Wham! George & Me Read online

  Andrew Ridgeley

  * * *

  WHAM! GEORGE & ME

  Contents

  Picture Credits

  Introduction: The Long Goodbye

  Part One: YOUNG GUNS 1. Decisions, Decisions

  2. The New Boy

  3. Parallel Lines

  4. Teenage Kicks

  5. Girls! Girls! Girls!

  6. Rude(Ish) Boys

  7. One Step Beyond

  8. Melody Makers

  9. Wham! Bam! (I Am! A Man!)

  10. The Edge of Heaven

  11. Becoming George

  12. Party Nights and Neon Lights

  Part Two: MAKING IT BIG! 13. Freedom

  14. Revelations

  15. Soul Boy (Let’s Hit The Town)

  16. The Teenage Fan Club

  17. Fun and Games

  18. Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow

  19. Feeding the World

  20. The Clothes Show

  21. Orient Excess

  22. Come Together

  23. The End of a Party

  24. How Not To Be a Pop Star

  25. You Have Been Loved

  Illustrations

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Andrew Ridgeley is one of the most recognisable faces of the eighties. He was one half of the phenomenal pop duo, WHAM!, one of the biggest names in the history of pop music. Born in Surrey, England, he grew up in Bushey, Hertfordshire where he met George Michael whilst attending Bushey Meads School; they struck up an easy friendship – both having a common interest in music – before forming WHAM! The band sold multi-platinum albums and singles globally, having number 1 hits all over the world including both the UK and the US.

  Andrew now pursues a variety of interests, significant amongst which is fundraising for The Dallaglio RugbyWorks Charity. He splits his time between his homes in Cornwall and London.

  This memoir is dedicated to the memory of my dearest friend, with whom I did the only thing I ever really wanted to do and was the only person I ever imagined doing it with.

  Picture Credits

  The author and publisher would like to thank all copyright holders for permission to reproduce their work. Every effort has been made to trace copyright holders and to obtain their permission for the use of copyright material. The publisher apologizes for any errors or omissions and would be grateful to be notified of any corrections that should be incorporated in future editions of this book.

  Introduction

  1 © PA Images

  2 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  3 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  4 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  5 © Topfoto

  6 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  7 © Mirrorpix

  Chapter 1

  1 © Pete Still/Redferns/Getty Images

  Chapter 2

  1 © Martyn Goddard

  2 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 3

  1 © Albert Ridgeley

  2 author’s own

  3 © Albert Ridgeley

  4 © Albert Ridgeley

  5 © Albert Ridgeley

  6 author’s own

  Chapter 4

  1 © Albert Ridgeley

  2 author’s own

  3 via Flickr

  Chapter 5

  1 Author’s own

  2 © Mirrorpix

  Chapter 6

  1 © Simon Hanhart

  2 © Michael Burdett

  3 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 7

  1 © Jeffrey Blackler/Alamy Stock Photo

  2 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 8

  1 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  2 © Mirrorpix

  3 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 9

  1 © Topfoto

  2 © Topfoto

  3 © Topfoto

  4 © FG/Bauer-Griffin/Getty Images

  Chapter 10

  1 © Albert Ridgeley

  2 author’s own

  3 © Topfoto

  4 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 11

  1 © Ian Dickson/Redferns/Getty Images

  2 © Michael Putland

  3 © Gabor Scott/Redferns/Getty Images

  4 © Alamy

  5 © Mirrorpix

  Chapter 12

  1 © David Clarke/BBC Photo Sales

  2 © David Clarke/BBC Photo Sales

  3 © Alamy

  4 © Mirrorpix

  Chapter 13

  1 © Topfoto

  2 © Martyn Goddard

  3 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 14

  1 © Topfoto

  2 © Topfoto

  Chapter 15

  1 © Pete Cronin/Redferns/Getty Images

  2 © Globe Photos/Zuma Press/PA Images

  Chapter 16

  1 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  2 © PA/PA Archive/PA Images

  3 © Michael Putland

  4 © John Swannell

  5 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  6 author’s own

  7 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 17

  1 © Michael Putland

  2 © The Sun/News Licensing

  3 © Mirrorpix

  4 © Rogers/Stringer/Hulton Archive/Getty Images

  Chapter 18

  1 © Mirrorpix

  2 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 19

  1 © Daily Express/Express Syndication

  Chapter 20

  1 © John Swannell

  2 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  Chapter 21

  1 © Mirrorpix/Getty Images

  2 © Kent Gavin/Mirrorpix

  3 © Albert Ridgeley

  4 © Albert Ridgeley

  5 © Neal Preston

  6 © Daily Express/Express Syndication

  Chapter 22

  1 © Chris Craymer

  2 © Georges De Keerle/Getty Images

  3 © Topfoto

  4 © Topfoto

  5 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  6 © Neil Leifer/Sports Illustrated via Getty Images

