Never Being Boring: Pet Shop Boys at Warfield, San Francisco

IN MEMORY OF DENNIS ALLEN SIDMORE RIP DENNIS

It's the early 1990s. All my friends are either dead or dying from AIDS. I'm working at the Post Office doing data entry 8-12 hours a day, feeling real sorry for myself and fighting a formidable drug and alcohol problem that I couldn't seem to shake. I was full of rage, and had no clue that underneath all that anger was a massive load of straight-up fear. My best friend, Dennis, had gone from movie-star-good-looking to cadaver-with-a-sense-of-humor in what seemed like no time. I used to visit him every day, sit and talk, play with my dog, Cujo Marie, a dachshund-chihuaha mix that I left with him when I moved out a few years earlier.

Dennis and I had been lovers for a few years. He had enough money that I didn't have to work, but I had too much pride not to. I was unhappy at my drone job at the phone company, and having limitless spending money did allow me to quit working there and pursue one of my dreams: to work at a record store. I landed a night manager gig at Odyssey Records on Telegraph in Berkeley, about a block from campus. This was back when record stores stayed open until midnight. This was back when record stores - and records - actually existed as viable businesses. I had a lot of fun on that job, but drugs were rampant and Dennis and I began partying. Eventually I moved out and got my own place in Daly City and went back to the phone company.

We remained friends and kept in touch. I struggled with my addictions and Dennis got clean. He even became a drug counselor for a few years. I ended up moving back onto his property in Oakland and renting one of the cottages he had there. I had a new job and life was looking up. Dennis was in love and I got along well with his new partner. Then they began having problems and Dennis relapsed and acted out for a long time. His ex introduced me to crystal meth and I ended up strung out for the next 10 years.

Dennis got real sick real fast. I began trying to get clean, but I couldn't seem to do it. One day I was over his house after my latest relapse and he just chuckled in that froggy croak that passed for his voice and said, "Don't give up, Jimmy. You're just simple enough that recovery could work for you."

I didn't take offense. I always knew Dennis was my friend and, hey, I was very aware that I was not the brightest bulb in the batch. I went to work that day and did my data entry. The only good thing about the job - aside of course from the money - was that we could listen to CDs all day. I remember listening to Pet Shop Boys' "Behavior," especially the song, "Being Boring," and I felt like it summed up everything gay men had been going through, from moving to the city in search of freedom, to wilding out, to the epidemic , and I used to cry softly as I sang along and keyed up the mail. I didn't really care if anyone saw me and, anyway, no one was really paying attention to this sad old burn-out. Just one of many at the Post Office.

A couple of weeks later, Dennis' mother called me. She told me that Dennis would not be at home that morning and that I should come to Summit Hospital immediately as it appeared he was close to death. It happened so fast, man. I got there in time to sit by him and hold his hand and tell him I loved him. He had this big-ass mask on his face but he squeezed my hand real tight. I left in tears and went to work. A couple hours later, his Mom, Marie, told me that my best friend was dead.

I was bereft. My heart was broken. Marie and I became good friends in the aftermath of Dennis' death. No one else knew him the way that we did, and at the time, AIDS was considered a horrific plague. People used to openly say that gay men should be shipped to Alcatraz and left to die. It was a terrible time in many ways.
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I finally got clean and stayed clean. I began helping other people to get clean also, and that became my saving grace. I became a volunteer at the Center for AIDS Services in Oakland and was able to make a little difference. Marie and I remained close until she passed away. My life changed in many, many ways. Surprising everyone including myself, I morphed into a singer-songwriter. On my first album, "Better Late Than Never," I wrote a song called "Gone Not Forgotten," part of which was about Dennis and no one else:

"You said I could be somebody
You said I already was
Gave me space to chase my dreams
All for love, all for love
Then you ran wild and you got sick
Sat with you every day
I know I'll see you one fine day
I'm still here, baby

Gone, gone, gone, gone, gone...but not forgotten
No, no not forgotten"

So are you wondering how The Pet Shop Boys concerts at the Warfield in San Francisco ties in with this? Do you feel cheated because you expect my usual glowing review? Well, the shows were fantastic. I met a bunch of folks there and ended up right up front. The Pet Shop Boys verbalized so many things I didn't have words for at the time about the experience of being gay in the 1990s and beyond, and their shows are incredible. And both nights when they closed the show proper with "Being Boring," I sang along and cried, so grateful to have had a friend as true as Dennis Sidmore, and so grateful to have survived and have the life I live today.

