listened to it on the studio's speakers, he listened on headphones, and then took a copy home and listened to it on a good stereo and a shit stereo. It was patchy. It was three parts commercial, one part interesting. It sounded confused to him, but he knew the suits were already lapping it up. And now that he was removed from the actual making of the album, now that he had re-entered his life somewhat, he felt less attached and wounded by it all. He just wanted to let it fly and see how it went.

As he listened to the music, he sat in front of the contact sheets from the now possibly redundant photo shoot, and carefully studied each photo, also studying the changed layouts and mock ups of the album done by the label's in house design team. The release date had been pushed back to late October on account of some disagreement about the original look for the cover. He made notes and began to write his list of acknowledgements for the linear notes of the album. Hearing the sound of the door closing, he looked up and saw Thena standing at the entrance.

"Sounds good babe," she said positively, smiling.

"Hi you," he said, rising to his feet and kissing her on the lips. "Where've you been?"

She recounted her endless promotional blitz which had taken her across both coasts and then throughout North America. It was exhausting, much more draining than she'd imagined. But her manager and label had been strong supports to her. They were trying to market her as a kind of indie chick with a pop streak. The market of course was flooded with new comers, women with powerful voices, powerful personalities and powerful images. Most with conventional talents superior to hers. But it didn't matter. As he could attest, traditional talent had no more superiority in pop music than timing or marketing did. It was as much about a great hook as it was a good look, and she had that in spades.

"Great tan babe."

"I have no tan lines."

"Oh, I'm super curious, but I wanna hear your record too."

"Me first. Record second," he said, taking her to bed that instant, leaving the tape to play out until it automatically snapped to a stop.

She was gone again a few days later- something about a promotional tour in Europe. By the time he had gotten used to the idea of her being in Europe she had called to say that they were tacking on promotional jaunts through Asia, Australia and Latin America and that she'd probably be gone at least another month or two. As he prepared to release his own new material, hers was a top ten hit in over a dozen countries. He was happy for her, but noted that, they were still living separate lives and would continue to do so for some time.

After a few days of avoiding Michael's calls, for no reason other than wanting a bit more calm before the storm, he relented and visited him in his office, where he felt self-conscious, as if Michael were scrutinising him. In actual fact, Michael was left shocked by the singer's new look; the suits would have a heart attack when they saw how radically different the singer was looking compared to the photo shoot and video that they had just okayed. It would mean yet another shoot was going to be required for the album cover.

"You cut your hair."

"You don't like it?" Alekz asked, suddenly concerned.

"You've been avoiding me."

"I know. I'm just feeling a bit overwhelmed by everything."

"Maybe it's just nerves."

"I'm sure it is," the singer said.

"Do you want me to come and stay with you for a few days?"

The singer thought about it for a moment. "I guess all the promo stuff is about to kick off and it's all about to get really hectic..."

"Is that a yes or a no? I mean, I don't know what I have done Katz. I feel like you are freezing me out a bit."

He wanted very much to say that Michael hadn't done anything wrong. And it was true. He hadn't. But sometimes when one is literally confronted with their own desire it can be startling and confusing. And he knew that Michael, in a couple of days, would begin pushing him; pushing him to promote a product that he wasn't absolutely satisfied with. That he'd also have to have all manner of business and personal conversations with him, when perhaps all he wanted to do was be held, or, be left alone like some dying dog on a mountain. Although he had rested properly for the first time in years, he'd come back unprepared for the tangled web that he'd woven himself. It was exhausting having so many thoughts running in so many directions, a life which in his view was being laid out in two different scenarios, and on top of this a record to promote that was tarred with the same dualist brush. Half of which he now loved, the other half of which he could live with if he had to.

"I'm sorry, that was a yes. I meant to say that it might be the last opportunity we get for a bit of peace and quiet. Listen, I'm tired. I need to go home and relax. Come by whenever you like. Let yourself in, I might be in bed."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah fine. Just tired."

His September was shaping up to be a big one. Already the single, _Magic_ had been sent to radio. It wasn't an obvious club track, and he liked that even if he wasn't so convinced of the merits of the new version of the song. The sound was a little ethereal, something new for him but still a natural progression from the first album.

After a solid week of interviews with the major press and MTV, he went into rehearsal mode for the first annual Video Music Awards at which he'd be performing the song. The label gave the single a reasonable push, and the video started an exclusive month long rotation on the music video channel, a then experimental approach in promoting.

The video was simple but striking and with it, the promotion was up and running. Quickly the song was added to high rotation across radio. By the time he appeared on stage at Radio City Music Hall for the awards, for which he'd been nominated for two, the single had debuted at No.47, and quickly began to climb the chart.

His performance, his first at an awards ceremony, went well. Elegant, simple, and accompanied by three backing dancers and a backing track, he sang his way through the track along with undemanding but striking choreography which he and Miles, his key dancer from way back, had devised. In many ways the song was being birthed at that performance, as was his new look. It was his way of reintroducing himself to the masses with only the most minimal of effort. His new, unplanned, darker look seemed to coincide with the direction his music had taken. Although there were pop elements strewn throughout his record, he decided that the album, and in particular, the lead single, were _ethereal_ in tone, and seemed to converse with music by the Cocteau Twins, Dead Can Dance, or at a push, Siouxsie & The Banshees.

Audiences in the US responded reasonably well to the single and it peaked at No.9 there in November, somewhat satisfying his label in the process. The album, retitled to _It's Magic_ , was pushed into life in November after a last minute delay with the sleeve art, and debuted at No.27 in the US, quickly ascending into the top ten and remaining there during the Christmas season, keeping company with a slew of powerhouse pop releases by Hall & Oates, Wham!, Madonna and Prince.

In November, the singer filmed the second video, to _Just Us_ in a New York studio. The single, which had a lighter, _poppier_ club sound was seen as an obvious second single, as the label intended to gamble on _Dangerous_ at a later stage of the album's shelf life. The video, monochromatic and built around a sexy choreographic piece designed by Miles and the singer, became the first of his truly iconic videos, later copied and tributed by dozens of artists throughout the 1980s and 1990s.

Although they had gotten off to a good start in North America, the album and lead single had faltered spectacularly elsewhere, particularly in the UK and Australia, where they languished in the lower reaches of the top forty against a backdrop of mixed reviews. The perception was that in moving away from his club sound, he'd left his strengths behind with the sophomore effort.

Far from celebrating during the Christmas/New Year period, the singer was pushed back onto the promotional trail. The label organised a five week promotional tour for the singer; a worldwide blitz starting in the UK, through to a number of European territories, then on to Asia, Australia and Latin America in an attempt to build interest in the album which seemed to be floundering in an international market already saturated by pop releases.

The singer filmed interviews with a range of music and variety shows in the UK and Europe, including performances of the new singles for _Wetten, Dass?_ in Germany and _Top of The Pops_ in the UK.

He and Michael, who accompanied him, used the promotional tour to continue their love affair. In between public engagements, they made time to seek out the underground party scenes in London, Paris and West Berlin, the latter city being where the promotional tour crashed into that of Thena's, whose new single, penned by him, was out-charting his own across Europe. Michael played the situation well, reverting to his role as manager and best friend to the couple, and in the week that followed, the music press printed paparazzi photos of the three and Thena's publicist leaving a range of venues in West Berlin none the wiser.

Elsewhere, between engagements they enjoyed the opportunity to spend their little free time visiting the odd landmark, Michael all the whilst continuing to document their time on film. Michael had, in the swell of all the promotional work, never given up on the idea that the singer should leave Thena, and despite doing their all to get the album off the ground internationally, where possible each tried to draw a line between business and pleasure.

After a quick jaunt to Milan, the singer and Michael flew onto Tokyo for an intense five day visit, where they arrived to the news that _Just Us_ had already reached the top forty in the US and UK. The video was already on high rotation in Japan, and for the first time, there were hundreds of fans waiting for him at Narita airport, with television cameras and an awaiting press throng.

He wouldn't know it, but the Japanese label had organised and paid for the fans to make their way out to the airport in an effort to build the perception of his appeal throughout the country. Internationally, much was riding on the success of the album in Japan. The singer had already achieved a number of hits on the international ORICON chart, and had also sold upwards of 300,000 records in Japan, but didn't have as high a level of visibility and recognition as his appearances the year before might have encouraged. His Japanese label planned to change that with this visit, booking him solid for appearances on TV shows, record signing appearances in Tokyo and organising a press conference for the afternoon, where a handful of international correspondents were also in attendance.

After arriving at his hotel and showering he and Michael were ushered down to the conference room where an awaiting assembly of forty or so journalists were waiting for him. They were mostly Japanese, he guessed, but there were also a handful of Caucasians in attendance, and this was his first real press conference in support of his material.

He wore a lime green t-shirt under a military style jacket, adding a little kohl to his eyes. His bleached fringe was now a rich henna red, and for the first time in a long time he felt tall and lean. The press gave him a welcoming applause as he was ushered on stage and seated behind a linen covered table. Behind him, large blown up images of his record covers plastered the makeshift wall that had been wheeled in, and slowly, camera men, photographers and the lighting crew variously made adjustments to their equipment before they snapped away at him. Despite the flight, he felt reasonably fresh, and was comfortable in front of the foreign press who were assembled before him.

A pair of twin video screens on either side of the stage had finished playing an assortment of his music videos and footage of his live appearance at the MTV awards, along with what now seemed ancient footage of him from his whirlwind 1983 promotional tour gigs, shot in Melbourne and London.

The shift in his image and sound seemed to relegate that early concert tour to a relic, no longer relevant, like a new car model that makes the previous one suddenly seem obsolete. But the fact was the material from the debut album was still selling consistently. Over the course of a year, _Burst_ sales worldwide had doubled from those of the first year.

The questions were respectful, concerned with filling in the details of his rise to his current position as one of the period's latest emerging pop acts. He spoke about his international lifestyle, how life in an assortment of countries on four continents had helped shape him, each city teaching him, developing him, encouraging him to understand something new about the world and himself. He talked about his musical back story, and of how he was proud of the new direction his music was taking even if it wasn't garnering consistently positive reviews.

He reminisced about his first visit to Japan and talked of his love for both traditional and modern Japanese culture, name dropping some of his preferred artists; and some of the country's well-known and underground indie bands, painters, film makers, dancers. By the end of the forty five minute session he had absolutely won over the group, charming them with a combination of humility and confidence, having clearly articulated a growing understanding of Japanese culture on his part.

Moving on to a television studio for a performance, backstage he met the dancers that the producers had found for him; two Japanese guys and two French girls who were going to dance in cages, and he asked them to go through their routines for him. He watched the boys and girls dancing in tandem, making mental notes as to what they were doing, and was confident that his performance in the centre of the stage could be adapted a little to give the impression that they were all in motion together. He quickly instructed them on the steps he wanted them to take during the chorus so that everyone could be dancing in unison, and told them they were free to dance however they wanted for _Magic_ , as he would be mostly performing to camera rather than bothering with a busy routine. Together they rehearsed two songs for an hour and a half.

Michael met with the host and the translator and went over the loose line of questions that they had in mind for the singer. Alekz changed into a neon blue top bearing the Japanese kanji character _wara_ , meaning laugh. Make up was applied, and soon enough he was on stage in front of his second audience for the day, this time, a studio audience, spotting a few dozen kids wearing some of his merchandising and holding up placards indicating their love for him alongside a few hand scrawled _Welcome to Tokyo_ signs. The airport kids.

The interview was good natured, focusing on his role in the New York dance scene, the host breathlessly asking him about fashion, his taste in music (he listened to everything from Hindi pop through to classical music), his relationship with Thena (who was also on the ORICON international charts), what he knew about Japanese youth culture etc. After the interview in which he deftly deflected what he considered personal intrusions, he was filmed signing autographs for his _fans_ who patiently lined up in the aisles for him, and about a half hour later, the set was readied for the first of his two performances.

He mimed his performance to _Magic_ , which was still the focus for the Japanese label, and then changed into another outfit, slicking back his hair and donning a couple of earrings for the performance of _Just Us_ which would be aired on the following week's episode, once the hoped for media saturation in the country had a chance to kick in.

He maintained his sense of aloofness in his performances, dancing with relative ease and making sure he constantly positioned himself to his preferred side to the camera. Afterwards he filmed another interview, this time backstage with one of the program's roving reporters, which he was told would also be aired next week, its content very lightweight and designed more as a consolidation on the first interview which would air that night.

Michael and he were then taken to dinner at one of Ginza's best restaurants by a label president and were joined by an executive of an electronics brand, who wanted to invite the singer to enter into an advertising campaign with the electronics group. Alekz let Michael handle the early negotiations but did his best to amp up his personality.

The electronics and label reps re-joined them the next day for another two television studio appearances, where the singer filmed another two fluff pieces and talked about his two albums and a few of the videos. The second program intended to devote most of an episode to the star in a joint collaboration with the singer's Japanese label who had organised the appearance.

Arrangements were confirmed for the next day after an impromptu interview which he gave in the back of the chauffeured car on the way to dinner for one of the national radio networks. Exhausted after a long first day, Michael and Alekz were taken back to their hotel and advised that the driver would be there the following morning at 10 to collect them for a photo shoot before a series of one on one interviews would be conducted back at the hotel in the evening for the Asian press. Michael crept into the singer's room after letting himself in, showered with the singer, and the two went to bed, dead to the world in seconds.

The following morning they were taken to a photo studio near Shinjuku where one of his heroes, Nobuyoshi Araki, was waiting for him (along with an army of assistants). He did his best to befriend Araki, and together, they looked through the racks of clothes that had been assembled for him, the singer jettisoning some outright, taking just pieces of others, and meshing them with his own. Surveying the combinations, Araki and he discussed the makeup and lighting, the singer remaining reverential but, as by now was the case, more and more forthright with his own opinions.

Make up was quickly applied to the star, a couple of test shots were run off, and quickly, to the strains of The Cure, The Stalin and Shonen Knife, he worked the camera, both resisting and assenting to Araki's instructions and demands. Araki later told an assistant that the singer was more photogenic than attractive, but knew how to work his angles, knew how to bring something different to each shot, and more importantly, knew how to work the light and the costumes which had been supplied by Tadao, the hysterically funny designer who was also in attendance. The shoot ran over past six pm, at which point everybody exchanged contact details before the singer was taken away by his manager and label rep for the one on one interviews.

The next day there was more yet more publicity to carry out and by then things were already mind numbingly repetitive for him, even if each experience could be loosely considered a new one. Another photo shoot, this time set around the streets of Tokyo was a more casual affair, the singer mixing his own wardrobe and more of Tadao's clothes for the shots, before an in-store appearance in Shibuya kicked off a mayhem, with hundreds of paid and unpaid _fans_ waiting for him outside the small, famed electronic and no wave music store.

For the last two days of their Japanese stint, the two were taken over to the Kansai. First up, a day in Osaka to conduct a few radio interviews and another in-store appearance, this time in one of the city's sprawling department stores, where again, hundreds of young fans had lined up patiently all the morning awaiting the singer's arrival.

On the second day a trip to Kyoto was made, again for a photo shoot, as well as to briefly meet with Suntory management, who were also keen to sign the star to a beer campaign. The tandem deals with the electronics group and an alcohol brand were agreed to in principle, with an arrangement that their filming and photography be done in April when the singer would return. It was anticipated that the campaigns were both going to be used in time for the summer campaigns of 1985.

Staying in Kyoto that last night, the two were bid farewell by Kazu, their representative who the singer had taken a shining to. He was funny, irreverent, and made the best use of what English he had, rarely bothering to wait for his translator. In quiet moments he had taught the singer a few Japanese words and expressions, and the singer shocked him that night in Kyoto by gifting him one of his cool neon blue t-shirts that a designer friend back in New York had made for him.

That night in Kyoto, finally left alone without the burden of responsibilities or engagements, Michael and Alekz rugged up and took a walk around the inner districts of the city, around the famed Gion, over the Kamagawa River and Shijo bridge, and through the industrious but deserted inner district of the city. Kazu would be back for them in the morning to take them all the way to Osaka airport for the next flight; that to his homeland of Australia, where another gruelling schedule awaited him. He made sure he picked up a few postcards at the hotel and asked them to send them to Thena on his behalf.

The following day they flew out to Singapore and then on to Melbourne, where his family, who he had not seen in over a year were nervously waiting for him in the VIP arrivals terminal.

Touching down and quickly passing through the VIP customs terminal at Tullamarine, he hugged his parents for an eternity, waving at his siblings who had also made the trek into the airport. They had cunningly organised for a day alone before the beginning of the press junket, which would last a week, culminating with two live performances on the Sunday night transmission of _Countdown_.

Michael caught up with the singer's siblings while the singer lavished his attention on his parents, themselves now nearing retirement age. They seemed older, less sprightly than he seemed to remember them being, but their voices, just like those disconnected in the ethereal on the telephone, were the same.

They caught up on the drive back into the suburbs. His parents asked about Thena, about his health, about how the trip was going, and talked about what they considered the boring minutia of their lives; of their garden, his extended relatives, of their new grandchild; all the kind of titbits he found irresistible now that they seemed like exotica.

Michael had taken a lift with his brother and sister, and they arrived back first, already waiting at the door for the rest of the party to arrive. In the car, the singer quietly handed over an envelope with US$10,000 to his father, who protested, but eventually gracefully accepted.

They ate a meal and convivially caught up, without any airs and graces. The family had become so accustomed to the singer living away, that his recent success was a remote piece of collateral. They were far more interested in his personal experiences than his professional ones, and so the singer told them about his new apartment and promised to organise a trip for them to visit him in New York. He made no mention whatsoever of the lucrative endorsements or of Michael's plan to create a new record label for him, nor did he speak of Thena's idea of moving to L.A, which the singer absolutely detested...

Alekz and Michael took a nap in the spare room, his old childhood bedroom, whilst his siblings head off back to their lives. In the early evening, his father drove them into the city centre and dropped them off at the hotel where they had reservations for a junior suite. They quickly checked in and made their way up to the room on the forty fifth floor whose skyline views proved of no interest to either, especially after their week in one of Japan's tallest buildings.

They showered and, as they were now doing routinely, made love before going to bed. The following morning, Michael answered the door for room service, while the singer rifled through his bags in search of a package that he placed in there just days before. Sitting at the table, he presented Michael with the gift, a snow globe of Kyoto, onto the back of which the singer had scrawled a big love heart in felt pen. Michael looked up at him and smiled, caressing the singer's cheek. It was a corny gift.

