by Jake Shears
Neil Harris was a tall, husky, pale-skinned man with a stern face and a fast, staccato delivery. When you spoke to him, he leaned in and squinted his eyes, but when he laughed, his whole face opened from this dour expression to a lit-up smile. That afternoon we rapped about music and watched a bunch of DJs—after which Scott and I went to the gay beach, to catch some rays before sunset.
Carlos, the hotel manager, was there, with one of the editors of InStyle magazine, who was also staying at Que Tal, along with a photographer and artist named Tim Hailand. We lay on beach towels and yammered. Tim talked a ton about Pete Burns and Vivienne Westwood; apparently they were all friends. The guy from InStyle kept saying things like: “New York is so over, it’s just dead. There’s nothing going on there.”
His comments made my blood boil. I snapped at him: “Maybe it’s time for you to leave then. If you think there’s nothing going on in New York, it’s your own fault. It just means that you’re not doing anything worth talking about.” The guy looked at me like I had just peed in the punch bowl. I couldn’t help but take that statement personally. Don’t sit here and tell me that nothing’s going on in New York City.
That night Scott and I went to Metro, a cavernous gay discotheque that I dubbed the “Spin Cycle.” It was so labyrinthine and strobed that you lost all sense of direction, especially if you were fucked-up. The bathroom smelled like someone’s rotted insides, but was packed with guys around urinals, porn playing on screens above each one. I never could figure out what everyone was doing in there. Probably drugs. Right outside the bathroom door was an entrance to a big dark room where you couldn’t see your hands in front of your face.
Scott and I spied two really sexy men. One was short, spark plug–shaped, and beefy. He was with a hunky blond guy who was in a wheelchair. “What do you think?” I said to Scott. “Are they boyfriends?”
“I’m guessing so. Let’s talk to them anyway.”
We approached and chatted them up. It turned out they were both military and, yes, they were boyfriends on vacation. The blond guy in the wheelchair had been hit by a car a year ago and was still recovering from the accident. I got everybody drinks and then went to the back room with the two of them. The blond guy gave me a great blow job.
Right then, the club announced last call and I looked at my watch. It was almost six in the morning. I said goodbye to the two guys and hoofed it up the stairs into the bright, hot summer morning air. In the taxi I laid my head back, so excited for a bed. Out the window, I spied Scott, having found the two of them on his way out, pushing the blond guy’s wheelchair down the street toward their hotel. That was the first and only time we ever hooked up with the same people.
Back at Sónar that afternoon I started hearing from multiple people that they were hearing Scissor Sisters being played in various sets. Apparently, many DJs were playing “Electrobix” as well as “Comfortably Numb,” which was on the B side.
That night Scott and I went to a label showcase for Kitty-Yo at Nitsa club, where a hot Spanish boy in the bathroom asked me if I wanted any “white diamonds,” whatever those were. He said they were four euros apiece. Cheap drugs are usually a red flag, but I was empty-handed and willing to try out the local goods. The boy smirked as I handed him the cash, and I realized he was giving my outfit a once-over. I was wearing a white flat cap with a black-and-white-striped tank top, white suspenders, white pants, and white gloves. I hadn’t heard that mimes were a thing that season, but I thought I looked striking and it was pretty cheap to put together.
Afterward, we attended the main party at Montjuïc stadium, where Tiga was DJing an outdoor stage for what seemed like ten thousand people. The “white diamonds” I’d bought in the bathroom started to surge, and within no time, I was completely off my face. Scott was eyeing me with his usual skepticism. He wasn’t used to parties this big and he had tripped down some stairs earlier, spraining his ankle as I pointed and cackled. We were an odd couple: I looked like a madman dancing, all huge eyes and jazz hands, while Scott limped around in pain. I was feeling none.
Suddenly, I heard a familiar bass line. “Oh, I know this song. I love it!” I clapped my hands. And then I realized it was our own. Tiga was playing “Electrobix.” I screamed, my eyes bugging out of my head. With the song being played on such a massive system, I could hear every flaw. It was like being naked in front of everyone, but I was still ecstatic. Galloping toward the stage, where Tiga was playing, I screamed and jumped, waving my white-gloved hands. “This is our song!” I turned to the people around me. “Oh my God, this is our song!” We hollered and hugged, strangers happy to share the moment.
