Steve Strange: memories of the man behind the make-up

There has been much debate over the years about the origin of the term The New Romantics. In his autobiography, Gary Kemp attributed it to Betty Page (my Eighties nom de plume). “Betty’s article was the first time I ever saw the phrase that would go on to name a youth movement. In Sounds that September 1980, she coined the name with the title: The New Romantics. It stuck.”

But there’s no doubt who embodied the spirit of New Romanticism: Steve Strange.

I was introduced to the club host extraordinaire at a Spandau Ballet event at the Tropical Gardens in Birmingham not long after my big interview with the band had appeared in Sounds. It was my first experience of unbridled Blitz Kid creativity. Spandau sported kilts, tartan trews, sporrans, spats and plaid shoulder-swags; Boy George favoured an Aladdin-inspired silk ensemble; while Steve Strange (born Harrington) wore his Vivienne Westwood sun, sea and piracy outfit.

Steve had been at the epicentre of London nightlife for some time before he grabbed his chance to climb on to a bigger stage. He became the singer in a band – or, rather, a New Romantic supergroup. Visage comprised Steve, DJ Rusty Egan, various members of Magazine, plus Ultravox’s Midge Ure and Billy Currie.

I interviewed Steve just before Visage’s first album was released, fully expecting to meet an arrogant 20th-century version of Beau Brummell. He was modelling the Little Lord Fauntleroy look – blue velvet britches with matching feathered cap, black patent pumps with bows, a white tunic and a red cravat. Porcelain face make-up, tumbling curls and two finely drawn black dots placed on the tip of his nose completed the look. I told him that I wished I had the patience to apply such an immaculate maquillage.

“I’ll get up as early as it takes to get my face right,” he replied. “No matter how big the hangover.”

Now there’s dedication. That’s what it takes to be A Creation. I no longer feared that the room was too big for the three of us – Steve, his reputation and me. He was just a sweet working-class boy from Wales who liked to dress up and party.

“I know people think I’m a clothes horse but I don’t think fashion can make a record,” he said. “The thing is I don’t dress like this because I’m coming to meet you. It’s my everyday wear. Try to explain that to somebody and they say, ‘Ooh, you must go out to shock,’ and I say, ‘No, I don’t, it’s been me since I was 14 and getting banned from school for having orange hair.’”

After our chat, I accompanied Little Lord Strange to the Visage album launch party. The Venue (Richard Branson’s short-lived supper-club music venue in Victoria) had never looked so vibrant, so colourful or had such a good atmosphere.

Steve handled the event like a pro, but rather sweetly expressed surprise at the attention focused on him. Beneath the alabaster make-up, he was sick with nerves. A surprisingly modest chap, Steve, but a genuine character that young London in the early Eighties would have been hard pressed to do without.

From that point onwards, Steve always made sure I was on his guest list. He invited me to the People’s Palace Valentine’s Day Ball at London’s Rainbow Theatre to witness the New Romantic brand going mainstream; and then his 22nd birthday party at the Embassy Club.

I remember arriving just in time to see the unmistakeable rear view of Quentin Crisp, closely followed by birthday boy Steve, resplendent in suit, spats, bowler and cane. The club was soon evacuated because of a bomb scare, which turned out to be a hoax perpetrated by a jealous Boy George and partner-in-crime Marilyn. Mr Strange was not amused. “The bitch!” he screamed, waving his silver-tipped cane in a menacing fashion. “How dare he ruin my party! I’ll get him back.”

He made sure I was there, too, when he and Rusty assembled the best guest list in town for the grand opening of Club for Heroes at 1 Baker Street. Steve was wearing an Armani suit when no one else had heard of Armani. The club had a large bar area with plenty of sofas and nooks and crannies in which to sit and observe the parade. It was luxurious compared to most of the dives in Soho at that time – truly ahead of the curve.

Then there was Steve and Rusty’s Sunday Tea Dance Club at the Kensington Roof Gardens, followed by the grand opening of their most ambitious project – the Palace. Backed to the tune of £100,000, they had transformed the scruffy old Music Machine in Camden, north London, into a vast, sparkling club venue complete with huge video screens, plush, art deco-style seating areas, cocktail bars and a Hollywood-style sweeping staircase.

The invite promised that “Steve and Rusty will be holding court” and they most certainly were. If the bomb had dropped on Camden that night the entire music industry would have been wiped out.