At ten that morning the phone rang. It was the receptionist advising that there was somebody from the label waiting for them in the foyer. The two finished dressing and made their way down to the lobby, greeting the exec, with whom they had a pretty friendly and easy relationship.

They were taken to the record company's headquarters on the city's fringe where they were briefed on the performance of the second album til now. It wasn't going as well as had been hoped, despite having cracked the top twenty a week back. The first single had stalled at No.31 on the national chart, however the new single, _Just Us_ , had already debuted inside the top thirty this week, and would be buoyed by his national appearances on _Hey Hey It's Saturday_ , _Sounds_ and _Countdown_ , along with a handful of planned in-store signings in both Sydney and Melbourne.

The first of the singer's planned promotional appearances was planned for this evening, with a radio broadcast on Melbourne's EON FM. The next day, interviews with _Juke_ magazine and _Smash Hits_ were conducted, and the singer was due to make an appearance via satellite on _The Midday Show_ , which would later be fed to the other network programs. The Australian _Rolling Stone_ magazine was also planning on interviewing him for the latest article they were putting together on the rise of synth pop in Australia. Radio and television interviews were scheduled throughout the week for a combination of Australian and New Zealand channels, as was a two day photo shoot whose photos would be used in service of a variety of teen magazines, as well as the Rolling Stone and Juke interviews.

The tilt of the interview focus was on the singer's relationship with his native Australia, on whether he had any intentions of returning, and whether he still identified with being Australian. He explained cautiously that he had not lived in Australia for almost a decade now, but that he still felt resolutely Australian. He talked about his love of Australian music, how bands like Hunters & Collectors, INXS and Icehouse could constantly be heard in his NYC apartment, and of how for the first time in a long time he felt he could breathe again, knowing that he was in his spiritual home.

The Australian press liked to focus on his perceived international success, on his relationship with the ex-model turned singer, who herself was now starting to experience pop stardom. They questioned him about what it felt like to know that he had finally _made it_ , to which he emphatically denied he had that feeling, that he instead was always anxious to try new things, to grow as an artist, to understand the world that he was more and more frequently traveling around.

Aside from the _Australian_ angle, the press here was more geared towards music than they'd been in Europe and Japan. He was asked his opinions about his chart contemporaries and other global pop phenomenon. And to the teenagers in the audience, his demeanour was interpreted as being worldly, complicated, not your average run of the mill pop star but talk about his own music was kept to a minimum; " _I know my music is seen as a little too dance oriented here in Australia, but I think that's going to change now that there are all of these exciting synth bands popping up all the time, like the Eurogliders and I'm Talking and then of course there is INXS who are changing everything. Michael Hutchence is fantastic."_

He had received word that there had been a volley of criticism in the Australian press, his label explaining that he and Hutchence were constantly being pitted against each other in the media, as if they were two competing saviours, and there was only room for one. Hutchence, by virtue of his and his band's innate talents and abilities, was clearly winning the culture war, according to the press.

In a Sydney television studio for an interview with _Sounds_ , the presenter asked him to further comment on the rivalry.

" _For me there is no rivalry. I've met him, I've seen him perform live and he captivates you. He's a one of a kind. But so am I. I think there's room for both of us. They're doing their thing, and I'm doing mine which is quite different. I adore his music and I love that band. I think Australian music is maturing and I like the fact that we both have different points of view. I heard people referring to him as the Australian Mick Jagger. They deserve every success, and I'm working hard to ensure I do too, and it would be great to think that the media could get behind the both of us rather than trying to create some friction."_

The in-store appearance at Melbourne's Brashs store, then the country's largest music chain, in the Bourke Street shopping centre drew a sizeable crowd of thousands, thanks in part to his appearance on radio the night before.

He flew to Sydney the following day for the first day of photos in a studio in Newtown, before sitting for interviews in the afternoon, first with the Sydney Morning Herald, and then with the Telegraph's correspondent later that night. Again, he felt like the Australian press was consumed by this idea of him being the prodigal son who ought to return home for the benefit of his fellow Aussies. It was textbook Australian journalism but he tried to shield his own sarcasm and dissatisfaction as much as he could, instead deciding to use the interviews to talk about his desire to move out of club and pop music and onto something grander.

The Sydney turn out at his Brashs appearance was bigger than that in Melbourne, and again was covered on the city's nightly news bulletins, along with quotes from concerned parents that children perhaps needed to be shielded from the singer's risqué lyrics about all night clubbing, sex and veiled references to party drug culture. As the nation's print dailies began to publish their articles, a familiar trend became discernible. They pointed to the fact that his music was largely vacuous, his voice lacking in technical finesse and range, but that the kids didn't seem to mind. For a singing _himbo_ he seemed to be doing well enough, they surmised. He hadn't expected anything less from these journalists. There was a reason he didn't live in Australia, and in part it was reflected in the patriarchal approach of its media, which meshed its way into the culture. There was definitely an element of the tall poppy syndrome in every word that the papers decided to print in those days, and there were unfair calls that his music was less sophisticated than that of his Australian rock contemporaries, who in their eyes were pushing boundaries and making satisfying music from within the country's borders and would have been more deserving of his growing success.

The same criticisms had been landed at some of his other pop counterparts, and he knew that in the grand scheme of things, it was enough that he was appearing in print, in itself a form of promoting his albums, which Australian audiences were surprisingly taking to. His debut album had now notched up over 100 weeks in the album chart, chalking up sales of over 200,000, and the follow up, despite its lacklustre start, had already been deemed platinum with sales of over 100,000 prior to the promotional tour. This despite the fact his music was never played on radio beyond request shows or during the weekly countdowns.

By the time he was back in Melbourne and back in the television studios for _Hey Hey_ and _Countdown_ he was back on familiar ground. The hosts had welcomed him, congratulated him on his success, and commiserated with him about the media coverage he'd been exposed to during the week.

With the accompaniment of a live band on _Hey Hey,_ his first ever televised live performance with a band, he absolutely belted out a performance of _Just Us_ and joked with the show's host and rolling cast members, showing that his Australian sense of humour and down to earth nature were still very much in tact _thank you very much_.

When he reached the Ripponlea studios of Countdown the next day, he left the aloofness backstage and gave his all to his performance of the track, working in an improvised dance routine whilst miming to his current hit. He worked the camera, and in his interview with Molly Meldrum, already a long time champion of his music, the wariness of his week of Australian media evaporated. He was flirty, feisty and fun, and continually drew out the excitement of the live teenage audience.

Within a fortnight of his appearances, _Just Us_ went on to become the singer's first Number 1 single in Australia, thus becoming his first No.1 hit anywhere in the world. The album sales jumped, shipping over 50,000 units in the following month, and taking it into the top ten, where it bowed in at No.8.

But he wasn't in the country to witness it firsthand. When he read the fax reporting the jump and the career accolade, he and Michael were already in Mexico for a round of Spanish language promotion for the album in the Latin American markets, after which they flew back on to New York.

The promotional tour had been a substantial success, pushing the material back into the spotlight somewhat. But it was the publication of some of his pre fame nude modelling shots that created a huge controversy and conversely, another publicity push for the album on the back of the promo tour. In March 1985, dozens of tabloids around the world printed censored versions of some of the shots, and they in turn also championed an unofficial campaign to have him written off as a "perverted, untalented _popportunist_ ", a deafening character assassination that gained traction across the press in the early months of 1985.

He was devastated by the blindside, by the publication of the images, not because he was ashamed of the pictures, but because he felt like they 'd been printed out of context, and had made their way into the mainstream by real _opportunists_ who had seized their opportunity to make money out of his growing star.

Publicly though, he was defiant and went on the attack. In an interview with _Rolling Stone_ that was rushed to the presses in May 1985, he came across as articulate and intelligent. He made compelling arguments of how people's moral codes seemed to be more offended by images of his naked body that had never been intended for the press, than they were by the publishers and photographers who had put them into circulation for a quick buck, at his expense.

"When I posed for those photos it was because I needed money to eat. And when I did that it was in the faith that they would be used for artistic purposes. These aren't really naked photos of me: they are examples of how the rich always find a way of screwing over the poor. I find that quite sickening. That said, I looked great in those photos, and if it was a case of having or not having food on the table again, then I would do it all over again, even if it was only to show up the terrible double standards that exist. The media prints them, makes money out of them, and then criticises it. That's inhumane and hypocritical."

Reality was that there wasn't anything near the same commercial market for his nude shots as there was for the handful of female stars who'd fallen prey to similar scandals around the same time.

Aside from noting the rising level of smut in the mainstream, _Rolling Stone_ argued that the singer was a part of a new wave of male artists who had the potential of challenging Michael Jackson and Prince's supremacy, not through virtuoso talent but because through the ability to bring a visual eye to the pop dance scene without the huge budgets of the reigning kings. Whilst noting the prodigious talents of Jackson and Prince, the writer made it clear that he believed the new decade of pop would have to make way for a new generation of foreigners, making note for the first time that the singer was Australian, (he'd long been assumed to be British), and that pop was becoming an increasingly international field, populated as always by a democracy of talents; some naturally gifted, and some, like Alekzandr, perhaps simply smart enough to make the most of what they had been given.

But with the fall out of the nude photos, the singer's Japanese endorsement deals were cancelled, the firms not wanting to taint their image with the singer's. And his label and management decided to cancel the tentative plans they had made for a small tour, content that the swirling controversy was enough to keep his profile in the upper tier of the pop sphere.

The controversy which had caused tsunamis of panic in his management offices died down after a couple of weeks. But the constant media coverage continued to raise his profile and help his album sell. Michael had landed deals to have the album's final two singles appear on two major box office soundtracks. The singles, _Broken Heart/That's All_ (a double A sider), and the much hyped _Dangerous_ , which would become his first UK Number 1, helped push his second album's sales over the five million mark. It wasn't exactly a critical masterpiece, again on the receiving end of decidedly mixed reviews, but it was another success. He'd not only bettered the first year sales of his first album, but, with the support of his growing audience, found himself in a strong bargaining position now that Michael was ready to begin the contract renegotiations with his label.

It'd been a busy and character building year for him, challenging in every respect, but positive overall: he'd scored his first No.1 hits around the world, sold millions, and seemed to have overcome a determined character assassination with grace.

Back in New York, he and Athena briefly contemplated the absurdity of their first year of marriage, a union which had amounted to less than a month of actual time spent together. But, their unconventional marriage served them both. It was a mental security blanket, even if they had their own separate lives and obsessions to attend to. And even if the marriage tended to reflect Alekzandr's distorted idea of marriage more than Athena's more traditional idea.

As the Summer of 1985 came to a close, after an appearance at Live Aid and after a series of failed acting auditions, he began writing new material and contemplating what the following months would bring. Athena would be off to LA to film a movie and the two made firm plans to meet in Australia for Christmas. In the meantime, he would have to head to Miami. There was a new chapter of his career waiting there for him to write.

#  FELICIDADES | I'M JUST DANCING

In early 1985 Estes had bought himself a reasonably opulent home in Coconut Grove in Miami. Initially it served as a trophy house, a belated present to himself after so many fulfilling but otherwise not incredibly lucrative years in the industry. He'd bought it for a song from the widow of an old, notorious super-agent from the seventies, who, rumour had it, had died in the pool room after his heart couldn't keep up with substances he was routinely plying his body with.

At the beginning, the house fell into part of Michael's fantasy screenplay about himself. The one in which he saw himself donning a turtle neck and a blazer in the not too distant future, riding out his early retirement by the pool or on a boat (that was going to be his next acquisition). But soon enough practicalities rendered the house less a dream home and more an unofficial headquarters for his and the singer's emerging joint empire. Indeed, it did seem as if this repurposed villa was becoming a working temple to them both. For every framed Warhol style portrait of Michael, there was a gold or platinum plaque for one of Alekz's records. In frames that broke up the overly long swathes of pastel in the larger rooms that the widow probably thought would curb her husband's partying ways.

And so, as the singles from Alekz's second album continued to do reasonably well in the charts, the recording artist became focused on working on new material and experimenting with all kinds of new genres to expand his sound. To achieve this, he treated the Coconut Grove mansion like a revolving door for the producers and songwriters he had come and go from.

But Estes had his own plans. He knew it was time to ditch the club sound but he wanted the singer to take steps towards a sound that was more universal and mature. His long standing goal to pitch the singer into a more commercial realm was nearing its implementation. This time around he wanted to cast Alekz out of the clubs and onto world's radios. In short it was time for Alekz to become a fully-fledged mainstream pop act.

Estes had spent much of 1985 co-ordinating the singer's new boutique label, _Kēvala_ , named for a Hindi term which amongst other things can be interpreted as "solitary" or "pure". Estes concluded the negotiations for Kēvala's distribution through the singer's main label, with whom he'd brokered a reasonably lucrative four album deal on the strength of the singer's approximate ten million album sales to date. The deal had left him in the position to be able to buy Coconut Grove outright.

Michael imagined that with Kēvala, they'd be able to have their own Paisley Park and modelled the next phase of the singer's career on that of the pint sized funk powerhouse who'd already staked his claim as member of pop's royal triumvirate.

Alekz however, may have already partly embraced some of his financial windfalls but still had his own low art obsession in the summer of 1985. Namely, Billy Idol. Or at least the peroxide blond facet of the Brit. He was still playing the _Rebel Yell_ album repeatedly, and in a haze of blind inspiration that seemed to pervade all the failed pairings with producers, the original songs he'd written in Miami for the new project seemed like distant, poor cousins to his muse's far superior material.

But as they settled into life in the Miami manor, that September Estes introduced Alekz to a Puerto Rican songwriter who was known to everyone as Rudy. Rudy was an old friend of Estes, and, in the first half of the 1980s had racked up dozens of song writing and production credits across the South American charts. Visiting Miami, where he had his own sizeable following, he played some new material to Estes indicating that he'd written them with the singer in mind. Where Rudy's earlier songs were simple, catchy Latin tinged pop numbers, his songs for Alekz fit Michael's brief of being more sophisticated, with only hints of Latin pop instrumentation amongst the more complex arrangements. Rudy's goal was straightforward. He wanted entry as a songwriter and producer in the international market, and thus needed an English speaking act that could facilitate the shift. Michael's goal was to pair Alekz with somebody who could deliver the kind of music that would take him truly global.

The singer had been trying new genres on for size in writing his new album, but hadn't any clear objective for the project yet. In addition to the _Idol_ songs, he'd written some straight out pop numbers and songs with Ian, to whom he'd promised production credits this time around. He and Smith had written a few songs that were a hybrid of pop and rock, and a couple of dance tracks composed on an acoustic guitar as opposed to the Fairlight they'd previously relied on. Nothing earth shattering, but the most daring piece that they had come up with was an update of a 1920s standard that Ian had re-envisaged as a sparse, electronic track, with just a few guitars and an entirely new set of lyrics that the singer had come up with.

But there was no consistency in Ian and the singer's music yet. Nothing that could suggest the direction of a new album, and nothing tangible that seemed to be coming out of all the experiments with others. To Estes' ear the Coconut Grove music was like a mix tape. An erratic collection of songs in dire need of editing.

He needed the singer to deliver a strong, commercial hit this time around. There was a lot riding on it; the trophy house, the long term contractual obligations and potentially even the future viability of a career for a singer who had, according to some, been fortunate enough to have ridden the wave of success this far already. Michael was sure that the industry wouldn't yet allow him the luxury of a flop recording without it signalling the 'end' of his career. And simply maintaining the same level of sales would not make the boutique label an incredibly attractive option. Alekz was still in Nik Kershaw/Howard Jones kind of territory which was more than acceptable. Financially though, he was in the middle of a slightly anonymous pack when Estes expected him to be up with the big guns.

Enter Rudy's songs. In Estes' mind, their strange marriage of orchestrations, genres and their international feel, would provide a better backbone for the album which could then be supplemented by the best of the Smith collaborations. More to appease the singer and help him realise the promises he'd long made Ian after the botched expectations of the earlier albums than for any real creative reason. Estes knew that he had to rely on Rudy to find just the right approach with the singer to get his involvement and participation confirmed.

While the singer was haphazardly experimenting in the studio on a number of fronts, Estes was meticulously trying to strategize everything for the third album; the sound, the visuals, the collaborators...he was leaving nothing to spontaneity and he hoped that with each idea he floated he could place enough of a seed in the singer's mind to have him at least develop them. Whilst Alekz was being given free rein to experiment, the leash was going to be tightened come recording time. Estes knew how touchy the singer was about his collaborations with Smith, and to that end he knew he had to manipulate the introduction to Rudy as a blessing; he needed the singer to feel like he was shaping his own new work.

Over one of the many dinners they shared together, Estes watched his two puppets interacting, each sparking off the other. Rudy, who would've been in his early forties, quickly found his mark with the singer, regaling him with tales of the dozens of Latin super acts he had worked with throughout the sixties and seventies. The singer hadn't really heard of many of the acts he was referring to, but was intrigued nonetheless, and equally impressed by the fact that Rudy seemed to be one of those revered, living treasures who'd probably never been considered a heartthrob, but whom the wider public adored, perhaps on account of this. He had a bulbous nose, leathery skin but by all accounts a gorgeous Columbian wife with whom he was now living in Puerto Rico. But after decades in the entertainment industry he knew how to hold his own, and without waiting for Michael to take the initiative as they'd discussed, he cajoled the singer into listening to some of his new pieces.

Estes watched as the singer's face changed from one of dismissiveness to one of intense concentration when one of the more ambitious songs started playing. "What are you planning on doing with these?" the singer asked, as he lit a cigarette with the old bulbous lighter the widow had left in the living room.

"I'm looking for someone to bring them to life for me," Rudy said, boldly looking the singer in the eye.

"Can I hold onto the tape? Just for a night or so?"

"What do you think you can do in a night with them?" Rudy guffawed, looking at Michael and pointing at the singer at the same time.

"Love them. Make them mine. I want to connect to them," the singer stated.

Rudy and Michael looked at him like it was simultaneously the most preposterous and logical thing a person could've said under the circumstances.

Over the following days, the earlier polite discussions began to morph into specifics about collaborating together. Rudy's disposition changed suddenly from being wizardly and Oz like to sharp and pointed. Focused.

The lyrics had seemed to come to the singer without any real trouble. Lying on the floor with his legal pad, at the kitchen table, on the lawns, even in bed after a lovemaking session...the words and couplets seemed to gush out of him. In Michael's rudimentary studio, the singer would sing over the demo tape with his lyrics and Rudy began notating tweaks to the arrangements to take the singer's suggestions on board. Quickly they became embroiled in a tunnel vision; the singer temporarily stopped taking phone calls from almost everyone he knew, Ian included, for he felt hostage to the project and the new works. And Rudy demanded every scrap of the singer's attention.