After Tiga’s set, I ran down to the side of the stage, embraced him, and introduced myself. “Dude, are you a mime?” he asked, amidst my babbling of thank-yous. “I love ‘Electrobix.’ I just got my hands on it last week.” Tiga and I would end up recording some big songs together: “You Gonna Want Me” and a cover of “Hot in Herrre” were the first. So began a collaborative friendship with him that lasts to this day.
Scott and I took the bus back into Barcelona as the sun was about to rise. I was still very high, so I disembarked, said good night, and strolled to the beach. People from the night before were strewn about like debris, flopping around in the sand, some in their sunglasses, some still in their evening clothes. Some had stripped down to their underwear. I walked to the shore, sat my butt down in the sand, and just gazed out at the water.
Something was happening. It was like there was a wire loose inside me, flapping around, spraying sparks. There were so many voices in my head speaking at once. “I’m gonna be in for it,” I said aloud. This was going to be my life. I took off my clothes and got in the crisp ocean wearing only my underwear. It was like being dunked in the river out in the desert when I was fifteen, but instead of surrendering to Jesus, I committed myself to a life in music. I was capable of making whatever I wanted. As long as I could dream it, I could make it happen.
There were three Brits sitting near me on a beach towel, two guys and a girl in their twenties. They had a bottle of champagne and asked me if I wanted a glass. I obliged and told them that I’d just had one of the most exciting nights of my life. “Ah, then this is a special toast,” one of them said. We tapped our plastic cups together, half covered in sand grit, and I tilted my head back and took a strong swallow.
I WAS BUYING A CAMERA in B&H Photo Video when the power went out. The inside of the store was like the inner workings of a huge clock. If Willy Wonka had an electronics shop run by Hasidic men and robots, it would look like B&H. The whirring conveyor belts overhead transporting baskets of goods came to an abrupt halt. I was standing at the counter, only daylight now illuminating the racks of gadgets. All was quiet except for the sounds of huffing voices and the shuffling of feet. The man at the counter who had been ringing me up shook his head and said I’d have to come back later.
I walked out into the streets of Chelsea, one hand holding the straps of my Rollerblades and the other shielding my eyes from the blazing sun. People were streaming out into the street, curious and confused. It was a blackout, at least through the whole neighborhood.
I perched on the ledge of a store window, pulled off my shoes, and stuffed them into my backpack, then swung my Rollerblades around and clinched them to my feet in a practiced matter of seconds. They were my fruit boots. Every time I put them on I thought of that old joke:
What’s the hardest thing about Rollerblading?
Coming out to your parents.
My Rollerblades were indispensable for getting around the city, like cyborg legs strapped to my feet. I wore them so much, when I took them off, the act of walking felt as if I were wading through molasses. I was careful not to fall, zipping through people and weaving between cars. Somehow I hadn’t had an accident. The back brake was worn from excessive use. A few days before, I had gone into a Union Square sports shop to replace them and gotten into a verbal shouting match with the guy in the department. He was rude
for no reason. The more years I spent in New York, the easier it had become to tell someone to go fuck themselves to their face.
I skated to the newly constructed Christopher Street Pier, where I knew plenty of gays would be gathering, having left their dark workplaces, happy to be pulling their shirts off and getting some sun, enjoying a surprise half day off. The boys were already sprawled in the grass, all bacon and eggs, doing their best to get burnt. As I skated, I could feel their eyes following me. I had become more recognized around town. Sometimes they’d call after me, using my new name.
I saw an olive-skinned, dark-haired guy with a questionably applied Superman tattoo on his shoulder. I’d seen him at the gym, and he’d flashed his junk at me once in the locker room. I floated over and we made small talk about the outage. Apparently it was covering the whole city. There were murmurings about another terrorist attack. But he’d heard that wasn’t the case. Instead, the grid was overloaded. Superman Tattoo didn’t have much to say, but he was stacked, so I asked him if he wanted to hike back across the city to my apartment, and we could throw down.