Steve did his best to work the room but still had time to tell me about the fashion show he’d just directed in Paris and the outfit he’d hoped to wear that evening. “It’s a sort of Wild West couture number with grey fur-trimmed chaps and a 10-gallon hat. I might wear it next week,” he told me.

The Palace would become my second home over the next few months, especially on Thursday nights, when you were guaranteed to bump into a selection of celebrities who would make it easy to fill your gossip column. It was never an “us and them” thing – we were all drinking buddies and there was no dividing line between pop writers and pop stars.

I reconvened with Steve as he celebrated another birthday at his friend Francesca Von Thyssen’s house in Chelsea, surrounded by Old Masters. He sat at an enormous antique desk, answering the constantly ringing telephone as friends called to wish him a happy birthday.

But the stress of stardom had taken its toll. “I’ve seen certain pop stars going through strain and I’ve seen me going through that. I turned to drink to get away from the nervousness of being out,” he confessed.

“I’m at the Palace three times a week but it used to be seven. I didn’t want to become an alcoholic. Social animal is a good way to sum me up.”

Steve had fought hard to be taken seriously, even though he had proved himself to be a successful entrepreneur. Did it hurt? Like hell…

“I’ve had it all the way, haven’t I?” he said, eyes glancing heavenward. “The only things that worry me are comments like, ‘He’s drinking champagne on Daddy’s credit card.’ That concerns me because whatever I’ve done it’s been off my own bat – I’ve never had to go to anyone for money. My father’s dead and that’s why it hurts.

“People review me, the way I look, rather than the music… all right, to some extent I suppose I’ve asked for it… I’m past the point of caring any more.”

As Steve answered his 25th phone call of the afternoon, his designer friend Karen O’Connor (daughter of Des) popped in with a pink and white birthday cake. I felt for Steve as he tucked into the gooey confection. There was a vulnerability inside that had pushed him towards the comfort blanket of alcohol. It was a strategy with which I was familiar.

Night Train was Visage’s last big hit, and I didn’t see Steve again until 1984. I had been invited to join the ridiculous junket that was the maiden flight of Richard Branson’s Virgin Atlantic Airways. The assembled press had been promised Boy George, but instead there was a parade of D-listers on board (I’ll spare their blushes). Just as we were about to give up hope of a good story, along ambled a bemused Holly Johnson (of Frankie Goes to Hollywood) as well as latecomers Jenny from the Belle Stars, Thin Lizzy’s Phil Lynott… and Mr Strange.

The champagne flowed all the way to New York, and Steve promised to take me to any club I wanted to visit in Manhattan. He came good on his promise – to begin with, anyway. I was privileged to witness at first hand Steve’s club-crashing technique at the horribly hip Limelight. He effortlessly circumnavigated the fashion fascists on the door, sweeping his posse – me, Jenny, Phil and Holly – with him straight to the VIP area, where we bumped into one of the Stray Cats. The club’s lackeys were so impressed that they offered us all life membership on the spot.

Holly set Steve’s challenge for the night – to get us all into legendary gay club The Saint and equally legendary hip-hop hangout Paradise Garage. New York gay clubs were not renowned for their love of females. Sadly not even Steve could persuade the bunch of misogynists on the door to let us in. “Women can’t come in wearing skirts and high heels,” they said, mystifyingly.

Steve and Holly retired, hurt and disgusted – they were gay, but they loved women. Steve attempted another guest-list blag at the Paradise Garage but failed miserably. I promised him I wouldn’t ruin his reputation by telling anyone back in London.

It would be the last good time I’d have with Steve. He struggled to cope with the wreckage of his pop career and sank into drug-induced oblivion. When New Romanticism was all over bar the Kajagoogoo, I retired my frilly shirts and turned to the serious matter of becoming the editor of a pop magazine. Never again would I experience such heady, carefree days in the company of the working-class lad from Wales who sprinkled glamour wherever he went.

In the ensuing years, I observed him from a distance – saddened by news of the shoplifting incident and loss of his possessions in a fire. We reconnected again through social media, but by then we were worlds apart.

I couldn’t sleep the night I found out that he’d died. He was three years younger than me, for God’s sake. Something strange happens inside when you start losing your contemporaries. 

But I will always remember Steve Strange for his kindness, his gentleness and his childlike charm. And whether or not I was responsible for naming a movement, no one would argue that he was the man who inspired it.