Rudy and the singer made for a formidable couple in the studio. Rudy, ever the task master and a perfectionist, deft, consummately professional; the singer more polished than before, still instinctual, but emboldened and now a co-producer of his own material. Their professional relationship was elastic in nature; Rudy was demanding, but the singer repeatedly warned Rudy not to pay lip service or to be afraid of changing the instrumentations.

Over the days and weeks they learned to trust each other and to take advantage of each other's point of views, but what was emerging was a unified idea. A sound concept. Rudy had never worked with an English speaking act and as such quickly began to feel that he'd prepared the pieces as approximations of western adult pop. The singer _had_ stripped them back but had also allowed himself to be pushed in a new direction and conceded a lot more than he probably would've if he hadn't liked Rudy.

Their creative union was intense and erupted in collaborative bursts, as Rudy had other clients to attend to, and would hop in and out of Miami. Over three months, their infrequent sessions eventually resulted in eight tracks, four of which were complete re-workings of the originally presented songs. The project was given the working title of _Miami Heat_ , but the lyrics were anything but superfluous this time around. Alekz was determined to "sing from the heart" and to craft his lyrics into something more substantial this time around. As such the only rule he gave himself regarding the lyrics was that "they needed to come from experience and not be by the number."

The twin goals of the album quickly took shape in the singer's mind; he began seeing it as a more adult representation and entry point into a sound that would be more enduring.

It was effectively, the global commodification of his music; a plan that Estes was pushing forward with the intent of creating a collection of music which sounded like the reflection of a worldly, agenda pushing artist. Not a mere reflection of any specific club or music scene. As the singer remained out of his comfort zone, pushing himself to improve vocally and to approach things in an adult way, things felt more logical to him. After all he was now closer to thirty than twenty. He needed to begin carving out some adult credibility for himself.

Long before he'd finished in the studio with Rudy, _Idol_ no longer seemed so _vital_ , and Ian was back in the fold again, relieved not only that his calls were being returned but excited that he'd be working in Miami for the first time in his life. The singer and Smith collaborated on five pieces in the end; all highly individual pieces that seemed to fit well with the singer's collaborations with Rudy.

_Miami Heat_ , unlike the projects before it, was shaped by Estes and conceived as an audio visual package. The goal was to harness radio and television in a way that Alekz's previous music had only achieved in part and mostly by accident. The step away from the clubs was to be compensated for by more attention on the visuals. On Estes' suggestion, some of Europe and Asia's hottest photographers and directors were brought on board to help mould the _visual_ evolution of the singer's career and usher it into its new phase.

Estes was a master planner who seemed to spend all of his time thinking and strategizing, and who refused to give up on an idea unless it was well and truly exhausted. At one point after having realised that the singer wasn't responding favourably to his ideas about going for a cleaner, less _urchin_ like appearance, he sent in the cavalry. One night out with Jasper, the singer's old friend and favoured video director, he masterminded a conversation and planted the seeds for Jasper and the singer to pick apart his argument that dance music was about to fall out of favour, particularly after the revolutionary aspects of Live Aid (where the singer had performed), Band Aid and USA For Africa. The world was going to be demanding something new and more substantial of its stars. Of this he was utterly convinced. He was also convinced that the singer would, after debating the pros and cons ad infinitum with Jasper, pick up on the fact that he had an opportunity to pip his audiences to the post and present himself in a more mature form rather than wait for them to simply let him fall by the way.

After a substantial number of drinks, and sensing that Jasper and the singer had taken the bait, Estes argued that the teens and _twenty-somethings_ that'd bought his first albums needed a newer version of the singer that better represented their own changing aspirations; someone that they could feel they were growing up _with_ or could continue to aspire _to be_.

"I'm not all that sure that I need to be restyled. And I'm not _at all_ into the idea that I canvas the opinions of designers. It's one thing to do a photo shoot with somebody and be photographed wearing something that somebody made. But being restyled? Does that word even exist? God I hope not. That doesn't feel authentic at all. That feels shitty. I don't want any part of that." the singer huffed.

"I don't think you need to go that far. But I think Michael is right. You've changed. Thank God too. If we had to walk down the street together ever again with you wearing those shitty Indian sacks or those leggings I'd probably shoot myself. I don't think you need to be restyled. You just have to accept that you have changed your look and you have to consider that now for the visual stuff," Jasper explained. Sensing he wasn't being heard, he continued. "You know if you watch your old videos or your old shows, the difference between you now and you then is that you _used_ to dress that way. It was never a costume for you. It _was_ you. But you don't dress like that anymore. Whatever it is you're considering, it kinda needs to be authentic. You've taken this goddam Billy Idol thing too far with the bleached blond hair but, that's who you are now. And you're not thrift shopping anymore like you used to. If you go around dressed like this and then present in a different way on video or in your photos, well, it would just be all fake."

"Well, you have designers you love. Even the small scale ones. Or even Tadao. What if we bring just them in on it, and then you mix and match whatever it is they put together for you with whatever you want or have?" Estes offered.

"Um, that's what I already do you homos. By the way, have you seen how you two are dressed? Who are you to be so critical? Dire candidates for restyling if ever I've seen any."

"Ok, but if we get them to produce a few one off things for you is that really such a bad thing? You need to kind of present something unified this time around," Michael insisted.

"I feel like I am being hit by a gay mafia or something. I mean seriously, if I needed a costume designer I would be working in film. I don't need to be told how to dress you guys."

"You don't. But in a way you'll just be building on the idea of collaboration and telling a story. Think of it as someone else contributing to your ideas and helping you elevate the aspect of your personality that you want to focus on," Jasper said.

"What a load of bullshit," the singer laughed. "I don't mind having a look at some stuff but I'm not into this idea of planning my album cover and my videos and my photo shoots months in advance. Don't think I don't know what you're up to. You're both mad. Some things need to evolve spontaneously. I'll go and have a look at some designers. But no one new, just Tadao and some of the others. And, Jasper. You're coming with me on this one."

Estes and Jasper looked at each other, before Jasper responded. "I can't. I'm busy."

"You're not working on anything," Alekz reminded him.

"I didn't say I was. I said I was busy."

"I didn't even tell you when I wanted to do it."

"It doesn't matter," Jasper said, cuttingly.

"Really, the shit I have to put up with. If you want to work on any of the videos you better be ready when I call you when I'm back in NYC."

The recordings were completed by December and sent off for mastering, and with that, the singer packed up and bid Michael and his producers farewell, as he flew on to LA to collect Athena for their Christmas trip back to Australia.

If ever anyone could slide back into a parallel existence it was Alekz, particularly when he re-entered the low pulsing sphere of his marriage. Being with Athena was like closing the doors behind him on everything else. Nothing else mattered when he was with her, so enveloping was their union. But by the same token, actually being together eviscerated everything else. Theirs was a cocoon like existence, a bubble, a friendship that had been thrown onto a pottery wheel and that had come out distorted. Like a cup being used as an ashtray. Heading back to Australia with her, to holiday, to meet her parents and to have her meet his, seemed like trying on a new outfit after the ball was long over and done with.

In the past he'd met wives of paramours, stolen glimpses of their children from afar and had been introduced to their social sets, but this trip signified the first time in his adult life that he was being taken home to _meet the folks._ The in laws. Not even their families had been let in on the fact that they were married. They were terrified that just a mother's proud slip of the tongue was all it would take for their secret to be betrayed and find its way into the public. They were happy to be known as _the pop couple_ more focused on their careers than each other. The public seemed to like their ambition. Besides it didn't seem warranted to publicly acknowledge it. Nothing was likely to change any time soon and their not spending anytime together would only trigger concern from loved ones.

They were both treading their way on their own hamster wheels, the singer again nearing the promotional phase of his work, and actually touring it this time around, which would mean even longer bouts away from home. As it was, he hadn't been back to his NYC apartment in almost four months. Athena was just as busy. Although she had wrapped up work on a film, she was already getting ready to go back into the studio for her second album, which would be recorded in LA. She'd closed on a deal of her own for a house in the Hollywood Hills before finishing up on the film, meaning that it was unlikely she'd return to NYC anytime soon.

Australia seemed like an inverted honeymoon to them. More like an _outro_ than anything else. They spent Christmas with her family in Sydney, who were incredibly gracious and welcoming of him, and together they drove up to Forster where her parents kept a summer home. After a few days on the coast taking in the untamed new world and making small talk with the family, Athena and he made their way back to Sydney, where they boarded a flight to Melbourne for a week with his family. It was his second opportunity to see his nephew who had been born just over a year earlier, but what struck him most during his visit, was how his siblings Domenic and Sofia seemed to have created _couple like_ lives for themselves with their respective partners, both ceasing to be individuals.

He and Thena on the other hand, were like two punk blow ins in comparison. Whenever he was with his siblings, he never saw anything other than how different he was to them. Thena had a little trouble bonding with them, but adored the singer's nephew, volunteering to hold him, play with him, feed or change him, whatever it took to extract herself from the tedious conversations that seemed to be on offer from Alekz's siblings. She adored his parents though, and started to understand what he was on about those rare times he permitted himself to talk about his family with her. In her view, he wasn't quite the black sheep that he painted himself to be, rather, he was just so different to his siblings that they simply didn't know how to relate to him, and their attempts as well as his own all seemed to fall flat. But with Thena with him he had an accomplice with whom to whittle away the days and nights, and they generally split their time between his parents and his old friends who were dispersed around the city.

What he hadn't told Athena was that whilst he was in Miami he'd closed on his own real estate deal. His Australian lawyer had secured him a coastal property on the west coast of Victoria and after a few sticky days in the city, the family migrated to the property which his parents had been taking care of in his absence. The sea air and the novelty of the property, which he invited his family to use in his absence, changed the family dynamic somewhat, and established what would become an almost annual tradition for them.

Athena stayed for a few days before heading back up to Sydney to spend her last week with her family, whilst the singer remained on the property, and just like that, with her out of the Garden state, his priorities and his thoughts switched. He fell back into his same thought patterns but let on to nobody. There was something about that rough sea air that seemed to always announce further contemplation on his part.

Re-entering the States, he'd neither need nor time to continue the navel gazing. Michael put him back to work, and as soon as it always did, his career took over, engulfing him and everything in the process. A spate of listening presentations were organised for the corporate label offices in a handful of cities around the world, however the singer attended only three: in Los Angeles, London and Tokyo. He was busy being interviewed by the press and co-ordinating his releases with his newly minted record label staff, in addition to working on music videos for the album. This time around he felt like an old hand, and everything seemed so slick in comparison to the makeshift way of doing things the first few times around.

Jasper had directed a video to the first North American single, _How Many People_ , which took its cues from Elio Petri's _A Quiet Place In The Country (Un Tranquillo Posto di Campagna)_ and featured the singer in a throwback to the Franco Nero film; bound throughout the video in coarse rope.

Outside of North America, the lead single was the rampant reworking of the 1920s standard _Side By Side_ , for which Jasper created another remarkable video, another primarily inspired by a cult film. A combination of slickly choreographed scenes intercut with scenes recreating the more iconic moments of Kōji Wakamatsu's _Ecstasy of the Angels_ (天使の恍惚) elevated _Side By Side_ further away from its origins.

The music arrived in a blaze of publicity in late February, 1986 via the two thoroughly different sounding first _singles_. Michael, in conjunction with the singer's old parent label, had deftly devised a tightly planned blitz for the singles involving their roll out to television and radio, a print campaign and a push to retail. Capping off all of this was an international promo tour. The promo tour was also a way for Estes to finalise details for the world tour which would kick off later in the year to support the album, and give the singer his first chance at a full scale live tour, after having performed live only a handful of times, the last time having been at Live Aid. While Estes attended the meetings, the singer spent his downtime with his friend Xavier, who he'd brought along for moral support.

Though the videos created mini controversies for pushing the boundaries of what was acceptable for television broadcasting at the time, the excitement of the new material saw the singles firmly lodged in the top five in over two dozen markets around the world within weeks. The slower moving US singles market led to both singles charting at the same time, while in the UK they took their turns in ascending the hit parade.

In the flurry of press that the project generated came the reviews for the album. The consensus this time around was that _Felicidades_ , ( _Miami Heat_ was discarded at the last minute), was an event album, its release announcing a more adult oriented, musically polished version of the singer. One reviewer noted that the album contained "a string of obvious singles choices and enough good hooks and innovation to suggest that Alekzandr's play for pop audiences could well just pay off." Elsewhere in the music press, reviewers commended the singer's new pop turn, variously referring to it as "savvy", "smart" and an "early contender for the year's best pop album."

Released on April 3, 1986, the album quickly shot up the charts, notching up No.1 positions in numerous territories. Estes' approach had worked. By the time the album's third single _Thinking About You_ , the singer's first ballad single, was released in July 1986, _Felicidades_ had already been a number one album in 22 countries, with estimated sales at that point of close to eight million, almost besting the combined sales of his first two albums. Pandemonium ensued. The new music was eclipsing the successes of everything he'd done before, and somehow, Michael's intricate domino like planning had come good. Thinking About You became the singer's first across the board smash, notching up stays at No.1 in 25 countries, including a brief, simultaneous stint at the top in the US, UK and his native Australia.

The album's spectacular success opened a myriad of doors to him. Hollywood's and to pop's old and new vanguard. It suddenly seemed as if the world and the entertainment industry had just been alerted to his presence. The slither of recognition he and Thena both had was now a gold and platinum plated key to the city. Nothing like an unbroken run of top ten singles and a bestselling album to confer greatness on you.

He too was now a platinum version of himself. "Like a walking, golden pop god," one journalist said referring to the singer's new appearance, which, she suggested, played no small part in his new wave of success in addition to the wrangling of top designers. "The album artwork is instantly iconic...the singer photographed against a white backdrop, with one arm bent to his side, his head practically nestling in his other arm pit. The blond hair, the slightly more toned physique and the tight, ripped white shirt and low hanging blue jeans sitting on his tanned complexion all scream his reincarnation, but with a whisper remind you at the same time that the hint of a bit of filthy lucre is all it takes to get someone to shed their former skin(s). For some, it's easiest in front of a camera, as we've seen with him before."

The freedom to create without constant interference from the record label had invigorated him in the studio, and in front of the camera, and also inspired his collaborators to take things to the next level. The music was stronger than anything he'd made before: deeper, genre jumping, and, most importantly for most critics, more accomplished. If it wasn't just creative freedom that was spurring the project along, then it was definitely naked ambition.

The pairing of yet racier videos with the songs, along with references to other pop culture moments wasn't simply for creative purposes. This was part of an approach that he, Michael and the label had adopted to generate more interest in the work, and to maximise his appeal to wider audiences. It wasn't a coincidence that his songs were charting beyond the usual dance and pop radio formats. The singer was racking up appearances across Adult Oriented lists, Latin and across a variety of genre charts beyond the usual suspects. _Thinking About You_ which he had written as an open letter to both Athena and Michael, though he never let on, was a hit as much on the strength of its music as it was the risqué water cooler video. The song, and the video, depicting the singer in the middle of a love triangle, intrigued audiences to the point that it charted across more than a dozen of the US charts and racked up sales that would render it his highest selling single of the 1980s.

Though the success seemed so instantaneous and spontaneous to outsiders, _Felicidades's_ success was a product of twenty four seven commitment on both Michael and the singer's parts. They lived and breathed that album like it was a small business venture they were trying to get off the ground. During the headier months of the album campaign, they continued living out of Estes' Miami home and ran everything from there. But the singer made it clear to him once the album was up and running that there were to be no further business discussions at home in the evenings. He reduced Estes to booking appointments with him; any discussions regarding his career at home were off limits.

That summer, at the peak of the album's success, he and Michael took a break, disappearing into the Pacific Islands for a month where they island hopped before re-emerging in Australia to pick up on the promotional work, and to announce the dates of the world tour which would kick off at year end in Australia before snaking its way across Asia, Europe and the Americas well into 1987.

Auditions and rehearsals began in earnest in September when he and Michael returned to the US. The premise of the tour was a reasonably simple one; an energetic dance pop show which would draw from all three of his albums. As Ian Smith was busy with back to back production roles, Rudy was brought on board as the Musical Director. Jasper produced a series of simplistic video backdrops to flash up throughout the show, whilst the bulk of the staging relied upon the choreography which the singer devised with Miles, who by now had accepted that his fate was to be a choreographer.

Over the space of four weeks, the singer spent his mornings with Rudy and the band that Rudy had assembled, reworking 18 of his songs for live performances, rehearsing the songs ad infinitum while afternoons were spent rehearsing with his dancers and Miles. He was completely immersed in the realisation process. This was his first large scale show and he was definitely learning on the job.

By the middle of November, the rehearsals had gravitated towards full dress rehearsals on a sound stage in a disused sports stadium in Florida, before the entire production was packed up and shipped to Australia for the first leg of the tour.

Landing in Brisbane, the gravity of the tour began to hit him. _Was he really going to do this? Was he going to be able to pull it off?_ Fans had been tipped off by his Australian record label of his arrival, and thousands were there at the airport waiting for him. But rather than please him and give him the idea of comfort and support, they made him nervous. Michael gave him an Alprazolam to help calm the nerves in the car before taking him on to the Brisbane Entertainment Centre to give him a chance to check out the venue in which he would inaugurate his world tour.

Over the following days the final rehearsals and sound checks were carried out, but under intense media scrutiny and a wrenching internal pressure which seemed to overtake him and control him. The singer awoke on Wednesday, December 3 with a prolonged bout of nervous stomach after a restless sleep. After a morning of violent vomiting, and being attended to by his new assistant Kōji, Michael hurriedly organised a massage for the singer, and the singer spent much of the day doing vocal exercises and workouts in the hotel gym before being taken down to the venue in the late afternoon feeling somewhat subdued by his own competing emotions.

At the venue, adrenaline eventually kicked in alongside the nerves. Rudy reminded him he just had to get through the first song and then everything else would be fine. The singer's dancers rallied around him, and he soldiered through the day with intermittent trips to the toilet, much to the crew's amusement. He spent half the time in the cubicle crying, the other half laughing. He had nothing to measure this against in his previous experience, so he figured that this was the most nerve racking time of his entire life. Not even _Live Aid_ had brought out this kind of debilitation.