Our walk across the island was odd, the city draped in a placid chaos. People and cars meandered, seemingly aimless, waiting for electricity. By the time we got to my apartment, it was like a stuffy terrarium. So it made plenty of sense to just take off our clothes. After we fooled around, Superman Tattoo left. I never saw him again.
Sprawling around the swampy apartment, I racked my brain as to what the hell I was going to do. The post-sex sweat permeating the room smelled like I was cooking a pelican in rancid milk. I picked up my cell phone and tried to call Scott, to no avail. It was dead. I refused to rot in my place, especially when the city’s current strangeness beckoned.
It had cooled off outside on Twelfth Street. Locals were sitting on stoops, talking to one another, drinking Cokes. My super and his drug-dealer cousin were outside my door. The super seemed wary of me, though I’d never asked him for anything. His cousin eyed me for other reasons. Usually when I was on my way home from the Cock, as I unlocked the front door, I would hear him chanting under his breath, into the quiet night, “Coke. Coke. Coke. Coke.”
I headed to this guy Andrew’s, a handsome young man I’d met at the gym. He was sweet and slender, could have been a model if he wanted, possibly a little too delicate for me, and he didn’t know much about music. I had taken him to a Roxy Music gig at Radio City, but he had never heard of them. We ran into Fischerspooner’s Casey Spooner and his boyfriend Adam Dugas at the gig and afterward we all had dinner at Sardi’s. Casey pulled me aside that night and said, “Jason, that guy is a babe, but doesn’t say much.” I couldn’t tell if he was just a guy of few words, or if he just wasn’t very smart, but no matter, he was a good lay, so I rang his doorbell.
Andrew answered, and we went up to his equally baking place and fucked. His body didn’t have much hair on it and got slick as a mole when he sweated. When it was wet, you could see every single ropy muscle. He shuddered and sighed, smiled down at me. Sopping in our secretions, we slid around on each other, kissing whatever skin happened to be in front of our mouths.
I lay in his arms and asked him what he was going to do that night if the electricity didn’t come back on. “I’m supposed to work first thing in the morning,” he said. “So I’m probably just going to go to bed.” BORING! That was my cue. I wiped myself down with some dirty T-shirts and threw on my shorts, leaving my underwear to find its own way in the world. I kissed Andrew and walked to Tompkins Square Park, where people seemed to be gathering. The sky was turning. It was dusk. Reality was setting in.
There were no streetlights, no phones, there was no electricity. The streets were getting dark. I saw Sammy Jo, my DJ pal who lived next to me with his partner, who happened to be Justin Bond. “I’m gonna grab a boom box,” he said. “We need batteries. What say we light some candles and throw a party at the Slide?” This was a bar that party promoter Daniel Nardicio had purchased that was right next to Marion’s on the Bowery. The Slide was a sloppy, happy watering hole that was known for its encouragement of lewd behavior. As Sammy and I spoke, his features were in shadow. Not only was everything getting dark, in five minutes you wouldn’t be able to see where one foot was landing in front of the next. The oncoming lights from the few cars out were blinding, as if alien ships were touching down.
A couple hours later, I felt my way down Avenue A as if I were blackout drunk. The East Village was in full-swing mayhem, total anarchy, disorienting. There were whoops and hollers, flashlight beams cutting erratically through the darkness, constant bumps of shoulders and lots of cheerful “Excuse mes.” The view from the sidewalk by Tompkins Square Park was downright apocalyptic with bonfires, all surrounded by drum circles. The wild things had emerged, circling the flames and relishing the chaos. I caught glimpses of people completely naked, like cats darting between trash cans, reveling in an unspoken lift of clothing restrictions. The Slide had transformed as well. I arrived into a semi-Gothic dream, lit entirely by candles.