"Cause we were never Being Boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never Being Boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: make amends
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
Cause we were never Being Boring
We were never being bored"

Tennant/Lowe

RIP Dennis Sidmore. I miss you. You're gone, but not forgotten. I still feel you in my heart.

SIDEBAR: I learned the other day that back in the day The Pet Shop Boys and Deadlee were talking about doing a song together. Deadlee is working on his next album. That collaboration would be pure magic. I don't think it's too late to get that idea going again!

Musical Heroes: Pet Shop Boys, Ari Gold, Deadlee, Lesley Gore

Ari Gold's new video debuted online at afterelton.com last week. It's for his ballad,"I Can Forgive You," a mature reflection on accepting the circumstances of a messy love affair gone awry, sung with the panache of Justin Timberlake with the kind of flexible, gorgeous voice Timberlake probably wishes he could muster nowadays. It's from his terrific "Transport Systems" CD, and differs from other R&B break-up ballads in that Gold is singing it to a man. Like the other songs on his record, he addresses issues currently intrinsic to the gay male experience, like the crystal meth epidemic ("Feeding the Fire"), the pleasures of casual encounters ("Ride to Heaven") and dealing with guys on the downlow ("Mr. Mistress"). It's joyful addictive dance-pop and Gold sings it all in his honeyed tenor without apology or grandstanding. He is who he is and he sings about his life as it is. I can only imagine the positive impact he has on young gay boys coming up and listening to his music.

That got me thinking about my musical heroes and their impact on me, and I realized that they all fall within the LGBT umbrella. The Pet Shop Boys who gave voice to my experience long before I was able to; the brilliant rapper Deadlee, whose ground-breaking, rule-smashing raps have set the template for new generations of outhiphop stars like the gifted Bry'Nt and vociferous Bone Intell and who has served as my muse and inspiration ever since I began exploring his work this year; and Lesley Gore, the 60s pop icon who came out of the closet and released her most mature, fully realized recording simultaneously.

It struck me that in my ongoing journey of self-discovery and personal growth (I almost gag writing those words but they're accurate), my embrace of musical artists who are open about their sexual preference and create music from their experiences was as authentic and organic as it was unconscious until now when I put it together. I know it's a sign of emotional, spiritual and mental health. I guess you don't know what you know until it's time for you to know it.

So I follow my musical heroes with enthusiasm and passion and I use what they do to encourage me to continue creating my own music. I saw Lesley Gore perform twice this year, at Yoshi's San Francisco and Feinstein's New York City, and when she sang the classic Billie Holiday blues, "Little Girl Blue" and chose to change the pronouns to "little boy lost in search of little boy found," I was far from the only person in the club with tears in his eyes. Ari Gold is working on his next project, touring and appearing off-Broadway. Deadlee is hard at work on his third recording, undoubtedly the most hotly anticipated out hip hop record ever, and continuing his unceasing outreach and support of the artists who have come behind him. The Pet Shop Boys' "Pandemonium" tour hits San Francisco tomorrow night and you know I will be there!

So this is a love song in words to my musical heroes, thanking them for the music, the courage, the inspiration, the balls to be who they are in a world and an industry that is still rife with homophobia. They each are so talented that they could have made it without being out and open, yet they chose to be who they are and their art and our culture are immeasurably enriched. Do yourself a favor and check out their work - vital, fresh and exciting. You won't regret it. You have my word on that!