At 8.35pm, long after the support group, a Melbourne dance act, had finished, and just as he was about to be hoisted onto the stage with his legs trembling, he adjusted his earpiece, steadied his leg with his hand, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Right as the crowd erupted with the impatience they could no longer hold in.

He breathed again, and when he opened his eyes, he saw a sea of lights and the shadowy outlines of an unfathomable number of bodies before him. The music had started up, and although the first line of the song had sailed through his mind, he had failed to grasp it and verbalise it. Instead he smiled, aware that there was a camera trained on him that was projecting the giant moving projection of his image onto the screen behind him. He smiled mischievously, laughed and shouted "G'day Brisbane!" to the 10,000 plus crowd who again erupted into a roar that dwarfed the one they gave at his arrival on the stage. He moved straight into the next line of the lyrics and caught up with the band.

It took every inch of his concentration to focus on suppressing the tourniquet of nerves that was attempting to debilitate his body, but beyond that thought was the realisation that this was the first time he'd ever been in front of an audience this large who had come out only to see _him_. He had previously participated in benefit concerts and televised performances, but this was the first time that the enormity of his appeal was being manifest before him. Worse still, it was in his homeland, and there was an entirely different decorum that he'd have to find a way of striking in order to really be accepted by his fellow citizens.

But by the time he reached the chorus in the second song, he also began to reach his stride. The nerves took a back seat to concentration on the movements and arrangements that he had practiced to death for all those weeks before. Control was re-entering his scenario. By the time he had let go of the cerebral processes, he realised he had already completed the first five songs of the show, and had made it to the first interval. One of his backing singers had come over to him and whispered encouragingly that he could go back stage and change, that they had the situation in hand. In a daze he headed back stage and changed but couldn't hear anything Michael or his assistants were saying. He was like a mic'd up mannequin who, soon enough was being re-positioned in the windows again.

"Oh my gosh Brisbane, I got lost in the moment. How are you tonight?" he yelled as he was hoisted back up on the stage through the trap door. The rapturous response brought another smile to his face. "Excuse me for being so focused," he said, sipping on a bottle of water he had taken on stage with him, "but it's like we're living a dream tonight. It's so fucking cool that we're all here together tonight."

He surveyed the crowd and waved at the different sections of the audience. He introduced the members of his band and continued on with his monologue. "I can't believe it's taken us so long to put this shindig together, but now that we're all here, I should just stop talking and get on with it right? Yes, you in the front row agree with me. OK, well, let's do it...3-2-1 go!"

Such was the searing intensity of the night, that for years after he wasn't able to recall anything in detail from his first solo stadium show without relying on what the video cameras had picked up or what his staff had been able to recount to him.

The Sydney dates that followed that in Brisbane went much the same, though with each show, he was able to regain his composure and control a little sooner, until it was just the first song that all but paralysed him. Over four nights in Sydney, the singer played to more than 50,000 fans, but it was the prospect of moving on to his hometown Melbourne which brought back the nervous stomach the day after the last of the Sydney shows.

Although he'd organised for friends and family to fly up for the Sydney shows, he announced a strict embargo on friends and family before the first Melbourne show. The media focus which had been strong in Brisbane and Sydney intensified in Melbourne as both the local and world press began to descend on the tour. The momentum for his sold out world dates was now growing and entering into fever pitch all while his records racked up astonishing sales.

In his Melbourne hotel room, his personal trainer took him through a number of meditation techniques in addition to the usual warm up routine. Rudy passed by his suite at midday to give him his daily update as musical director, a role he was already relishing. Partnering with the singer had brought him huge windfalls.

"Were you out all night last night?" Rudy asked unsympathetically when he was finally ushered in to see the singer.

"No. I was here. Sleeping."

"Well, you look like shit."

"Thanks."

"You're supposed to be a creamy, dreamy, pop god. But you look like some bum that sleeps outside the hotel. Are you sure you aren't taking something?"

"No! I can't help it. I'm nervous. I can't get past it. Every time I think about what's happening it just freaks me out. And now I'm in my hometown. The pressure!"

"You know what," Rudy said as he sat himself down on the sofa. "I'm gonna let you in on an old secret. Nobody tells you this shit. But Rudy's gonna tell you. When I first got in the biz I was much the same. I used to have to perform, but only in front of a few hundred people every night. Probably not too different to how you started."

"Oh no, I was lucky if I had ten people in the audience back then Rudy. Don't fool yourself."

"Well it doesn't matter if you have ten people or 10,000 people. Same for you and me and a businessman. Basically, your problem isn't that you're nervous. We all get nervous. Your problem is that you haven't owned what you're doing. You gotta tap into the performer side of you. Not approach it like you're the kid that grew up here. On stage you're the pop star not _you_. Right now, you don't believe it. You don't believe that you can do it. So committing to it is too hard, and your emotions are taking over instead. Your brain panics and your heart takes over."

The singer sat up and put down the clipboard that he'd been looking over.

"This is your show Alekz. Your show. We work for you. We worked on things with you, but it was because of you that we rehearsed this show. It was because of you that there are numbers that the dancers do. You are this show. But not like you as you. Like I'm a musical director on that stage you're a pop star, an idol. This is what we came up with together, and now we have to deliver it. You have to deliver it like you did in rehearsals. You were one focused _Chingado_ but now, you are a bit like a _Cevote_. That makes things harder. It's like torture for your mind that you're doing this. Own it as a role. Because when you finally do, you will tune everything else out. The noise, the nerves. Your ego. And then it will become fun. It's a good show. And the things that aren't good, we can change them as we go. But you have to deliver it, like all of us are delivering it for you. You have to go back to your A game. Right now you are C grade compared to what you were like in rehearsals."

He took on Rudy's comments with a determined silence, and thanked him for them after they'd gone over their shared notes on the musical elements of the show. A couple of changes were enacted, and on the way to the stadium with Kōji, the singer made a bargain with himself. Considering he and Michael hadn't spent the night together since arriving in Brisbane on account of the amount of work they had, he promised himself that if the show went well, he'd reward himself with a night in bed with Estes, given that there was a break between tonight's show and the second Melbourne show.

The first Melbourne show, smaller than the others in Brisbane and Sydney on account of the venue capacity (at a fraction under 8,000 it was significantly smaller in attendance than the previous shows) was the most intense that he'd perform on the entire tour. He started with the usual shaky leg and nervous stomach, but he focused on what Rudy said and found a way of treating the show more like a live rehearsal. Like a job. Steely faced, he broke into his opening sequence and didn't say a word to the audience until he was nearing the end of the first act when he continuously broke into smiles which the camera captured and dedicatedly funnelled onto the huge screen. At the end of the first act he turned and smiled at Rudy and then proceeded to gush over his hometown audience. If he wasn't entirely sure that the audience would be won over with his song and dance act, then they were his after a seven minute monologue which he delivered, reminding the audience that this was his hometown and that he was ecstatic to be there with them. But he couldn't bring himself to say he was in the greatest city in the world as Rudy had suggested. Too corny.

Throughout the five Melbourne shows he regaled the audience with tit bits from his now long gone past there, about the loves, family and friends who were there in the audience. He absolutely charmed his hometown, and made some headway in wrestling with his anxiety about the show and its content. After that first night he summoned Estes to his room and proceeded to devour his lover with an intent he hadn't displayed in recent memory, leaving Estes overwhelmed by the about face his protégé had made.

The parochial press in Australia celebrated the tour. Dailies, news bulletins and the general press devoted lead items and front page articles to the tour. The subtext was that whilst the tour wasn't exactly the _greatest show on earth_ , it was essentially the story of a local boy done good, one of the first home grown stars who'd taken on the might of the international industry.

Much was written in praise of the singer but almost always in connection with his commercial success. At the last of the Melbourne shows, the show was interrupted in the second interval so that the singer could be presented with a plaque commemorating the multi-platinum status of the _Felicidades_ album, which had already produced three No.1 hits in the local market, and sold over 500,000 units, making it one of the highest ever selling local albums.

That year, the local industry founded its national music association, and _Felicidades_ , despite its astonishing local sales was ranked only the year's second highest selling local release. The association and his label then, in an attempt to give him recognition, conferred a Special Achievement award on him at their inaugural awards night, in honour of the international sales which were the highest yet for an Australian release.

But during his time in Melbourne, television cameras were trained onto old friends, colleagues...anyone who had some local connection to the newly minted global star. Newspaper articles tried to spell out the singer's exploits, professional and personal, whilst correspondents cobbled together footage for the local version of 60 Minutes who were running a story on the elusive star. _Who is this local superstar who seems to have come out of nowhere?_ Estes enjoined the singer to sit down with a local journalist and give an exclusive interview, encouraging him to remember the local audience and to be mindful of the Tall Poppy effect.

Filmed during the Melbourne stint of the show, the interview was a puff piece, trying to flesh out the singer's back story and his transformation from street urchin to pop icon, as evidenced _Felicidades's_ remarkable success.

The singer answered the interviewer's questions in a modest, down to earth manner, making a point to share his gratitude for the success he'd encountered with his collaborators. The added media interest, along with the tour had a discernible effect on local sales. The album returned to No.1 for the third time, notching up its final two weeks of an overall eight at the top. Shows were done in Auckland and Wellington in New Zealand, before the singer returned for the last of the Australasian shows in Adelaide the week before Christmas. The release of the album's fifth single was brought forward to January in Australia and it swiftly became the album's fourth local top five hit.

After a short Christmas break which the singer spent at his coastal estate, the tour resumed in Japan a week into the New Year. Four shows in Tokyo, three in Osaka and two in Fukuoka were all welcomed by more pandemonium. Two dates in Hong Kong at the Coliseum also followed as a trial of the market, both sell outs.

It was becoming clear to all involved that the singer's star, and status, was higher than ever, partly because it was a quiet time for international tours, falling into the Northern winter. The critics of the show however weren't as convinced as audiences.

By the time the tour reached London, for five shows to kick off the European leg, the music press had time to digest the Australian and Asian shows. The singer's play for a wider, mainstream audience was not lost on the UK press. One writer drily noted that "he has won audiences over more with his knack for hooks and choruses and a well-timed wink or double entendre than for any particular notable skill on stage." Another, for perhaps the most respected UK music journal observed that "his onstage arsenal is largely still under developed for someone who has been around for as long as he has already, and will likely leave the curious somewhat disappointed. He hasn't made the transition from studio to stage yet, but he is a master of interaction and in the context of a fast moving, visual show, his dancing is satisfactory enough to at least stimulate the memory of his dance hall beginnings even if his singing leaves something to be desired."

The tabloids in the UK had a field day with the tour, heaping on the coverage nationally and locally as the show passed throughout the UK and Ireland for seventeen sold out shows. With each city came mostly uniformly negative reviews, with comments variously depicting the concert as ''amateur hour" and "like a watered down Jackson show without the theatrics." At night, or in the morning, he would ask Kōji or Estes if they thought the press were right about their observations.

"I think you shouldn't read the press," Estes said massaging the singer's shoulders one morning, as he read the reviews in Dublin over his breakfast, "Kōji can check if there is anything constructive in them, and if so, he can tell you, but otherwise, don't bother, it'll only make you angry and upset you. Just have fun with it. The fans love it. And the merchandise is doing even better than we could've imagined. That's a good sign babe. The critics are just doing their job. Their words fuel your fans."

The singer patted Michael and threw the paper down. For a damn two hour show, it was sure sending him through the peaks and valleys enough to make it seem like a life long journey.

The shows in Western Europe were better received than those in the UK. During his February 6 show in Hamburg, the singer paid tribute to pianist Liberace who had died two days earlier of pneumonia; a complication brought on by AIDS. The singer had a piano brought out onto the stage, and his keyboardist played Franz Liszt's _Liebesträume_ , a piece that Liberace had popularised in the 1950s. The singer sang over the piece, reworking a set of his old lyrics to fall in time with the number. As the piece drew to a close, the singer spoke softly into his microphone. He personally had no feeling whatsoever for Liberace but wanted to make a statement. "What you said hurt him very much. He cried all the way to the bank. Personally, you might think he was uncool. But just remember that he lived his life and pursued his dreams. And there's nothing cooler than that. May we move on and remember to treat _all_ people with kindness and dignity. We're all dreamers, and we all have _dreams of love_ no matter how they may look. Rest in peace Wladziu."

The comments caused a mini commotion throughout the German press, tapping into the discomfort surrounding the AIDS epidemic and putting the spotlight back onto the mockery which was constantly associated with the late pianist's larger than life persona.

Tweaking of certain elements of the set list, arrangements and choreography improved the flow of the show by the time it reached the Mediterranean countries where _Felicidades_ and the fifth single were still riding high in the charts. In mid-March after the final European dates in Barcelona, the crew descended downtown to an underground club where dozens of the crew and performers from the show partied throughout the night to celebrate the end of the third leg of the show.

The following day, Estes and the singer flew back to London for a few days of R&R before the singer head back into the recording studio to begin working on a number of new tracks that Ian and Rudy had written for him. _Felicidades_ was still doing well in the charts, but it had been released more than a year earlier. A final push in North and South America with the tour would coincide with a new album. Because there was no time to record a full studio album, six new songs would be recorded, and five previously unreleased demos were going to be re-recorded and remixed to fill out the release. Estes had convinced the singer that there was a very real need for new product in the market, considering that he was about to embark on a tour of the world's biggest record buying market, and the material needed to be good to go before the tour wound up in July in South America to capitalise on the unprecedented exposure. His fans, he was assured, would kill for anything new at this point, even if it was left over material from the last sessions. The alternative was bringing in outside songs, and he knew that was simply not going to be an acceptable option for the singer.

Relaxing in his sweat pants and a knitted sweater, the singer asked Michael to massage his feet.

"Michael. You don't think we're working too much do you? I mean. These last few months, we've barely had any time together. I don't know what's going through your head other than business."

He looked at the singer. He was probably right. Their relationship had been reduced to tour talk for the past six months, but so many other things had happened. "It's just a phase I'm sure," he replied, kneading the singer's feet. "Besides, think of everything we've accomplished in the last few months. All the people we've met. All the fans who've been able to see you. It's just a passing moment. We've got to savour it."

"I'm not so sure. I mean, we've still got months to get through, and if anything it is going to get worse. I miss you. I mean, I'm happy that you and I are getting to do what we love, but where are we in all of this?"

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I bet you have no idea what is going on in my mind if it is not related to the show."

"I am sure it's not so melodramatic."

"Michael, I'm gonna be honest. If we are going to keep up this pace, I don't know if I am going to have any energy for us at the end of the tour. We need to do something."

"Suggestions?"

"Firstly, back to sleeping in the same room. Everyone knows about us anyway, who gives a shit? I want my life back. I signed up to do a tour, not a fucking boarding school gig."

"And if it leaks to the press or gets back to Athena?"

"Don't care. I'm sure about us. The world can know."

"You're just tired, you don't mean that. And if Thena finds out?"

"Had you been paying attention you would've noticed that we ended things while we were in France. She's seeing somebody else too. You've known me long enough to know that I don't care what other people think."

"Yeah okay, but you're sly too. I've seen you in action. Remember mister Married man?"

"Michael, there is no point in having a career if you have to sacrifice your life to achieve it. It will come out sooner or later. Anyway, we are always on the top floor. Why can't we just ask for a two room suite if that makes you feel better."

"OK, that's better already."

"We need to see if there is something else we can do to manage our work better. I'm going to get Kōji to be my go between with the band and the staging crew for now on. I don't want to spend two hours a day in meetings. I will give him my notes the night before and then he can check them with me after breakfast. I plan on taking back my mornings. What do you do in the mornings that you can delegate?"

"I do a million things."

"Well you need to find out what you can ask someone else to do. Hire another assistant or something. I want to wake up to you and have breakfast with you. Faxes and phone calls can wait. We should have a tour manager anyway; you've done it long enough. And I'm pretty sure we can afford it."

"I don't know where I will find someone soon enough to start with the next leg."

"I have already found her for you. Her name is Celia. She is coming by tomorrow morning. She's great. Has worked with a million people. Thinking that if you like her enough she could even become your assistant. You can't keep going at this pace. And, I won't accept it. Can't have it all. You need more than a secretary."

"Are you firing me Alex?"

"On the contrary. I'm promoting you. You're my partner again. You can decide with her what you want to do, and what she can do. Divide up your role however you want, just think big picture. You have a client and a lover who is growing impatient and who is trying to do the right thing for your relationship, and probably for your health too. I just want mornings with you, and to go to bed with you at night. The rest of your time is yours. And I'm paying Celia, so you are basically getting paid to do less."

"Really? I mean, I feel like you're pulling the rug out from under me. Making decisions on my part."

"Think smarter. I'm doing what I can to get our relationship through a rough patch. Think reward, not punishment. I'm handing over a lot of my stuff to Kōji too. Delegation. It is my new favourite word. It's gonna be good for us. Besides, how were you planning on doing the show and overseeing the album stuff as well? Are you serious?"

Michael climbed atop the singer and smiled, nudging his head into the singer's neck. "Let's go have a nap."

"Not angry?"

"Contrary. Had time to think about it. Now I want to screw your brains out to celebrate. Everything! All our new freedoms. Think punishment not reward. Come on, up, let's go, move it, move it!"

The North American leg of the tour kicked off in Montreal with two sold out shows, followed by three more dates in Toronto, where the singer also recorded vocals for songs for the upcoming album. He was planning on introducing two of the new songs, one written primarily by Ian, the other by Rudy, into the show, but was intent on rehearsing the musical arrangement until he was satisfied before bringing in the choreography. He had been toying with the idea of partially including the songs, or mixing them into some of the other songs that he was starting to tire of singing on a nightly basis. To that end, the band began to rehearse a few more songs from his repertoire which his choreographer would then have to adapt either to an existing routine or invent another. In the meantime, Alekz had taken to referring to the show as The Treadmill for its repetitive nature and for the energy it seemed to zap him of.

As the tour wound around the States, the singer began to shift his focus towards the new album. It sounded disjointed to him; too disparate and too much of a cash in project, and because he'd become bored with the concert tour, he found his concentration constantly shifting towards the album.