The air was filled with cackling laughter and Donna Summer’s Greatest Hits CD on the battery-powered boom box. The drinks were being poured aplenty. (For free? Awesome.) After a few strong cocktails, inspired by Sammy Jo’s choice of “Baby I’m a Star,” I decided to pull most of my clothes off and surf the bar for old times’ sake. Gripping the ceiling, twisting my hips, underwear pulled down just enough to cover my dick, I felt a tingly thrill over the tangle of skin and unfettered grins beneath me. At some point Sammy Jo and I started humping and riding each other (which was absurd—we were sisters, for crying out loud!). Justin Bond held court at the bar, sometimes hollering upward and slapping my bare ass. Almost everyone had their shirts off.
A guy I was dating named Mark strolled in by himself. Dark-skinned with a beak-like nose, confident, and always good-smelling, he made me insatiably horny. I knew in that moment with whom I would spend the duration of this strange night.
Mark and I had met a couple months before at one of Daniel Nardicio’s late-night parties in a barren industrial aquarium, with stacks of glowing fish tanks lining the walls. Mark, who was go-go dancing in a tiny Speedo, climbed into a nine-foot-tall tank with a small shark swimming around below. I dropped a hit of ecstasy and decided to strip off my clothes and join him. We chatted and swam around, our heads peeking just above the water; we brushed limbs and kissed each other under the fluorescent light, hanging about eight inches overhead. If we had accidentally knocked the light down, we would have been electrocuted. It was time to get out of the water when our sliding fingers became prunes and the shark bit Mark’s foot. He accompanied me home that night, and after a few dates I had developed quite a crush.
Back at the Slide, Justin Bond wrapped her arm around me and shot me a dreamy smile. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. The place was a sight, all of these East Village friends and queers together in one room, dancing with abandon. Even the freaky glow-stick guy was lurking in the corner, wide-eyed and staring, covered in neon tubes and flashing lights. I never saw him speak and he wasn’t conventionally attractive by any means. But I always liked seeing him out, decked in his finery. Even he had carved out his own place in New York nightlife.
We stayed at the Slide until four in the morning and closed the bar, sweaty and drunk. Mark and I ambled a couple blocks to the home of some friends who lived on the top floor of a walk-up. I stepped out on their fire escape by myself and gazed at the pitch-black city. I felt a new sense of independence now. It was the giddy, propulsive freedom that I’d been striving for. Grinning at the inky blots of buildings, I knew it was a silent, special vision that I would probably never see again. For a moment it seemed like I was the only person alive.
THE MEMBERS OF SOME OF my favorite bands, like the Cramps and My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, all had monikers, like Lux Interior and Groovy Man. I reasoned we should all have pseudonyms to help give us our special powers. Ana Matronic already had a cool name. Scott was nicknamed Babydaddy by
some friends. I had decided on Jake (short for Jason), and Shears, being a play on scissors. Years afterward I realized a strange connection: Billy Shears, a fictional character from “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” and Rhonda Shear, a busty blond late-night trash movie presenter from the ’80s on USA’s Up All Night. I always like to think that if Rhonda and Billy had had a baby, it would have been me.
After I tried the name on awhile, I thought it sounded too much like a porn star’s. So before we played a gig at the Knitting Factory in the fall, opening up for Kiki and Herb, I decided that I wasn’t going to be Jake Shears after all. Maybe changing my name was a stupid idea. But Neil Harris, our new manager, whom we had met in Barcelona, thought otherwise. “Too bad,” he said. “It’s too late, dude. You’re stuck with it.”
Every day there was some more news or opportunities, mainly having to do with this scene we found ourselves in the middle of. “Electroclash” was what they were calling it, and Luxx was the self-proclaimed epicenter, with Larry Tee as the ringmaster. There was so much hype. Fischerspooner, only recently still playing elaborate underground shows, had just signed a reported million-dollar record deal with Ministry of Sound. When the media found out, the pressure was on: With everyone knowing how much the album had been bought for, they were now waiting to see what was going to happen with this flagship band on the cusp of this craze. Casey Spooner wasn’t particularly helping the situation by saying outrageous things in interviews like “This is going to be bigger than Star Wars.” Whatever the perceived movement was, Fischerspooner were the acting ambassadors. With such high expectations, the whole thing had the potential to fizzle rather quickly.