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The Face - 1981
Pete Burns is a new and intoxicating irregularit.  Little men with oportunist appetites and hair smelling of rancid coconut oil try to clone hiim at every gig.  Certain insects immediately become rich on his mysteries and imagination.
´I´m not getting paranoid about it,´  he laugs,  ´ they´ll all have bitten the dust by the time I reach the high spots´
But it must at least make you angry to know peopl watch you on stage and then try and rip off your style as their own ?
No.  I mean, I´d rathers stay in than mix with them anyway.  They´re all so fucking pretentious and they can´t even afford the taxi fair to Blitz.  They´re gotta walk.  They´re all fur coats and no knickers.
´It´s very strange the way you never see them during the day; they stay inside getting ready for the night - you know,  stealing people´ plant pots to wear on their heads.  They´re like worms mating with themselves.´
On stage with his band Dead Or Alive, spinning and war-dancing with the mythical  ambiguity of a Genet angel,  Pete Burns is the most obvious of consequent ´stars´;  the perfect Rock´n´oll enigma.
´...I don´t know why I dress like this; nothing is premeditated - maybe tomorrow I won´t.
´If I was Locked in a room with the clothing that half the population wear,  then obviously I´d cut the carpet up to go out it´


THE FACE - FEBRUARY 1981
words - KRIS GUIDIO
photos - FRANCESCO MELLINA
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