He held repeated meetings in person and on the phone with Estes, Ian and Rudy, having Kōji deliver his missives to Ian and Rudy full of detailed notes about changes he wanted made to the recordings. By the time the US leg of the tour, which was now garnering stronger reviews from the critics, was heading to its finale in Houston, the new songs had been reshaped into what the singer considered to be workable demos. The two strongest numbers, _Feel_ and _I'm Just Dancing_ were front runners as potential lead singles for the project, so the singer sent crude cassette copies over to Jasper via Fed Express with a single post-it note attached which read; "Need two treatments. Interested? –A." He sent a better quality version of the recordings to his old friend, and electronic mastermind VC and a handwritten note. _"Congratulations on the album. I'm listening to it nearly every day. I know you're busy, but I need your genius. Listen to the tape. Then tell me if you can put your stamp on it. All of it. I feel like it needs a bit of a VC touch to bring it to life. I'm attaching Kōji's contact details and our schedule. Leave word with him and I will get back to you personally. –A."_

When the singer arrived in Mexico City, there was an envelope waiting for him at the hotel. He recognised the handwriting and smiled, taking it up to his room with him. Opening the envelope on the bed, he looked at the post it note that was its only content and laughed.

"Kōji can you get me Jasper on the phone?"

"You are such a cunt!" Alekz said when Jasper finally answered the phone.

"Hola Mariposa. How's Mexico?"

"Great. My hotel room is a hole though. And I'm literally over everyone. Sick of everyone."

"Not Kōji though, right?"

"Oh no, I adore him. And M literally got me so worked up last night that I literally exploded."

"That is some majorly adolescent shit! How's his new assistant working out?"

"She's my new idol. Super-efficient, talks back to him, likes her drink and when she gets nervous she spills about her ex employer. Big things that nobody should _ever_ know."

"Who's her ex employer? Do you think she is gonna keep that kind of thing up?"

"Because you wanna meet her when you're going to come down and do the one video? And not the other because quote, "I can't have my name attached to something so embarrassingly primitive" end quote?"

"Yeah something like that. No seriously, I don't have time to do both, and yeah, I don't wanna be involved in that other one, but the first one is good. Is that still a demo? Anyway, I have a great idea for it. Can do it on a couple of handhelds, probably two days max. Maybe three days with some scenic shit, but for you, in and out in a day or two."

"Um, do I get to hear about the idea?"

"Better if I come down and do it in person. When can I come?"

"Well we are here for the next two weeks and then we are going to Argentina," he said tiredly.

"How long are you there for?"

"A week. But we are only doing two shows."

"OK...if I come next week and explain, then you can lend me your camera guys right? They're filming the show for video?"

"Yep. Okay. I will get Kōji to organise stuff for you. Shall I have him call you tomorrow?"

"Yep. Going now. The Scot is back. He is in the living room watching a video. Love you homo."

"Love you too Lassie. Bye."

In Buenos Aires, playing to the biggest audiences thus far on the tour, more than 80,000 people piled into the stadium for the first of two shows that were being filmed. In the down time between the shows, spaced two days apart, Jasper's idea for a risqué video, came to life, in black and white in which the singer, wearing a slightly transparent body costume performed to camera, bending and contorting his body in a tightly choreographed routine concocted by Jasper and Miles. A second parallel sequence of the same routine was shot again in black and white, but this time had the singer completely naked. The sequence was reshot on the second day within a hall of mirrors, again with two run throughs; clothed and naked again, but this time in colour.

In Buenos Aires, the singer also received confirmation that VC was willing to remix the material. He had Estes break the news to Ian that the songs would be remixed for coherency, whilst he explained it directly to an unimpressed Rudy.

Although the tour passed through Buenos Aires, and then on through Brazil for the final dates without issue, the closing party was somewhat spoilt by the news that the album project was going to be delayed, with the remixing and mastering pushed out to late August. No matter, he thought; he had said all his goodbyes in the lead up to the last show and had already more than mentally checked out of the tour. That had happened somewhere between Chicago and Atlanta. He just couldn't remember the specifics.

As the tour wound down, stories began to trickle into the press about the singer's official separation from Athena and rumours that third parties were involved.

There was clear mutual admiration and love, but each had relegated the other to at least second position behind the unbeatable career (and lovers), and that in turn had made the idea of the marriage being anything other than one of convenience unfeasible.

Athena had been smart with her money from day one, and had amassed a small fortune; a combination of astute investments, saving and a rigorous denial of ostentatiousness. By the tender age of 27, she had pretty much decided that she could retire from the spotlight to begin thinking about having children. She figured the pop star thing had another year or so left in it for her and she'd lost her enthusiasm for living out of a suitcase and a life in front of the cameras after almost a decade having done so. But for her, there was no sense in pursuing the new objective with him if he wasn't also willing to step away from the cameras, away from the game.

She had no intention of being the wife at home while her husband was out working. Somewhere in her mind she figured if they removed the obstacle to spending time together, everything would bode well for the future. She understood how absurd it seemed, but by the same logic marrying had also been illogical. Their invisible pact had to change. She'd hedged her bets on it. She hadn't actually seen him for anything more than a half hour in over six months, not chatted to him on the phone while he was touring and while she was out working her own material.

Their secret union had been all but forgotten or dismissed. She had since been dating an LA based actor on the down low, careful to keep up appearance lest the new relationship failed leaving her old one exposed in the process.

But she was resolute about being clear whether or not her old pact with her old soul mate still held water. So she made sure she found herself in New York as the singer returned home after the last leg of his world tour.

From the conversations they did have she made it explicitly clear that she wanted to begin having children, and that for the two of them to stand a chance he needed to start thinking of an exit strategy from his career even if it meant going out on top. Between them they already had enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives, wherever they wanted, and he could simply make one last album as a farewell, or if he had to meet those contractual obligations, turn them in without any promotion. In return, she'd stop seeing the actor and commit completely to their union.

For days over the summer they talked about what life could be like if they had an eye on the exit. That perhaps he could work as a songwriter to get that rush, but, as for her, she was done with it. It had all been a miscalculation. Her heart wasn't it, and it was time for them to take the vows they had made a bit more seriously or to abandon them forever. Their conversations were never heated; they seemed to be grounded more in trying to convince the other of a middle path rather than outright ultimatums.

He was torn. He absolutely loved her. But he had already made the decision at some point to end things with her, partly because their dynamic had lost its dynamism, and partly because it had all seemed like some irresponsible, adolescent agreement they had made in agreeing to marry in the first place. The overriding thing was that there was no way he was going to retire after all the work he had put in, especially as he was not yet even 28. She had to be having a nervous breakdown he thought.

A relationship is like an invisible ecosystem. All the variations of elements and life inherent to the relationship form and shape its existence. Sometimes these are features which evolve over time, other times there is something of a romantic big bang that occurs, setting in place not only a context but also a chain of seismic events that are part and parcel of the creation process. But, when elements of the system begin to fall away, to degrade and cease to exist, the fragility of the system comes to the fore. The extinction of certain traits, behaviours and feelings can sometimes be almost inconsequential; out of the demise of one element a new element can rise. But when too many of the traits of a relationship disappear, especially over a short period of time, the ecology suffers, withering into something unsustainable. In short, too many losses cannot be compensated for. And disguising that, trying to reframe the ecosystem as being something it's not when it's already pretending to be something it isn't is futile.

That August he organised for them to visit a therapist together to talk through their issues in a neutral environment. He figured he owed her the appearance at least of wanting to salvage things or at least addressing them for closure.

Athena explained that situation to the therapist and then was asked to put forward her best and worst case scenarios. Alekz let her speak without interruption, and smiled and laughed along with her at all the right times.

"My best case scenario would be that in ten years' time we're still married, still great friends and there are no hard feelings about how things changed." He smiled benignly as she spoke: it was clear that on some level he absolutely adored her. "My worst case scenario is that we don't reach an agreement and we continue in this way where we don't get to spend any time together, don't get to nurture our relationship and that everything just seems pointless, like it was all a huge mistake."

She held it together, and the therapist, content that she had been clear enough on her desires asked Alekz to verbalise his scenarios.

"I have to say that I love and admire Athena. She has always been more impetuous than I've ever been. And when we agreed to get married it was because we never got the chance to spend any time together. It was like a form of comfort that I don't think either of us thought through too much. It just seemed like it would be a great thing for two friends and lovers to do. And I think we can both acknowledge that were pros and cons to the situation. But, I also feel like it was like a blood brothers gesture that we made. We treated it too flippantly and the reasons we had for doing it were less about spending the rest of our lives together than they were about making a statement to each other. We found ourselves spending the smallest amount of time possible together because we had other things that we prioritised. And now the alternative is suddenly spending all of our time together at the expense of everything else. And for me, I just don't think either scenario, nor even a middle ground one is going to work. In my best case scenario I wouldn't become a dad at such a young age and I wouldn't be expected to walk away from this career, for anybody. I'd be free to make the decision of my own accord as Athena has done for herself. And in the worst case scenario, I won't be able to get an annulment or a divorce, because I feel like this is madness. You can't trap someone into a scenario, especially in a marriage that is just one on paper, something that we both know we hadn't really thought through at the beginning."

"But I view our marriage as something serious Alekz. Don't you?"

Alekz chuckled a little. But regained his composure. "I don't think the idea of throwing everything else in for any marriage is a serious proposition. I think you're a bit burnt out, which is natural given the life we lead. But ongoing it's clear that the things you want are not the things I want. I don't want to have a family and settle down. Not now. And I don't even know if I want that for the future. I think we have the option now of being really smart and realising, we are both young, we both want the best for each other, and part of that is about realising that our futures aren't together. Neither of us is going to be able to compromise to that level, and we shouldn't have to. We've spent years married and only days together in that whole time. Trying to make it something it's not is a recipe for failure."

"I don't want to be painted as some crazy person who is having a breakdown. That's not what is happening here. I'm trying to find a way forward together. Not to be the demented lady."

"Nobody is saying that Athena," the therapist said. "But how do you respond to the things Alekz has said? Doesn't it occur to you that what is happening _is_ quite radical, both on your part and on his?"

"Yes of course I see that. But when we married we knew it was unconventional. We haven't suddenly stopped being unconventional. I'm just saying that for us to go forward we have to make sacrifices. The work we do is not forever, and I don't think he can see that. He seems to think it's going to sustain us as people for the rest of our lives. I think there's an entirely different quality of life that is available to us if we choose to pursue it. And that's what I want us to do. We don't need the money, we don't need the adulation. We're in a position to do anything. And I can't understand why he can't see that, and be excited by that prospect."

"Thena, that's what you want. And your perspective on it. I see it as being like a death. Asking me to give up everything because we should make our marriage work would be more than a grand gesture on my part. I think we have to be realistic. We made a bad decision in getting married the way we did, and we can't fix that. But we can recognise it and move on with the rest of our lives. Chalk it up to experience."

"I can't believe you are being so flippant about it. It's like an inconvenience to you."

"In a way it is. I can't see us making a real marriage work. We're just two really good friends who want different kinds of lives. I don't see that as being a foundation for a life together. I say we get a divorce and face up to the reality of what we are and what we want while we can."

"What is it that you want?" Athena asked.

"To continue following my dreams. To continue being an artist. And not to be made to feel guilty for it. And beyond that, for you to be able to have the kind of life that you want as well. I just don't see them as being things that will ever really work together."

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"You're right. We're not going to be able to make this work. I mean, I don't think it is at all unfair of me to ask you to do what I'm prepared to do for you. Probably sometime in the future you'll have a different perspective on it, but right now I'm gonna accept the fact that you think I am crazy and that we don't have a future together. When it all sinks in you might think of it all differently, but you're right, maybe we should get a divorce. That way you can be free to continue living the shittiness that we have been living, and I can move on to something more fulfilling, you know...the kind of life where you get to maintain your friendships and see your family. Where you're not at the beck and call of a record label or an advertising agency or a bunch of screaming teenagers who throw themselves at you but wouldn't know what to do with themselves if you ever tried it on with them. I guess we need to get our lawyers to talk to each other and get it organised. I'm going to do what I have to do with this album and then I'm out."

"Athena," Alekz said, calmly.

"No, I'm just a bit angry right now. And it's just because I have to get my head around things. But I will call you in a couple of days. I'm going to go and stay in LA, and you have the number, so don't worry. All amicable. All fine. I just need to digest things. So how does the divorce thing work?"

"I don't know. I've never divorced anyone before."

"Well, at least we'll always be each other's firsts," she said smiling acidulously, thanking the therapist and touching Alekz on the shoulder before leaving the office. He and the therapist exchanged glances.

"Before I tell you about how you can pay for the session and say my goodbyes I just want to say you _do_ come across as incredibly flippant, despite your reasons. You may want to take that on board if you ever find yourself in another meaningful relationship. That is, if you are not already in one. But that's my two cents worth, and I'm not about judging you. You just may want to consider other ways of making your points other than being trite or flippant."

"Do you take AMEX?" Alekz said, flicking his credit card onto the therapist's desk.

_Feel_ was released in September, and created a storm of controversy for its suggestive lyrics and the racy video which Jasper and his team of editors had managed to keep to a level which could at least be broadcast for the more conservative markets, while a slightly racier version made its way into rotation across Europe, South America and Australia.

When the cash-in album finally arrived in its final form in October, _I'm Just Dancing_ became the singer's then fastest selling album to that date, clocking up sales of four million by year's end. Sales continued into the new year, spurred by the success of the titular second single, which helped the album reach eight million sales worldwide. _Felicidades_ wound up its chart run around the same time, with fourteen million sales worldwide, but eventual catalogue sales saw the total eventually reach close to nineteen million, making it by far the singer's biggest ever selling studio album, a figure that his new material would never again achieve. Aside from a few television appearances in September to promote the new album and to receive a slew of awards at the MTV Video music awards, having been overlooked at all other ceremonies, the singer kept a low profile for the remainder of the year, exhausted after having been on the go for the better part of eighteen months and feeling somewhat guilty about how things had so abruptly ended with Athena.

He split his time between his New York City apartment and Coconut Grove, and though he was happy to watch as _I'm Just Dancing_ overcame its shortcomings to continue his chart streak around the world, his heart was no longer in the game.

Any time Michael suggested anything even remotely career oriented as a subject matter, he reminded him of the appointment clause in their relationship. He had no interest in doing anything that required more than an hour of his attention. He dyed his hair back to its natural dark tone and decided that he would just let it grow. He felt like even though he had seen the world with a suitcase and a fair tonnage of show equipment, there was an entire world that he needed to catch up with, people he needed to see rather than vice versa, and a relationship which once again needed resetting if it had any hope of surviving as anything other than a business arrangement.

#  WITHOUT YOU I'M NOTHING

"It's turning out to be my divorce album isn't it?" he asked rhetorically, almost laughing, in one of the few moments that he seemed able to get it together in the studio in late 1988 for his big comeback album.

Seeing Ian's blank face in front of him in the studio, he realised Ian wasn't sure which 'divorce' he was referring to. Perhaps it was a _collateral divorce._ Nobody knew what to think. Was he referring to how he was nearing the end of his contract? Or to the messy negotiations that were taking place between him and Estes, who insisted on retaining his share in the record label they'd started together? Or did it have something to do with the two guys who often visited and who the singer only rarely allowed up into the studio's waiting room? They tended to be the only non –essential visitors but it was as if they would take it in turns to come by.

All Ian and Patrick, his assistant, knew, was that more and more their working days had to be structured around the daily personal calls and the buzzing intercom which always led to Alekz rushing out and disappearing for ages. At first they thought the calls and interruptions were coming from Estes because they always became heated and would reduce Alekz to hysterics. But with so much to do in such a short time frame, they had no choice but to ignore the distractions and work around his absences.

The legal separation from Athena hadn't really outwardly affected. Just as their marriage had been kept secret, so too its dissolution, at least up until that point. No, it definitely wasn't the fact that the divorce had finally been formalised that seemed to be constantly bothering him. Nor that after spending so many years dividing his affections between Michael and Athena he'd effectively obliterated them both from his map in the space of a couple of months. The ensuing break up with Michael hit him hard though, shaking him to the core. But, just as he dismissed the collapse of his marriage, he quickly and conveniently made peace with himself for burning Michael at the stake the minute he realised their relationship only functioned in accordance with his career. It was the opposite scenario to how things had worked (and failed) with Athena.

He came to this conclusion shortly after stepping off the career treadmill after almost two full years of constant recording, promoting and touring. Two years he now referred to as the period in which he was Michael's slave, rather than two years in which Michael had helped him realise his dreams. He was obsessed by the idea that in becoming one of the world's biggest stars he'd also become something of a pariah, never having the time or energy to maintain a social life or the chance to stop thinking about his work and career. And for that, he blamed Michael.

The light between them had begun to fade soon after the singer announced he was taking an indefinite sabbatical. No reasoning, no consoling. As far as he was concerned, things were not open to discussion and Michael's understandable shock at suddenly being frozen out of his decision making quickly made any interaction between them icy. With Alekz off the grid, Michael shifted his professional energies towards the other acts on the label to ensure it continued to earn its keep while its biggest act was out of the game. Alekz had since moved back to his apartment in NYC and began a rather torrid fling with a close friend which quickly went pear shaped.

This new album, that forced him back into the studio almost a year after those huge arguments with Michael, was turning out to be the hallmark of the messiest period of his life. It was a project addled by the insecurity and confusion which seemed to have descended on him during what was supposed to be a time of rejuvenation. The histrionics in the studio rendered him a ticking bomb but he didn't have the insight to see that it was he himself who was lighting the fuse.

So the result was Ian and Patrick never knew quite what to expect when he arrived at the studios each day. One day he'd be quiet, withdrawn and hiding under a hoodie, the next keeping his replies and contributions to conversation to an absolute minimum. Other days he'd spend hours down the hall, where he'd sit against the wall, constantly talking, sobbing or shrieking down the phone line. And on other days still, when he wasn't busy darting in and out of the studio to smoke copious numbers of cigarettes or argue with his visitors, he simply seemed resigned to the fact that he was back on the treadmill again, wondering what the point of it all was.

It wasn't as if the vultures had begun circling when it first became clear the singer was back in New York and back on the singles market. The truth was that he'd become something of a recluse, holed up in his apartment for days on end. Few of his friends had been able to get through to him during that period, bar Ferris. Ferris had been a constant presence during his New York days, and had been known to occasionally show up in Miami, where he also made his presence felt, much to Michael's chagrin. Ferris was always _that_ last guest to leave the party but somehow always on the invite list. Even before the bond between Estes and the singer started to unravel, Ferris and Alekz exchanged some harmless flirtation. But when the singer moved back to New York, all pretences of flirtation went out the door and Alekz was once again ricocheting into another fling with high hopes.

