MAKE ME UP - PART 1
It was a Saturday morning in June, and that night David Bowie was playing at the Earls Court Arena, on his 1978 World Tour. My friends Brigit, Sian, and I were determined to see him. We bunked onto a succession of cigarette-strewn London underground carriages and arrived at Earls Court to join what was already a restless queue waiting for tickets for his performance. Not to be put off, we set up camp, singing songs, smoking and laughing with all the other assorted young hopefuls.
I was sitting cross-legged on my reliable donkey jacket to contemplate the wait, when a tall, stunningly handsome man with dark floppy hair and electric blue eyes walked over and sat close to me. “Can I make you up?” he asked. I didn’t understand what he was saying. “Say that again?” I replied, somewhat surprised. Firstly, I couldn’t believe that this beautiful man was talking to me, and secondly, the fact that he his thick Birmingham accent did not compute with the visuals. “I want to make your face up,” he repeated. “You know, like ‘Aladdin Sane.’ I’m a make-up artist. You’ll look really great. I promise.” He petitioned me with a dazzling smile. Pulling over a large overnight bag, he started unpacking eyeliners and pencils, chunky and fine brushes, lipsticks, pan sticks and powder puffs.
At the sight of all the shimmering colours, I began to seriously consider his offer. And he was the first artist that I had seen that looked like that! Until then, I had only met secondary school art teachers with alcohol, or personal hygiene problems. His accent had triggered memories of a pig puppet character on a Central TV show called Pipkins that I childishly made reference to by trying to role-play all the other animal characters to avoid acquiesce. Although we both laughed at my delaying tactic, his desire was not distracted. Finally, giving in I said, “Ok, you can make me up!” I was as self-conscious as any teenager, but already liked to wear a fine layer of kohl, powder and lip-gloss. A year or so earlier, I had cut off my long hennaed auburn hair that would have suited a retro rockabilly style, for a shorter, edgier look that had resulted in a ban of all haircuts above the shoulder at my school. “I’ll make you look really great chook!” he reassured me. I was sold, and besides, it was an opportunity to observe a young artist in close proximity. As he knelt in front of me working away at my makeup, I mentally traced his face. His eyes gleamed like indigo headlights against his golden-olive skin, his full lips were defined by a finely chiselled cupids bow that framed the widest, whitest smile, and balanced his large sensual nose.
In contrast to all his grand beauty, I prayed he wouldn’t notice the tiny blackheads on my porcelain 14-year-old skin. As he swept brushes and powders across my face, he said, “Your nose is a bit greasy, but it’s ok, the makeup is absorbing it.” I cringed inside, and became aware of my shallow breathing. So I asked him to tell me about himself. His name was John Lupton, but he was also known as “Gay John”. He loved the music and fashion of the alternative club scene, and had travelled from Birmingham to London that weekend to see friends and thought he might be lucky and get tickets for Bowie too. I asked him about his parents. He said that he had never known his father, but that he was really close with his mum and had a little sister who he adored. I wanted to know more and felt my nerves unwind as he talked. I told him something about myself, my love of music, the bands I had seen in London, and other friends from school. I told him about my family and my relations in Birmingham. We clicked! We both knew it was hit or miss if we were going to get tickets for tonight, so I suggested that we kept in touch by phone, or by writing to each other. He said he didn’t have a home telephone, and then shocked me when he told me that he couldn’t read or write. I was astonished that someone so beautiful, and obviously intelligent, could not do what I took almost for granted.
When my make up was finished John held up a mirror for me to see his handiwork. He had painted a double lightening fork that flashed diagonally from my left temple, across my cheek and my nose and under my right cheekbone just stopping short of my jaw line. The shiny crimson slash was streaked with slim cobalt stripes that flanked the sharp angular lines. The image seemed to suit my blue-grey eyes and spiky black hair. I was happy and felt connected to the queue, the artist, and with a creative force. I thanked him and hoped he would let me do something to help him in the future.
As he packed up his bag, I wrote down my address and phone number for him, and his address in Stechford in Birmingham for me. John said he must go and see his friends, but that he would come back to Earls Court later. He promised that whatever happened he would find a way to stay in touch. I resumed my place in the queue looking brighter, but feeling lonelier, having not yet realised that David Bowie would always be a beacon for the lonely. The afternoon dragged on while we cheered ourselves up with Proplus washed down with takeout tea and cigarettes in the certain knowledge that Bowie was consuming endless untipped Gitanes before his concert. At last, the box office opened, and we were all rewarded with £2 tickets for the gig. I brought two just in case John came back. We decided to stay around Earls Court for the rest of the afternoon rather than return to the suburbs only to have to come back a few hours later. Brigit, Sian, and I sat in a local café drinking cheap chicory coffee. They wanted to know all about John. This handsome mans’ attention had put some emotional distance between Brigit and me, but Sian was her usual easy going self. It was getting nearer the time for the concert and he hadn’t returned. I was anxious and Brigit urged me to sell the spare ticket that I had saved for him. She said that she really didn’t think we would see John again. The crowds converging on Earls Court were becoming chaotic and I considered that she might be right. There were no mobile phones in 1978, and my faith was a distant memory.
The long afternoon gave way to a disparate early evening and calls for spare tickets echoed around the milieu. Someone asked me again if I had a spare ticket for sale. I hesitated, and then reluctantly let mine go so that it wasn’t wasted. I asked no more than I had paid, but felt uneasy about it. I was astonished when I bumped into John some time later, then ashamed. “Did you get me a ticket? No?” He asked anxiously, responding to the expression on my face. I told him what had happened. He took it well. In fact, he re-touched my makeup, and then generously insisted that I wear his baggy red and white striped “Bowie trousers.” He peeled them off in front of me and I couldn’t help but notice he was wearing a pair of tight faded Levi jeans underneath that encased his long and lean legs. I told him how sorry I was about the ticket, and hoped we were still friends.
John hugged me affectionately as we went up the escalators to the entrance of the Earls Court Arena and assured me that my makeup looked great. It felt like he had switched on my emotions so that I became incandescent with happiness that we had met. But I was sad too, because without all the confusion, we could have enjoyed seeing David Bowie together. We said our goodbyes and I went through the doors to the arena without him. How could I have known that my life would never be the same again? To be continued…
SAM BURCHER MENU GAY JOHN MENU