  7 © FG/Bauer-Griffin/Getty Images

  Chapter 23

  1 © Chris Craymer

  2 © Chris Craymer

  3 © Albert Ridgeley

  Chapter 24

  1 © Dave Hogan/Getty Images

  2 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  3 © Topfoto

  4 © Mirrorpix

  5 © Mirrorpix

  Chapter 25

  1 © Mirrorpix

  2 © Karwai Tang/WireImage/Getty Images

  3 © Mirrorpix

  4 © Mirrorpix

  Illustrations

  1 © Albert Ridgeley

  2 © Jennifer Ridgeley

  3 author’s own

  4 author’s own

  5 © Albert Ridgeley

  6 © Albert Ridgeley

  7 © Albert Ridgeley

  8 © Albert Ridgeley

  9 author’s own

  10 © Albert Ridgeley

  11 © Albert Ridgeley

  12 © Jennifer Ridgeley

  13 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  14 © Albert Ridgeley

  15 © Albert Ridgeley

  16 © Albert Ridgeley

  17 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  18 © Albert Ridgeley

  19 author’s own

  20 author’s own

  21 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  22 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  23 © Mirrorpix

  24 author’s own

  25 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  26 © Martyn Goddard

  27 © Albert Ridgeley

  28 © Martyn Goddard

  29 © Martyn Goddard

  30 © Martyn Goddard

  31 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  32 © Photoshot/TopFoto

  33 © Phil Dent/Redferns/Getty Images

  34 © Chris Craymer

  35 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  36 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  37 © Albert Ridgeley

  38 © Chris Craymer

  39 © Chris Craymer

  40 © Chris Craymer

  41 © Chris Craymer

  42 © John Swannell

  43 © John Swannell

  44 © Michael Putland/Getty Images

  45 supplied by author, copyright unknown

  46 © Mike Maloney/Shutterstock

  47 © Topfoto

  48 © Mirrorpix/Getty Images

  49 © Topfoto

  50 © Mirrorpix

  51 © Mirrorpix

  52 © Topfoto

  53 © Topfoto

  54 © Getty Images

  55 © Mirrorpix/Getty Images

  56 © Alan Olley/Mirrorpix/Getty Images

  57 © Topfoto

  58 © Mick Hutson/Redferns/Getty Images

  59 © Karwai Tang/WireImage/Getty Images

  60 © Roger Bamber/Shutterstock

  Introduction

  The Long Goodbye

  Saturday, 28 June 1986

  I waited for George.

  I always waited for George. This time, I was standing backstage at Wembley Stadium, patiently listening for my cue to make my entrance and waiting – waiting, waiting, waiting. The sun had melted below the arena’s grand old twin towers and tens of thousands of people seemed to shimmer in the far
away corners of its bowl-shaped terraces. Others were pooled into a swaying, brightly coloured tide on the football pitch below. Teenage girls waved flags and home-made banners; camera flashbulbs popped as kids, couples and groups of families and friends screamed excitedly: seventy-two thousand fans drawn together at The Final, a farewell concert for Wham!, the youthful, hopeful, effervescent pop band that George and I had always intended to burn brightly, but briefly.

  Four years on from the release of our first record in 1982, Wham! was still a big deal across radio, press and TV. Posters of me and George, pulled from the pages of Smash Hits and Just Seventeen magazine, had become the wallpaper for millions of teenage bedrooms, while showbiz columnists frothed over every snippet of Wham! news and gossip. But at the peak of our success, and after two studio albums and a portfolio of number 1 singles across the world, we were about to bid farewell to the very people drawn to those songs, those shows and those stories.

  And all of them were waiting, waiting, waiting for the final show to begin.

  I knew the routine backwards. George was onstage, walking towards the crowd, arms outstretched, striding along a catwalk that extended into Wembley’s front rows. This was his moment. Dressed all in black, a blend of leather and denim, his swept-back hair offset by designer stubble, every gesture, every signal, became a call-and-response connection with the audience. George played to the crowd; they swooned. Flanked by two dancers, he moved and spun to the instrumental backdrop of ‘Everything She Wants’, the pulsing soundtrack to a showy, theatrical introduction. George loved performing this wry observation of married life, even though we had been young, single and unchained from responsibility at the time of its writing. He waved to fans in the farthest corners of Wembley’s raucous party. He turned his back on the audience, pointing seductively across the stage, the microphone yet to touch his lips. George hadn’t said a word, let alone sung a note, but still everybody was hanging on his next move, a sensation I knew only too well.

  Because I had spent so long waiting for George.