They'd crossed the line from being flirty friends to lovers at a party at Ferris' penthouse. There were twenty or so other guests, all reasonably well known in NYC circles and some peripheral celebrities and artists among them. As the dinner party had shifted across to the living room, Alekz had taken a seat on the sofa where he'd been talking to a printmaker whose latest collection had been acquired by MOMA. As the two spoke, Ferris slid in between them and made a crude joke about one of the guests which made Alekz and the artist laugh. Ferris put his hand on the singer's stomach and, as he began to rub it, kissed Alekz passionately. Alekz didn't flinch, kissing him back before he noticed another pair of hands on his body; those of the printmaker, who suddenly seemed more animate than he'd been during their conversation. The singer kissed the artist and Ferris before moving back a few inches on the couch to watch as they continued alone. He watched them as they ferociously kissed for almost a minute before they stopped and burst into a spontaneous fit of laughter.

As the party continued into the night, Ferris cornered the singer on the deck and again made his move, this time sending his hands down into the singer's pants, kissing and biting the singer's lips and tongue. The singer was unflinching; aroused, but not perturbed. They didn't bother to try and conceal their attraction to each other from any of the other guests, and as those guests gradually took their leave, moving on to other parties or on home, the singer was, for once, the last guest at the party.

Ferris closed the front door behind the last of the guests and, boldly walking back onto the deck where the singer was smoking a cigarette and sipping at a drink, crouched over the deckchair, unbuckled the singer's belt, looking him in the eye all the while. As he unlatched the belt, he put his hands back down into that intimate space and interrogated the area. The singer could feel the heat emanating from his thighs, but it wasn't his own, it was Ferris'; sitting on the singer, his arousal and body heat were palpable. In a quick act of aggression Ferris pulled at the singer's button fly and seemed momentarily dazed by the flash of bright white cotton he exposed in doing so. He plunged his face down into the white and playfully kissed and sucked on the cotton, teasing what lurked beneath. This finally made the singer flinch and gave Ferris a new wind of confidence.

Their lovemaking sessions always remained fast, furious, and as spontaneous as they were consistently premeditated. They fucked in cars, hotel rooms, outdoors...wherever they could, without fear of being discovered or judged. At one party in the singer's New York apartment, they ducked into the services room even as guests walked by its frosted glass door, easily able to make out their silhouettes. They had a blatant disregard for any mores at the time that created further fuel for their fire.

But the singer had grown so accustomed to full blown relationships and to having the upper hand, that Ferris took him completely by surprise. Ferris was arbitrary, argumentative and unafraid to single out any remotely precious behaviour on the singer's part. He was as articulate as he was short fused. And he didn't see the singer as being a long term proposition so he only invested himself in the moment, not in some idea of fidelity or lasting commitment. For months they only saw each other at times that suited Ferris, usually out and about at parties which would culminate in their itinerant sexual escapades. If Ferris somehow did agree to stay the night, he'd usually leave at some point after the singer had fallen asleep. He'd cancel plans at the last minute, disappear back to LA for days or weeks and then reappear, ever the skilful seducer, for a couple more days or weeks of fun before the old disappearing patterns and the arguments would re-emerge.

Though he'd always claim the higher ground, Alekz always fell for Ferris' charms, even after he'd put him through the wringer. It was a cat and mouse game during a period in which he'd usually be in hiding for days on end in his apartment, with no interest in being social if Ferris wasn't part of the proceedings. He may have seen Ferris as being an asshole but he also saw him as an equal in that Ferris was the first person in years who refused to capitulate to him. The idea of finding an equal, someone worthy, had become something of a mission for the singer. He'd found it in Ferris, but he had trouble managing it, because, no matter how he tried, he couldn't shape things into something that resembled a relationship.

Having been so careless in his own marriage and whatever other long term relationships he'd been in had left him confused about what to aim for romantically. His idea of reaching the highest romantic state of being seemed to be built around joint notions of passion and finding someone who was his equal. He'd spent so much time thinking about these goals that he'd invested very little of himself into the enquiry of how to grow and actually maintain a relationship. For someone who was always on the lookout for one, he never seemed able to keep them alive.

Despite the iciness between him and Michael, Alekz had kept Estes on board as a manager out of a sense of loyalty and ease. And because their contract was iron clad at least for another two years. On a personal level, Estes had bounced back quickly, coupling up with a young Puerto Rican, with whom, according to Celia, he was now _planning his life away_. She never let on to the singer or Michael that she thought they were doomed without one another, nor did she tolerate any sniping quips or nastiness towards one another in her presence. What she saw in the aftermath of their separation was Michael looking for the least complicated way forward and Alekz seeking the complete opposite.

As the first half of 1988 ended, a legal document arrived in which Michael formally reminded Alekz of his contractual obligations to deliver two more albums.

Alekz had no idea what he wanted to do. The truth was that his recording career seemed like something to assign to history. He had half a mind to simply pay out the exorbitant penalty from his fortune and live out his days in search of something new to do. But, after looking into doing so with his lawyers, he couldn't bring himself to do so. The numbers were like the GDPs of some small countries.

He felt creatively bankrupt and had no idea of how and where to start even thinking about new music. He'd taken the sabbatical to recharge but had ended up expending even more energy on the ups and downs he seemed to crave from Ferris.

Although Michael had an ever diminishing command over the singer, when it came to business, the singer mostly listened to him. Michael had floated a number of ideas. There were songwriters in LA who wanted to work with Alekz. Ian had also expressed his desire to go into the studio. There had even been interest on the part of a couple of music's greats to take the singer into the studio.

What it all meant was that Alekz wasn't going to be able to continue smelling the roses until he got back to work.

During their more pleasant times together, Ferris had introduced the singer to a new world of people: film makers, modern day troubadours, artists and writers who he constantly pointed out were _real artists._ Not pop acts. They were part of a New York scene the singer barely recognised. Ferris of course loathed that the singer was such a consummate pop artist. During their substance fuelled conversations he'd tell Alekz that he wanted to mentor him and get him away from singing inane pop songs and into something more interesting and artistic.

After receiving the legal notice, the singer abandoned his premature hermitage and flew out to LA to meet with Michael's songwriters. The fortnight there was of course marked not only by some awkward and not so awkward song writing sessions, but also by the time he spent arguing there with Ferris. And their subsequent make up sex at Ferris' apartment. Inevitably the scenes also played out during emotionally charged nights out at LA's Rawhide, a seething, gay nightclub of the time or, once he was back in New York, in front of Alekz's friends and acquaintances at the range of social events he'd decided to resume attending.

After each argument, a game of hide and seek often followed, neither wanting to be the first to call. Their arguments built and built over the months. Arguments centred on jealousies, on perceived and real infidelities and on their fundamental differences in taste and beliefs, which would descend into hurtful spats where one would inevitably take things too far.

Yet they always seemed able to temporarily make peace and ignore the toxicity that flowed between them. That was until one early summer's day when the singer had planned a brunch for his friends at his New York apartment. The two had spent the morning in a spat of arguments over the guests that the singer had invited. Ferris felt the group was incredibly _bourgeois_. They argued even as they finished overseeing the preparation of the brunch and began to clean themselves up, arguing in the kitchen, on the deck, even in the bathroom, oblivious to the domestic staff around them.

When the first of the guests arrived, Xavier, one of the singer's best friends, along with his girlfriend, they put a stop to their bickering, the singer focusing on his friends while Ferris tried to maintain his cool in the face of the million unsaid things that hung between them.

As other guests began to arrive, the iciness intensified between them, each going to great pains to be sociable with the others to compensate for the cold war going on between them. Ferris sat himself down at the table beside the singer and, as the conversation flowed between all at the table, each used whatever moment they could to get in a few asides directly after the other had spoken, until at one point the conversation turned to one guest's unfortunate experience with an _8 ball_ a few nights earlier.

"Alekz must be the only pop star I know who doesn't know what to do with a line of coke," Ferris scoffed to the assembled guests who laughed nervously at the remark.

"I do so. And I'm _not_ a pop star," the singer replied, to yet more unintentional laughs. "No, seriously you guys, I'm not a pop star."

"Of course you are," Ferris said patronisingly. "You may not have set out to be, but you're absolutely a pop star." Seeing the hurt response on the singer's face surprised him, but also wound him up. "Alekz. You make pop songs. People's opinions of you are based more on how you look than on what you say. That makes you a pop star."

"I don't agree. When I pass through customs, it's not like I write down _pop star_ as my profession."

"But you should. Otherwise it's denial. You're a pop star," Ferris mockingly continued to far fewer laughs, "and not just a pop star, but the most wholesome kind. If we could rummage up a few band mates for you, we'd have the perfect boy band. You and your virginal attributes," he laughed, sarcastically caressing the singer's cheek before Alekz slapped his hand down.

"Right, I'm a wholesome pop star because I don't see any joy in doing an 8 ball with you and your friends who act like a bunch of teenagers?" he asked, rhetorically, and in the sardonic tone that the Brit was hearing more and more often. This, in fact, incensed Ferris, in just the way Alekz knew it would.

"No, you're a wholesome pop star because you can't find the joy in _anything_ ," he said snidely, the murmur at the table coming to an abrupt halt as he said this.

"You guys, why don't we leave this game for another time," Xavier said calmly, looking at Ferris.

"You sing songs, you make videos, but you take yourself way too seriously. At least Dylan knew his way around a buffet of drugs. You need to lighten up. You're not Bob Dylan."

"I don't know anybody who wants to be Dylan. Or even listen to Bob Dylan. Nobody that's not a hundred years old at least."

"Not everyone is capable of being Dylan. Maybe you need to accept that. Your songs aren't exactly running commentaries about the state of the world."

"You guys, come on," Xavier interjected again, but the singer motioned for him to be calm. He had to see this one through, as did Ferris.

"I never said they were," Alekz replied dismissively. "Not everybody wants activism from a record. Sometimes, people just want to have some fun and not feel like miserable shits, Ferris."

"I'm not saying they don't, I'm just saying that you take yourself too seriously. You see yourself as an artist but really you just make, or should I say, _made_ really simple songs. Songs that, yes, might've made you want to dance a few years ago, but really, anyone could've made them, right? You just added a couple of words to some music and smiled for the cameras. Pointless."

"You know there are a lot of things that people think of as being pointless. I see this conversation as being pointless. I see you being here right now as pointless. But most of all, for someone who seems to have such strong opinions about how little I matter, I'd say that it's your opinions that are useless."

Although Xavier was doing his best to calm the waters, and had gotten out of his chair to try and take Alekz and Ferris away, most everyone else at the table was riveted by the drama unfolding.

"I'm just tired of the fact that all these sterile people in your world, like these guys here today, seem to just endlessly fawn over you," Ferris said, his tone hardening. "People act like you're some kind of prophet. But you yourself are so judgemental and incapable of being judged for what it is that you actually do. You sing, and I use that word liberally. You dance, but basically you're just selling this idea of dumbness with no intelligence behind it. Your only agenda is to push yourself into people's lives. And yet you put me down in front of these people for my choices when it's not me trying to shove my ego down the world's throats."

Alekz smiled wryly. "You might think what I do for a living is idiotic. I'm sure a lot of people do. But that doesn't really bother me Ferris. We can reduce anything down to its essence. I mean, look at you. You basically profit from other people's creativity. You organise for other people to take photos of things and then get a bunch of other people to string together a couple of words to make a sentence, and then you ask someone else to decide how to put them on paper. All to sell a product that you've had no hand in making. You then charge everyone an endless sum of money for what is, again, other people's work. At the most you've probably leafed through someone else's words and mixed them up a little so that you can't be sued. Ingenious. I mean that hardly seems joyful or intelligent to me. But I don't sit at the same table as you, among your friends and call you out on that kind of shit."

He paused for a moment and saw that Ferris was ticking over to explode before resuming his thread.

"I don't need to ridicule you for your work just because I disagree with something else you've said. Let's face it, your ideal client would be cocaine. But the way that it has such a hold on your life should be embarrassing for you. You, the rich, white advertising guy who thinks that he's the life of the party because he's always got some coke. Well lucky, because without that you wouldn't be on anyone's guest list at all. Nobody needs another parasite around," he said, taking a breath and sipping his wine.

It was at this point Ferris launched his hands into the singer's face, sending Alekz, his chair and the wine glass to the floor. Ferris pounced on him and began landing punches, causing a commotion on the deck, as each and every one of the guests stood up, some lunging to restrain Ferris and others trying to subdue a shrieking Alekz. Terse words were then exchanged between Ferris and Xavier, who only succeeded in dragging Ferris out of the apartment with the help of another friend.

The singer, who was now on his feet, was in a mild state of shock. He did his best to try and regain his composure, watching as his guests smoothed over the scene and restored order, passing off Ferris' actions as those of a mad man.

Xavier returned with some ice in a napkin which he applied to the singer's cheek. "He got you square and good there, hey?" he said, rubbing the singer's back.

"I probably deserved it."

"You didn't. He's a dick. Of course _you_ had to do it with an audience. Anyway, we were all just waiting for him to try something like that with someone. Or hoping someone would just tell him what he needed to hear."

"Maybe," he said, sipping at a fresh glass of wine.

Their usual game of hide and seek never really resumed after the day. The days turned to weeks, and as the summer rolled on he came to accept that he and Ferris were no longer _anything_. He was resigned to this and resigned to the fact that he would be heading back into the studios; contractual obligations being what they were.

Ian had begun working on a new collection of songs, which he'd hoped would get the singer out of the funk he was in. Alekz had been back to spending days at home without doing much more than stepping out onto the deck. His days were spent stewing, leaving the occasional phone message with Ferris' secretary back in Los Angeles and being perplexed by the writer's block that seemed to set in every time he sat down to write lyrics to accompany Ian's extraordinary new arrangements.

Ian had spent months working on some musical pieces; sophisticated songs that verged on sounding like chamber music. He'd begun writing them for a musical he'd been asked to contribute to, but with a collapse in financial backing for the project everything was shelved. They were beautiful, atmospheric songs, but they were too classical. The challenge was to try and use them, even if it meant paring them back so that they could at least work as great pop songs.

For weeks they stripped and rearranged the music, whilst also setting about writing new songs. In the past they'd been able to write a song together from start to finish in a day or two. Lyrics and arrangements included. This time around they were barely able to get the music written in the space of three or four days per song. And, due to his writer's block, at the end of their sessions Alekz had to ask Ian to record the pieces onto a cassette so that he could work on the texts from home.

When he got the tape, he made a snap decision, quite unlike any other he'd made before. In the morning he rose early, packed a bag and drove himself to the nearest service station where he filled the tank and bought himself a national road map. He sat at a counter, complete with an instant coffee and some terrible pastries and began to mark out points on the map; places that he'd, somewhere in his subconscious, always promised to pass by. He devised a route that started south through Pennsylvania and Washington DC before heading via West Virginia, Kentucky and Tennessee, west through Arkansas, Oklahoma and New Mexico and then on through Arizona and Nevada before he would reach California.

He called Kōji's, Celia's, Jasper's and Xavier's office numbers to leave messages on their answering machines and then, compiling an assortment of treats, cigarettes and drinks for the first stretch of driving, tentatively made his way out onto the highway network. He was sure that the daily change of scene and haphazard route that he was setting out on to California were steps in the right direction to let him simply breathe, think and get a handle on why, months on, he was still feeling so low about pretty much everything. And that the journey would break his writer's block.

Driving through the interchanging manmade and natural worlds he switched between the bag of cassettes he'd brought along for the drive, the radio stations he was able to pick up, and silence, stopping occasionally to stretch his legs, take a photo, or simply get out of the car to enjoy a change of air.

He quickly assumed the habit of restudying the roadmap to choose State highways to get off the grid and see some of the small towns whose names seemed to inspire him, but whose streets mostly left him cold. He tried to appreciate the simplistic food he wasn't accustomed to any longer and kept to himself, bunking down in smaller towns rather than in the cities that he passed through. It was a way of reconnecting with the anonymity that being a traveller seems to confer. When asked where he was heading he always changed his answers and reasons; Albuquerque, Houston, Vegas: for a meeting, a conference, a wedding, a funeral.

When he finally reached New Mexico after a week on the road, he took a detour up to Santa Fe, where he decided to stay a couple of days. He found a suitably comfortable hotel and a room with a view, and despite his exhaustion from having driven for hours, scrawled down some notes, words, lines, hell, even a chorus. He played the tape in his Walkman and cued the tracks until he found the demo he had in mind, and then, over and over again, he entered into a ritual of Stop/Rewind/Stop/Play and began to edit the words that he had in mind for the piece. He played with the metring of the lyrics, singing aloud over the headphones, oblivious to the view from the window, the welcome basket of fruit or the luridly violet toilet bowl which was adorned by a sash, much like a beauty pageant contestant. There were no distractions. After he felt reasonably satisfied with the page of words and notes, and having heard the instrumental at least a half dozen times, he listened to the next instrumental demo. And there the process of leafing through his notebooks, picking out lines which he'd not yet harvested, adding to them and playing with the timbre of the lyrics would repeat again.

As dusk began to fall, he remotely checked his answering machine back in New York in the hope that Ferris had perhaps finally broken his silence, but had to accept that the machine was simply full of messages from his management and a handful of close friends. He called Xavier and chatted for a few minutes with him, mostly to let him know he was fine, and then set out for a walk around the city centre, taking his notebooks and Walkman with him, to help him insulate his thoughts.

He thought about Ferris as he walked around the city and seemed incredulous to how the thoughts would change shape, morphing from frustration and longing, through to bitterness and sadness. Occasionally something he saw or read as he was making his rounds would make him smile, but mostly he was just enjoying the colours and the way the light died in a burst of orange and red and yellow here. Stepping away from his obligations liberated him somewhat.

When he made his way back towards the hotel he stopped at a burger joint cum diner around the corner from where he was staying. He found himself a little corner by the front windows, read the paper that was on the table and ordered himself some of the sparse vegetarian fare on the menu. Nearby there were one or two other customers but it seemed like a quiet night on the business front. As he read the national paper he noticed one of the customers looking at him. It wasn't persistent. Just a look thrown his way from time to time. But at one point, their eyes met, and the singer smiled.

"Engrossing read?"

"Presidential race...hardly interesting," Alekz answered.

"Are you here for business? I err, I checked into the hotel at the same time as you."

"Oh, right," said the singer, relieved he hadn't been recognised but a little offended by the idea that he could be mistaken for a businessman. "No, just here for a few days. Passing through."

"Lucky you. I'm stuck here for a week. Not sure what I'm going to do with myself. A few meetings and a lot of free time."

