In 1982, when Boy George of Culture Club asked the musical question, “Do you really want to hurt me?” he would have found plenty of takers.
Something about that sob of a voice, the maudlin self-pity in the lyric and the singer’s garish drag-queen persona brought out the worst in rock snobs, headbangers, skinheads and punks alike. At the time, flamboyant British pop bands such as Culture Club, Duran Duran and A Flock of Seagulls were invading the charts and posing a threat to guitar-centered rock machismo. Boy George — made up like a cross between a China doll and Bob Marley — was the pinup queen of the movement, worshiped and reviled in equal measure.
But after a run of top-10 hits — “Time (Clock of the Heart),” “I’ll Tumble 4 Ya,” “Church of the Poison Mind,” “Karma Chameleon,” “Miss Me Blind” — it all came crashing to a mid-’80s halt. George broke up with his boyfriend, Culture Club drummer Jon Moss, got hooked on heroin and spent most of the rest of the decade in and out of rehab. In 1992, he revived his career with “The Crying Game,” the title song for the gender-bending movie. A 1995 autobiography, “Take It Like a Man,” was a minor classic of 12-step kiss-and-tell self-flagellation and paved the way for the inevitable Culture Club reunion.
Now the erstwhile George O’Dowd is back with the original members of Culture Club — Moss, guitarist Roy Hay and drummer Mikey Craig — for a tour that brings the quartet to the Rosemont Horizon on Aug. 15. Also on tap is a double-CD of vintage Culture Club hits, recent live recordings and three newly written tracks. Before he left for the tour, Play On reached Boy George in London.
What’s different about Culture Club the second time around?
Well, I’m not sleeping with Jon anymore, so the power and dynamics within the group are different. It used to be the two of us pitted against the other two. Now we’re a bit older and hopefully we’re able to tolerate each other’s quirks, habits and personalities. A lot of stuff has come out in the open. It used to be, “Oh, is there a rhinocerous in the room? I hadn’t noticed.” That’s a very British attitude, but it’s not particularly healthy.
How did you get back together?
It all started with a VH1 documentary of the band, which looked at the George and Jon drama. No one was prepared to deal with gay relationships in rock ‘n’ roll in the ’80s, so VH1 opened the door a bit. Then VH1 approached Roy about doing a tour. We had lunch, and I said, “We all do it or we don’t do it all.” Which meant Jon and I had to speak for the first time in years. The whole twistedness of it interested me. Over the years, Jon avoided talking about the relationship, but now he has been forced to confront it. All I ever wanted him to say was that he loved me, and he’s done that now — on national TV — so I’m happy (laughs).
So is the band on good terms?
It’s been a lot of fun. They’re allowing me more control, but at the same time I’m not kicking and screaming like I used to do. I’m a more balanced person now. People used to laugh at me, like I was some mad king. And I had become a victim of my own madness.
Not only that, being openly gay couldn’t have helped your commercial prospects in the early ’80s.
I don’t think it helped my career much, but it was too much of a sacrifice to live a half life and deny my sexuality. When I heard Bronski Beat’s (“Smalltown Boy” a 1984 gay danceclub anthem), that was a big turning point for me. They were so brave and I felt like a coward. I had to come out.
Perry Farrell said a few years ago it’s hip to be gay in the ’90s. Do you agree?
We’re more visible but no more liberated. The attitude now is, he’s gay, but spare us the details. On (the 1995 solo album) “Cheapness and Beauty,” I used the word `he’ in addressing my lover in a song and a radio deejay flatly told me he could never play it because he couldn’t sing along with the lyric.
Do you feel it’s important to write from an overtly gay perspective, even if it could cost you commercially?
I’ve got a new song, “Some Strange Voodoo,” about an ex-boyfriend that raised a few eyebrows in the band. But I’m adamant about not changing it. I see these songs as dealing with universal issues, but being gay is my experience — it’s something I can’t avoid. I’ve read reviews of our earlier music (that) talk about (it) as poppy and of `little consequence.’ But it misses the point if you don’t acknowledge the historical and sexual undercurrent.
People may not realize you were a young punk rocker once.
My image before Culture Club was much more outrageous. I was really a Bowie kid, way into Ziggy Stardust when I was 13. Punk was amazing, but in six months it went from the Sex Pistols and Steve Strange to Eddie and the Hot Rods and Cyndi Lauper — the potency had been removed.
What intrigued me about Culture Club was that you came out of the punk scene and incorporated a variety of influences.
Our first single was reggae with a tinge of country. It was a weird brew for any band: a black, a Jew, an Anglo and an Irish transvestite.
What was the lowest point during the low years?
Two years after Culture Club broke up I’m doing a gig in the north of England. Twenty people show up. An elderly woman is shouting, “Give us your autograph!” I tell her to stuff it because I’m trying to sing. The headline the next day is, “Do You Really Want to Hate Me?” I’ll never forget it. Afterward, I’m thinking, “I’m going to go work in a shoe shop.”
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