The stranger encouraged Alekz to join him at his table. He was a chap in his early thirties perhaps, maybe a little older, hard to tell. He was about six feet tall, a head of dark hair and a face made of angular lines and features. He was handsome but in that generic kind of way. The singer had already detected an East Coast accent, and when he took his seat, detected a hint of cologne and clocked the belt, the shoes and the watch. He drew the safe conclusion that the man was definitely a New Yorker. But he asked all the same.

His name was Gabriel Ellison and the singer found him a little run of the mill, but personable enough. They spoke over their meals about the presidential race, the hotel, even the weather, but more was being said in their exchanges of glances. Being forced to live in the closet for so long, men and women like them had evolved in a way that allowed many of them to communicate silently. An exchange of looks was often more than enough to get the radar sounding, and the sheer volume of variations made all kinds of unspoken signs understandable.

After the meal they stayed on for a couple of drinks in the place which was starting to only barely fill out with customers. It was a week night, one of them eventually remembered, at which point the talk turned to New York and their preferred places to hang out at. Gabriel not so subtly named checked a couple of the city's gay establishments and after another couple of rounds of drinks the singer resignedly ventured that they perhaps take a nightcap at the hotel.

If the exchange of looks was efficient, the exchanging of words was downright economical. The pretence of the drink evaporated once they were in Gabriel's room. The singer lay himself down on the bed and unzipped and Gabriel quickly pounced. In minutes they were both naked on the bedspread, enacting a range of positions and intimacies that suggested that both were experienced even if there was no real intimacy between them apart from the very obvious. After they _finished_ in reasonably synchronized fashion, the singer propped himself back up on the bed and had a cigarette, Gabriel first washing his face before re-joining him on the bed.

Gabriel had a boyfriend in New York he admitted, inferring that away from home saw fit to play. The singer explained he wasn't dating anybody but not wanting to either. It just always seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Feeling obliged to ask, Gabriel invited the singer to stay the night, but Alekz declined explaining that he thought it best if he slept in his own room.

"If you're still in town tomorrow, perhaps we can get something better than a burger to eat," the singer said, Gabriel nodding.

Alekz kissed him on the cheek, thanked him for a good night and then proceeded to head down the corridor back to the sanctity of his own room, where his things were thankfully still sprawled across the bed and the novel he'd picked up in the bookshop the other day awaited him.

He couldn't focus long enough to read the book efficiently. He wondered how many one night stands Ferris had had since they'd broken up. Then he began to formulate a pros and cons list to help him clarify what would be acceptable and what would suggest that there was no hope for the two of them once he got to LA. He briefly thought about Gabriel's approach, which had much been his own for years; when the cat's away and all that jazz, and about how as a lover he was above average, but how socially, at least on this first impression , he was a disaster. He imagined taking him under his wing, teaching him the techniques to seduce strangers, but then thought about how absurd that was. Especially considering Gabriel hadn't had any trouble bedding him, dorky conversations or not.

He liked Santa Fe. He wasn't really sure what LA was going to bring with it, and what the next round of battle would be like with Ferris, but he wasn't quite sure he was even able to stop himself from finding out. The absurdity of driving across country when there were plenty of available daily flights, at any time really, hadn't really occurred to him. Driving all that way seemed like a good way of both finding the courage of his convictions and doing something new and unexpected.

He scribbled down some more thoughts, some more words and listened to the Walkman as he fell asleep. The following morning he was awoken by a knock at the door. He couldn't remember if he had ordered a room service breakfast or not, so he hopped out of bed, wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the door.

"Good morning." It was Gabriel. A smile made of teeth. He ushered him in, a little shocked, a little surprised, and a little pissed off that he'd been woken up early. He glanced at the alarm clock by the bed; it was not yet 8am.

"I couldn't sleep," Gabriel drawled. He put his hand up under the singer's towel and suggested they go over to the bed. It was perfunctory, slightly boring sex. The kind when one person is really eager and the other is mentally ticking off their chores list. After Gabriel had climaxed, and the singer had resigned himself to not wanting to, Gabriel asked if Alekz perhaps wanted to spend the day with him.

"Really, I wanted to get some time to myself to be honest," he said, still a little peeved. "Don't you have to work today?"

"Oh yeah, I mean, I do, but not 'til the afternoon."

"Listen Gabriel, I think you're gorgeous. You really are, you're sexy and you have a 24 carat body, but I'm just taking some time out. I don't think it's a good idea that we spend the day together. Let's not try and make this into something it's not."

Gabriel's orgasm had depleted him of any emotional sensitivity or defensiveness. "Well, will I see you for dinner tonight, then?"

"I don't know," the singer confessed. "I haven't even thought about breakfast yet."

"I see," Gabriel replied. "Well, how about I come by around eight. If you're here, we'll do something, if not, no problems."

"That sounds great," the singer lied. "I'm sorry, I don't meant to be rude," he lied again, "I'm just really tired. I need to catch up on some sleep."

"Oh sure, I'm just leaving now. Hey, I'll put the _do not disturb_ sign up on my way out. Enjoy your sleep!" he said, lifting himself up off the bed and heading out of the hotel room.

After he was secure that Gabriel had left, the singer masturbated and then fell into an equally unsatisfying sleep. That day he lazed around town, taking in visual inspiration from the surroundings. He visited book stores and picked up books on Georgia O'Keefe and various titles that spoke about the area's multicultural influences.

The words came easier that day; they seemed to be a series of battles with the expectations he had for L.A. He wrote and wrote throughout the day, not sure what was going to be plausible and what needed to be rejected outright after re-reading, but he decided not to edit himself, to simply let the words tumble down onto his notebook, playing that wretchedly beautiful tape over and over again to help fill in the void of words that had partly set him on this ridiculous journey.

He found himself back in his hotel room well in time for the knock at the door. After a dusty day out he'd even showered in anticipation. True to form, Gabriel had arrived at the designated time, but he wasn't interested in talking, or going out to dinner. He'd read between the morning's lines and the two of them again found themselves naked together, barely exchanging a word as they went for it in the bedroom, in the bathroom and on the balcony. But in their physical relief came the release from any expectations they might've had of one another.

So they let themselves follow euphoric pathways, orgasming time and time again as the hours passed, until they were both spent and Gabriel, despite not having wanted to do so, had fallen asleep under the covers, breaking that unspoken rule about being a piece of trade on the bed sheets and never under them. But the singer didn't care. He was too exhausted by all his thoughts and everything he and Gabriel had gotten up to.

He also felt less angry now that he felt he had a story for his album. An idea of where he wanted to take things, and could already imagine the visuals even if he didn't yet have a firm idea for the lyrics.

In the morning he took an embarrassed Gabriel out for breakfast and then checked out of the hotel, driving south down into Mexico to Juarez, energised and inspired to spend a couple of nights soaking up the atmosphere across the border before driving back into California.

Arriving in LA, he drove directly to Ferris' place, after hours in the car. He sounded the buzzer at the gates of the house, but got no response. He drove back to the public phone he'd passed on the way up to the house and tried the home phone number, but the line simply rang out. It was a Wednesday night; Ferris could be anywhere.

He made his way to the modest (by Hollywood standards) house that he'd bought the year before and tried Ferris' number a few more times before he showered and went to bed mumbling to himself.

In the morning, the minute he woke, he tried the number again, but there was no response. He drove over to the house and went through the same process of both buzzing and trying the home number from the phone booth, but got nothing again. Given that it was already 10am it occurred to him that perhaps the office might have been the safest bet, so he drove downtown to Ferris's ad agency and made his way up to the seventh floor digs.

"Hi Sarah," he said, kissing Ferris' secretary on the cheek. "Is Ferris in?"

"Alekz, hi," she said, a little embarrassed.

"What's wrong?" he asked, wondering if he smelt unclean or of booze or something.

"Um, Ferris is in London. He's been working with some clients there for the last month or so. I don't think he's going to be back for a while. He's got a few projects on the go there." She watched as he appeared crestfallen. "I'm really sorry I didn't reply to your messages. It's just...Ferris was really clear with me. He said I wasn't to say anything to you because, well, he said he wanted to tell you himself when he was ready. I'm really sorry. Can I get you something?"

It was a simple explanation. But one which knocked the wind out of him. He felt like he wanted to just give up, there and then. He did his best to recover from his embarrassment and said that he understood, that she mustn't feel bad. She was just doing her job.

He drove himself to, well, he didn't know where. He'd been so busy driving on autopilot that he didn't realise where he was. Perhaps he'd been heading to Malibu out of habit. He pulled the car over, got out and had a cigarette, cussing and swearing like a madman by the sidewalk, sitting against his car. He wasn't sure what he should do; whether he should head back to his house and just try and calm down, perhaps even swim a few laps in the pool, or just book the first available flight back to New York.

He smoked another cigarette and to his own bewilderment, started to cry. That embarrassing, gulping cry that you just pray no one else sees you doing, especially if you're in a public place. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried in self-pity and immediately became angry with himself for doing so. It was of course the combination of disappointment and exhaustion which had brought on the tears, but to him it seemed as if he was crying for the end of the world.

It took longer than he expected but he eventually got a grip of himself on that faceless, suburban street. He hadn't even paid attention to the street signs to at least give the spot a name. As he regained his composure he got back into his car and headed off again, determined to find his way back to his house. When he eventually realised where he was, he made a dash to the supermarket and picked out a series of objects he suddenly decided he needed. He paid cash for them, and after making a brief stop, headed home, from where he called Xavier to wax on about the turn of events and Kōji to check in, before going through all of his phone messages.

He headed out to his pool and swam lap after lap for an hour, feeling as if each stroke, each kick, lightened him of his embarrassment, his burdens, his disappointment. It was only today that he'd truly accepted that the separation had been real and final. There had always been enough precedence to suggest that it was just a temporary thing, but Ferris, who despised his native England, would never have gone back to London if he too didn't feel things were final.

After the swim, he pulled out his lyric book, but after setting it on the table couldn't bring himself to look through it. Instead, he headed to the bookshelves in the living room and sought out the photo essays he knew he had on _The Day Of The Dead_ , and with laser like accuracy, pulled out illustrated books on Frida Kahlo, Diego Rivera and one on Leonora Carrington. He took them back into the kitchen and arranged them, along with the things he'd picked up at the supermarket, into a suitcase.

After dinner he made a round of phone calls and invited a couple of friends over. He wanted to distract himself from his thoughts, and the arrangement he had with this particular friend and his partner would help him do just that. They were an often insatiable and open couple, to the extent that they opened up their relationship to a select group of friends, the singer among them. As luck would have it they were both in town.

When they arrived they never made it up to the bedroom. The action took place in the living room instead. Tender, hard, intense; a swathe of emotions swirling around the room. The couple partook in a few lines of coke and a Xanax chaser but the singer kindly turned down the substances, preferring to drink instead. They were a beautiful couple, a good match. One a silver haired record executive, the other a reasonably well known actor who was an art house darling. When the actor fell asleep on one of the couches after their three way, his partner covered him with a blanket and re-joined the singer on the other sofa with a bottle of champagne the singer had laid out and a blanket.

"Should we move Jake into the guest room?" the singer asked, taking a swig from the bottle.

"No he's fine there. He'll sleep well tonight," Max replied.

"You're not tired?" the singer asked.

"No baby, I'm just getting started," he smiled, kissing the singer languorously and fondling him. "Why don't you sit on my lap for a bit?" he said provocatively, lifting up the blanket to expose himself. The singer smiled at him, took the bottle from him and then obliged. They had a pretty energetic session on the sofa before they wound down and stretched out on the floor on a mound of pillows.

"You know I went to a supermarket today for the first time in years," Alekz said.

"Why? Were you bored? I haven't seen Ferris around lately. You two not together anymore?"

"I think he's in London," the singer replied.

"True those little rumours about a big fight in New York, then?"

"Yeah," the singer admitted after a brief silence.

"That's a shame. He's a fun guy. But, he's not right for you."

"How do you mean?"

"You're all heart Alley Katz. All heart. Ferris...Ferris is a good time. A good guy, but not when it comes to a relationship. I've seen it with him before. And I've seen you before too. You two, you're not a good match together."

"Yeah. The fucked up thing is that I think I love him."

The executive kissed the singer on the lips, tenderly, slowly. "I'm sure you do. But, some people aren't meant to be together. Being with someone is a bitch sometimes. It ruins everything."

"But you two seem pretty happy together."

"Oh we are. He's a good kid. We know how to compromise. And we have a good time together. I don't know if we're going to be together forever. He's always talking about having kids. But for now we have a good system. I'm happy. Ask me in six months' and maybe the answer will be different."

The exec continued to run his hands over the singer's body. "How's the album coming along?"

"I'm stuck. I'm having trouble with the lyrics. I'll deal with it when I get back to New York."

"You know I'm coming over to New York in September."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Maybe a week or so. Depends on the meetings," he said, his hands becoming more invasive. "Maybe if you're not too busy with the record we can spend some time together."

"Sure. Jake coming too?"

Max began to work his hands more insistently. "No. Just me. He's got a film lined up in Phoenix."

"Well you're welcome. You can stay at mine if you want to," he replied, rocking his body to accommodate the executive's more aggressive movements.

"I'd like that," he said, pulling the singer back up onto his lap again.

Afterwards, the singer finished the last of the champagne and the two huddled together under the blankets and the dim lighting.

"Shouldn't you go and sleep with Jake?"

"No," he whispered. "He passed out early on so he misses out."

Late next morning, and long after Max and Jake had left, a car appeared at his gates, the voice through the intercom announcing that he was here to take the singer to the airport. He'd made the rash decision while he was in the supermarket to fly out to see what might happen. He'd stopped by his LA travel agency right after to make a booking for the first available commercial flight. Naturally in first class. He wasn't sure what to pack with the difference in temperature, so he took a couple of things from his LA wardrobe that he liked and decided he'd pick up anything else he'd need once he got there.

He slept most of the fourteen hours on the plane and easily made his connecting domestic flight.

It was good to be back in Australia. Back in Melbourne, he kept a particularly low profile, eschewing the invitations that suddenly flooded him the minute his Australian management knew he was in town, and instead spent his time at his beach estate, his parents' house and at his own apartment that he'd purchased. He hadn't really spent any time in the Melbourne winter since taking off on that journey to India, but in comparison to the New York ones which he'd become accustomed to, it seemed a lot more manageable, albeit annoying.

He spent the bulk of his time with his parents and lost in his own thoughts, happy to potter around their house and garden before he'd get bored and head off to spend time with his old friends or hole himself up at the beach, batting down the hatches and watching the weather turn foul over the water.

Spending time with his family and getting to know his nephew better, as well as his newly born niece, only kept him occupied for short bursts before the novelty wore off and he wondered what he was doing there. When he did venture out into the city with the few friends he had left there, it felt like being in a big, friendly rural town. It certainly didn't have the same pace that he'd become so accustomed to over the years. But it was liberating to slow down and smell the roses again.

He kept his own hours. Sleep ins in the morning or late afternoon kips one day, followed by an early start or a late night the next. Getting into that irregular, secret rhythm suited him just fine, and after a week or so of his idiosyncratic hours, he found himself turning back towards that wretched cassette, the art books and his lyric book. And it was then that he decided everything he'd written on the road trip was embarrassing, savaging it all but for a couple of lines and couplets that he liked.

Writing, he felt struck by a bittersweet nostalgia. About being back in his hometown, being away from his real life; grieving for certain things and people.

It was strange spending enough time in his hometown that he'd see his old school, the old shops, and drive past areas he'd barely remembered but that still felt familiar. It was here that he was also once again the youngest son. The one that didn't seem to be able to get it together personally or romantically. The one with all the money, but no children, no companion and so little structure to his life.

So as his and Ian's compositions played out to him, he devoted a day a piece to each of them to think about what they could be saying. He didn't put himself under the pressure of sitting there and writing lyrics to go with the music. Instead he thought about them as stories that they might reflect. He named each of them and took it from there. It was in this way that the lyrics finally began to come to him.

By late August, he was ready to go back to NYC and ready to bring this new story, _Without You I'm Nothing_ to life.

By the time he'd made it back to New York he was in a better state of mind. His writer's block was behind him even if he still resented the fact that he had to go back into the studio. But he was genuinely looking forward to working with Ian again.

Unfortunately, his return to the studio coincided with Ferris's return to NYC. It seemed Ferris was ready to let their cold war thaw again and wanted to spend some time with Alekz to work out their shit. For a couple of weeks things were choppy. Alekz was holed up in the studio but was quickly under Ferris' spell again, for better or worse.

Max's arrival in NYC, and the announcement that he would be in town for a few months, complicated things even further. The old jealousies and insecurities returned and, in Ferris' eyes, were no longer unfounded. Alekz's brief period of solitude had reopened the need in him to be desired and chased. To be loved. But having two suitors, neither of whom was likely in it for the long term, made things messy. He juggled them poorly, and because they had their own histories amongst themselves, he opened up a can of worms. It all became a sort of competition for his affection but also a competition of who seemed to be able to most strongly communicate their dissatisfaction with things.

Old patterns between Alekz and Ferris began to repeat themselves. Arguments about everything, truces, more arguments and more truces. Conciliatory afternoons or nights out that inevitably ended in another argument. In the withholding of affection followed by the balm of promises and sex to smooth things and egos over. Phone calls, ultimatums, and the cycle repeating itself again.

Neither seemed capable of letting go. Ferris saw things as being about ownership and respect. Alekz, while he wouldn't admit, was all about feeling like the centre of attention. And on Max's part, it was part vendetta towards Ferris and partly about trying to make Alekz accountable to the things he was saying and promising.

For weeks they seemed to be tied to each other even if they all knew things were futile. The city became their intermittent arena and no place, not even the studio, was sacred.

For all the turmoil that he felt he was going through, Ian and Patrick were more concerned about the regular disruptions to their recording schedule and their deadlines. What they were making was remarkable. Everyone in the studio knew it, but there was work that needed doing which the singer himself had promised to do but wasn't doing.

So, just after the midway point, Ian sat the singer down and told him it was time to leave all the drama behind. Time to leave whatever was going on in his life at the door because it was impossible to get anything done.

In the almost ten years that they'd known each other, Ian had never been so adamant about things. And he'd never threatened to pull the plug on things as he was doing then.

"It's turning out to be my divorce album isn't it?" Alekz asked, receiving a blank face response.

So it was then that Alekz made a decision. He decided to sever all ties with Ferris and to settle for being Max's side thing, setting about to smooth things over with the executive and promising to put the brakes on the drama with him too. He began waking earlier and spending a few hours on his own in the studio each morning, basically focusing, listening to the preceding day's work and making notes about anything that the other guys needed to do if he wasn't capable of doing them himself.

Once he'd established that routine, he head over to Ferris' office one morning and insisted they sit in the reception foyer, with the coming and going of clients, management and staff. The singer knew that the ad agency was the only place that Ferris would not create a scene or raise his voice.

"You're going to listen to me speak right now, and you're not going to interrupt me. Anything that we had is over with. It's really clear that we can't get our shit together and we're never going to be able to. I'm not interested anymore. You're not to come to where I work or call me anymore. You've made your point that I shouldn't have seen Max, that I should've waited for you and that we should've found a way to fix things. Anything that was between us is now in the past. It's over. And if you can't get your head around respecting my space and my right not to see you, I'll find a way of making you do so."

"Katz are you like, threatening me? Was that like a hitman thing?"

The singer rolled his eyes. "Have I been clear?"

"Crystal. So that's it? I mean...Jesus, you're cold."

"Ferris. Enough. I'm done and now I'm leaving. Don't call me. No matter what. Just don't."

Out of all of the confusion he felt they'd created something extraordinary, far and beyond any accomplishment managed before. There was real relief in the studio when in the middle of December the album was deemed completed. The mastering process would now come into play, meaning they would need to hand over the material and trust to the engineer, giving them a New Year to relax and contemplate over in various measures. But on the same day that they proclaimed the recording sessions over and toasted them with a bottle of champagne, a call came through to the studio from the singer's management offices.

"Alekz it's for you. It's Celia," said Patrick.

Celia had taken on the day to day management of the singer, reporting to Michael, but easing the communication between him and Alekz.

"Hi hon, how are you?"

"I'm fine. Actually ecstatic. We just cracked open a bottle of champers. It's over. We did it!"

Celia gave an affirmative grunt. "That's great. We'll have to celebrate. Listen, Michael's been away in San Juan for the last ten days. He just got back into the office today"

"And?"

"Well you know we get a lot of looneys calling the office. Usually we don't pay any attention to the unsolicited calls. But when he saw the messages that he'd received while he was away...well, there's someone that's been trying to get in touch with you via the office."

"Who is it?" the singer said, taking the glass of champagne being handed to him.

"Michael would call you himself, but, well he thought you'd prefer to hear it from me. The calls have come through from a hospital in New York City. It's Ben."

The singer was silent for a moment. "As in Binyamiyn?"

"Yes sweetie."

"What's happened?"

"Listen they wouldn't tell me, other than to say that he hopes that you'll get in touch. I have the number and the address, and also the doctor's details. Katz, it's super serious from the sounds."

"Give me the number," he said, his memory flickering back to his early NYC days and to his ill-fated time with Ben. "I have a pen, go ahead."

He was led along the snaking corridors, the pastel walls and the lines on the floor which left him with a feeling of disorientation. The doctor seemed nice enough but like everyone else at the time had no firm idea of what was happening, what could be done or of how long Ben had.

She had tried to prepare him as best she could. He was gravely ill and there was no disguising it, and she'd warned him how distressing it could be for people to see their loved ones in this kind of state. The truth was there was no preparing him. When she led him into the room Ben was sleeping. "Buzz me if you need anything."

He was in utter shock. Shock that this was the first time he'd seen Ben, in maybe six or seven years...he couldn't remember. He remembered Ben's old physique and stature and couldn't correlate it to what lay before him now. Bony, yellowish skin, all those beautiful features of old now sunken and hollow, stripped of the joy and the beauty that used to skip around of their own accord. He sat down and took Ben's hand, careful not to wake him. It was cold, and bony too, not the rippling, masculine hand it had once been. He recognised the marks, Kaposi's sarcoma, that had disfigured the skin and taken hold at various visible points on the body. Inside, he wept for his love. He'd already lost friends to various forms of the disease or to complications. For years he'd used his profile to be an activist and a public face, urging people to practice safe sex, and donating money to fund research and to sustain a number of hospices. Only his accountants would be able to tell him how much, but there were proceeds of entire concerts and singles and personal donations that he'd handed over. Yet those lives, those friends had been taken anyway.

Ben slept for hours, and the singer held his hand the whole time, a nurse bringing Alekz some juice after assuming he'd been sitting there motionless for the four hours that marked the intervals between her visits to the room.

At seven pm he opened his eyes and saw the singer. He recognised the nose and his eyes, but nothing else of him. He was dark haired and no longer the young man who'd been pushing himself to all extremes to make something of himself, the guy that couldn't sit still. He was visibly older, and his form had changed.

"Lekke," he murmured, using the pet name he'd always used privately with him.

"Hi babe."

"Well, considering we missed Hanukkah, we're just going to have to celebrate Christmas this year," the singer announced as he arrived in the hospital room on Christmas Day.

"Did you bring some champagne?"

"Some Cristal. And I bought you a present."

Ben opened it, and smiled. "Oh, _Yatagan_! My favourite," he said, chuckling and spraying some of the cologne over himself. "Thank you. And did you manage to get the other things?"

"Yes, I gave them to your doctor. I quite like her you know," he said, kissing Ben's forehead.

"Yeah, she's a good _shiksa_ ," he said aloud, touched that the singer had basically just affirmed that he was now bankrolling his healthcare and had also sourced the supplementary medications that both he and his doctor had made reference to earlier in the week. "You're such a good goyim."

"When did you suddenly get all Yiddish again by the way?"

"I think it was sometime during the layover between coma and death," Ben deadpanned.

"Oh. You couldn't have just settled for a postcard or some souvenirs?"

As the new year rolled around, the singer had to gear up for the last stage of the album process; the integration of the visuals and the packaging. He saw in the new year first by Ben's bedside and then later headed to a party at Xavier's. He was spending nearly all of his spare time with Ben, which was comforting for the both of them. He never let on about how devastated he was that Ben had come back into his life in this way. And for who knows how long? The idea that he was back in his life for a long kiss goodbye was heartbreaking and seemed utterly cruel to the both of them.

Ben had insisted the singer head off to LA the following week and not to worry about him. Alekz had a full schedule awaiting. Photo shoots, meetings with his sleeve designer, the record label and finally, the video director for "Paean," the album's lead single. Although Jake was in Vancouver working on yet another indie film project, the singer continued his affair with Max, and they met up a couple of times, though he wasn't under any illusions about their arrangement.

The premise for the first video had originally been designed as a more controversial treatment on a reasonably big budget, given that the single was being heralded as his comeback to pop after a lengthy absence. But the week he'd spent in discussions with the director had been full of disagreements on how to proceed, on the look, on the story line, even the idea that the video needed to represent something blockbuster like, so, as the director said ' _you leave no one in any doubt about the fact that you're back and that you mean business.'_

But the singer was having nothing of it, and after one particularly heated exchange he straight out fired the director, leaving Michael to clean up the mess behind him. Time was of the essence, and with at least a partial forfeiting of the budgeted funds needing to go to the director, it didn't leave that much of a budget to play with. Michael and Alekz argued for a few hours afterwards about whether or not the singer could at least make some compromise to get the director back on board, but he refused to even consider it. Later that evening the singer called up one of his oldest friends; an old designer friend from his London days who was now making documentaries and art house films in LA and who invited him over to his office bungalow.

"Are you working on anything at the moment?" Alekz asked after the two had caught up. It'd been a few months since they had last seen each other.

"I am," Andres confirmed, "but at the moment it's all meetings with financers and agents. I'm trying to get this documentary up and running, but, it's a bit of a headache. I don't suppose you'd be interested in coughing up a bit of money. Help a struggling documentarian."

"Well maybe. But actually I might have a better proposition for you." He explained how he absolutely hated the recently fired director on sight and that he basically refused any and all of his suggestions for the video treatment as much for the shitty ideas as for the hair plugs on his head. He explained how the new album represented a new step, a new, contemplative direction, and how the director wasn't interested in this, and how he felt that the director saw the video merely as an opportunity to do something big budget that would get his name circulating.

"Katz I haven't done a music video before. I'm not sure I would know what to do."

"It would be the perfect thing for you. And how long have we been talking about working together? Forever right? Will you at least listen to the song?"

After Andres agreed the singer slipped a cassette of the completed demo into the deck and, rather nervously sat on the edge of the sofa while Andres listened. He couldn't bear to watch Andres as he listened, so instead he found his eyes moving around the apartment, looking at the boxes of video tapes, at the knick-knack furniture and reimagined the colours of the walls, which he felt were in desperate need of a repaint. When the song came to an end Andres rewound the tape and re-listened to it. It wasn't really his kind of music. He'd recently been splitting his attention between acid house and the garage rock scene that was growing around LA at the time. It seemed like something of a comedown to listen to his friend's music, which seemed so much more predictable than, say, Psychic TV or Thee Mighty Ceasars, or even the more elaborately produced 12"s that he would pick up from the import record shop whenever he found himself downtown. But he didn't _dislike_ it.

"If you could film a video for this anywhere, which I assume you could theoretically," Andres began, "where would you film it?"

The singer thought on it for a moment.

"Somewhere like New Mexico. And then on a boat on a lake, but like one of those rusted out dinghies or something."

"But without the face paint right?"

The singer smiled, he could see that Andres had caught his drift. "Totally."

And so, after a long chat, they decided to work together. Owing to the fact that it was going to be Andres' first ever music video and that time was limited, they decided to minimise the narrative down to a simple story which cast the singer as a kind of medicine man who clung to his traditional ways in the face of modernity. They conceived three intertwined sequences; an old vaudeville theatre in which the singer would sing out the words of the song to an empty theatre, desert scenes in which the singer on horseback would encounter the extras and, finally, the water scene from where the singer would eventually ambiguously leave the narrative. They fleshed out the story line and over dinner and drinks attempted to story board it between their frequent conversations, tangential discourses and the game of catch up that they were playing.

The next morning Alekz called an urgent meeting with his management team and the video project kicked into top gear; locations needed to be found urgently, extras were needed and above all support was needed to help Andres assemble a team to get the video done within a few weeks. For days he worked with Andres on planning, and eventually their project was given legs by the creatives who were hastily brought on board to help realise the idea.

Two weeks to the day after they'd hurriedly conceived their idea, Andres and Alekz were on location, filming in an old theatre with a chequered past in Albuquerque, the KiMo, that one of the producers had discovered the year before. The producer had also found an Albuquerque based wedding band to play the role of the accompanying musicians, a multiracial crew whom the singer found adorable. The first day of the two day shoot was devoted to the group, their close ups and the sequences with Alekz sitting and strutting before them, barefoot in corduroys, with an old school vest over his bare chest. His hair, now longish and a mix of brown and auburn, was shellacked, pulled back into a bun with a middle part, his eyes outlined with his old trademark kohl. On the second day the singer was alone on the stage and they ran through a number of improvisations until Andres was happy with what they'd come up with.

Between takes talk had turned to the weather conditions for the outdoor sequences, with just three workable days for outdoor filming predicted. It was agreed that they'd impose strict time limits at each of the four locations; two hours for set up and two hours to film, reckoning that they would need up to three minutes of footage to tell the story and fill out the five and a half minute clip which was going to be the longest he'd ever released.

As the days panned out they had to improvise more and more due to the constantly changing light and the rains which would arrive and settle for up to an hour at a time before clearing. It was cold, windy and demanding on the skeleton crew and on the singer. But they were convinced that they'd be able to get enough good footage to cobble out a video that was at least true in spirit to their concept. In the end two extra days had to be added to the shoot so that they could reshoot sequences that had been too dim for lack of natural light, and to account for the critical final scene in which the singer paddles off in his boat, which they hadn't been able to successfully capture earlier.

Back in LA, both Andres and Alekz maintained a full time presence in the editing room, discussing the cuts, the edits and the changes to the original treatment. Three days later, the video was finally completed and tracked alongside the final mastered version of the song which had arrived the week earlier. At its screening at the record company the underlying reaction was a combination of uncertainty and disorientation across the sales and management teams. There was concern that the treatment was a little understated for a big comeback song, but outwardly they demonstrated effusive appreciation of the video and the final edit of the song.

Despite frustration on both Celia and Michael's parts that they had an art house short film and not a music video on their hands, the singer stayed true to his guns in a slanging match with the two, indicating it was this or nothing. The only way to get back into the market, as far as he was concerned, was by doing something completely unexpected and innovative. Further, he made a pact with Andres to continue working together on the videos for the following singles.

He had a new video muse now that Jasper had graduated to film. And it was time to market the album and the single.

Ian and the singer put together a band with whom the singer rehearsed in every spare minute that he wasn't consumed with promotional work or time with Ben at his home and the hospital. Ben was determined that the singer do what he needed to do, and gave him assurances that he would be alright and in form for the album launch. This new album was a modern take on sixties and seventies style guitar pop and, as such, the singer and his management team had masterminded a plan to promote it with live televised performances. A substantial print campaign using the earthy, folk style photographs of the singer was released around the world, announcing the release dates of the singer's upcoming single and album. Rave advanced reviews from the music press reinforced the hype for the singer's return and he busily recorded a number of interviews in New York with various international journalists and news agencies in February 1989. In the meantime, _Paean_ was remixed for the clubs: this was going to be a guitar driven album, but on Max's suggestion, the singer's management team decided it would be prudent to have some dance mixes of the songs ready to go to the clubs so that he could corner both the pop and dance markets and, hopefully retain some of his fan base with the otherwise significant shift his music was taking.

In the first week of March 1989, the singer launched the album with a performance of five of its songs for a throng of assembled international press and dozens of his friends and acquaintances at New York's Beacon Theatre, Ben and Max among them. The rest of the theatre was filled out with industry and retail types. The singer was kitted out in his new trademark look: jeans, waistcoat and long, middle parted hair, and that trademark kohl which he relied on so much.

The show was punchy, the set tight, and he was in good spirits, talking to the assembled crowd between the songs. Within days, footage from the show was being beamed around the world, intercut with one on one interviews. As the hype machine kicked into full gear, and the reviews noted the more adult orientated nature of the singer's new album, _Paean's_ video was released. By mid-March as Ben's health began to rapidly decline, the single began to climb the charts in leaps and bounds, landing him some of his best ever debuts, entering the UK charts at No.3 and debuting within the top twenty in over twenty markets. _Paean_ spent a week at No.1 in the US and UK charts, and notched up lengthy top five stays in over thirty markets, including in his homeland.

The album, _Without You I'm Nothing_ , which followed in the first week of April, shot straight to the top: in the US charts it debuted at No.15, and by May was already spending the first of five non-consecutive weeks at No.1. He was _back_. But poring over the faxes that were coming into his apartment and backhandedly accepting the stream of congratulatory phone calls that were celebrating his artistic and commercial triumph that first week of April, there was only one caller who stopped him in his tracks. The _shiksa_ doctor.

"Hi Jen, I'm coming in at the usual time today. Do I need to bring him anything?"

"Alekz. I'm sorry, but Ben passed away in his sleep this morning."

"No. That can't be right," he responded, instinctually. "I just saw him yesterday. He seemed fine."

"I know. It happened about an hour ago."

"No Jen, no. That doesn't sound right to me at all. I would've known."

"I'm really sorry. I wanted to tell you myself."

He looked at the roll of faxes that was spilling out from the machine, all over his floors, and making that god damn incessant robotic racket in doing so. He kicked it over but it continued to do so in spite of him.

"What was that? Is everything ok?"

"Just fine," Alekz replied.

"Alekz, he left you some things. Look, I can bring them over for you if you like."

"I can't come and see him? To say goodbye?" he asked, crying.

"He didn't want that," she said sadly. "You know that."

"What am I supposed to do without him?" he said, trying to regain his composure. Jen didn't respond.

"Oh Jen, I'm sorry," he slurped. "Listen, you have more important things to do than bring over some things for me. I'll send a courier over for them."

"However you prefer. Alekz. I'm so sorry."

"I know. Thanks for everything you did for him. He adored you. Listen, I'm going to go now."

When the courier arrived it was clear that Ben had prepared for the moment. Inside the box were two wooden boxes. One full of some valuables: jewellery and things he had inherited from his parents, and the other box full of letters that Ben had written but never sent to the singer. The envelopes had all number of stamps on them, tracking the changes of eighties US postal stamps. There were dozens of letters, and it took him months to build up the courage to read them, to hear Ben's version of how life had played out and of that niggling regret he'd had ever since they'd broken up so badly back in the day.

Underneath the envelopes were a series of Polaroid photos and photo booth print outs of the two of them. The singer was weeping, but smiled as he looked through them: those absurd shots they used to take before and after his performances or along the streets in London and New York. He had them framed within days. A large, multi-panelled frame was specially made to individually frame each of the 64 photos and he had it hung on his living room wall the moment it arrived. It would remain his most important possession for the rest of his life.

#

Thanks for reading _Vinyl Tiger Vol.1: the 80s._

I hope you enjoyed it!

Volumes 2 and 3 are now widely available as ebooks.

The complete novel is also available in digital and print forms.

Your feedback is valuable to me.

If you could leave a review or a rating of the novel at the site you acquired your copy from, it would be incredibly useful to me [and other readers!].

Alternatively, get in touch with me using any of the methods listed on the next page. I'd love to hear from you!

About the author

Dave Di Vito is a Melbourne born writer and teacher currently based in the south of Italy.

A former gallerist/curator and a trained fine artist, Dave runs and writes the art/popular culture blog _Paperlesstiger_.

Connect with Dave on Facebook or via Twitter @DDVinyltiger or visit the Paperlesstiger blog.

_Dave's next novel,_ _#replacementsky,_ _will be available in 2017._

Be sure to connect with Dave to get all the details and a sample chapter.
Acknowledgements

_Vinyl Tiger_ has been haunting me for years. It came into being via scribbled, handwritten notes on Japanese subways, bumpy bus rides in Rome and during downtime in Melbourne art galleries. But it wouldn't have come to life without the support of certain people who helped me find the time and space to write it (and to whoever it was that stole my laptop and the then nearly completed draft in Rome, forcing me to restart from scratch. I really appreciate it...you did me a solid in the long run).

My eternal gratefulness to my dearest Kekks, who more than anybody else has really championed me sitting down and focusing. Without his support and patience I would never have finished it.

Thanks and eternal spanks to Lucy _chan_ who has really been a guiding light, and contributed so much to my learning curve. And to Shane, who somehow made _Vinyl Tiger_ even more alive and real for me.

And to my dear, dear family and friends, thanks for all of your support and for putting up with me while I've so clearly been away on planet pop.

Love.