  I’d waited for George as he endlessly readied himself for shows, teasing his hair with straighteners, sometimes for hours upon end while I recoiled at the acrid whiff of singed curls and hairspray in a ritual that appeared unnecessarily torturous. As our fame grew, George’s appearance became a very serious matter. Prior to filming the video to ‘Careless Whisper’ in 1984, he even complained that his curly hair, an uncontrollable mass of wiry frizz in the humidity, made him look ‘like Shirley Bassey’. George’s sister, Mel – a stylist – was then flown halfway around the world, from London to Miami, where the filming was taking place, to sculpt George’s hair just the way he liked it. The bill for her flight and handiwork was reported to have been more than £10,000.

  But I’d also waited for George as he worked through his frequent moments of musical inspiration. In the studio – a place where he toiled with an exacting attention to detail – or at home, when he would suddenly disappear for hours on end after being struck by some melodic cue or vocal hook. Often it proved to be yet another spark of genius, the most memorable snapshot of this process having taken place in February 1984 as we relaxed one Sunday afternoon in his parents’ living room. The Big Match was on the telly but George’s mind was very much on something other than football.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said, jumping off the sofa and vanishing upstairs for over an hour.

  When George returned, he was grinning proudly.

  ‘Bloody hell, Andy,’ he said, ‘come upstairs, you’ve got to hear this …’ He was excited, aware that he had composed something special, having worked out the basic arrangement and melody of a song he was loosely calling ‘Last Christmas’ on a four-track tape recorder – a demo he would eventually craft into the heart-bruised ballad that later became the biggest Christmas single not to make it to number 1. God, that statistic annoyed him. Despite its enduring success, the failure of ‘Last Christmas’ to topple the charity single by Band Aid that year – a musical union comprising, among others, Bob Geldof, U2, Duran Duran, Sting, Paul Weller and George himself – would irk him terribly, although he didn’t begrudge the charity their success. Throughout his life, hit singles were regarded as the only affirmation of George’s songwriting prowess and not being regarded as the best by his audience, or peers, was one of his greatest sources of irritation. But as we sat in his bedroom that day, the same place where we’d once analysed the Top 40 chart rundown after school as teenagers, I listened to a basic track that had been recorded on his synthesiser, its instantly memorable chorus hummed over the top, and beamed. George had captured the very heartbeat of Christmas, framing its lyrics within the pain of a broken romance.

  And I’d waited for George as he transformed himself from the funny but occasionally introspective teenager Georgios Panayiotou firstly into Yog – the nickname I’d given to him soon after we’d met as classmates at Bushey Meads Comprehensive – and then into George Michael, the singer-songwriter and dearest friend of my formative years and beyond. As we embarked on an intense and unpredictable journey into the limelight, our bond strengthened further. George evolved into one of the defining voices of his generation. But while he was crafting some of the eighties’ biggest singles, there was the sense that he was still defining himself. His sexuality remained a secret outside of Wham!’s inner circle and a gulf opened up between the very private life he was leading as a young gay man and his position as a teen pin-up and tabloid focus. He would later go on record as saying that the gravitational pull between private man and public personality created moments that threatened his sanity. Through all of this, I was a stable presence for George. He was my best friend and had been for years, but his personal destiny lay beyond the two of us. With Wham!’s last show at Wembley, the waiting for George was set to be over.

  Likewise, with my life’s ambitions achieved, it was over for me too.

  I stepped down towards the catwalk, our backing singers Helen ‘Pepsi’ DeMacque and Shirlie Holliman alongside me. The screaming was deafening, the roar of Wembley becoming louder, much louder. As I walked towards the popping lights and surging crowd, I heard scattered voices from the front rows: shouts of ‘Andrew!’, or ‘We love you, Wham!’ But beyond that there was only white noise. I paused at the edge of the stage as the hysteria ricocheted around me. Wherever we went in the world, the reaction to our arrival onstage always struck me as extraordinary and I rarely took the fandom surrounding our music for granted, or too seriously. The screaming girls, the autograph-hunters and the paparazzi: all of it was hyper-real and strange. As a result, everything we did was played for laughs. George and I knew it was a game and we were always determined to play our part in giving our audiences the energy they loved – it was very much Wham!’s brand.

  But in the weeks building up to it, The Final had been described as something of a near-religious event. Fans were referred to as acolytes; Wham! as icons. In the early years, our look onstage was playful, cheeky, and our shows had made headlines for our too-short shorts and cropped T-shirts, while promo videos for songs such as ‘Club Tropicana’ were packed with tongue-in-cheek nods to the joys of youthful hedonism. However, at Wembley we’d decided to create a more dramatic mood to match the fervour, eschewing our usually vibrant stage image for a more severe tone. George wore skinny black jeans and leather boots. A belt glittered with rhinestones and his jacket, its collar up, had been trimmed with tassels. My all-black look was equally striking: with the help of Pepsi and Shirlie, I shrugged off my trench coat to reveal a high-cut, fringed, matador-style jacket, complete with bootlace tie and sparkling belt. I struggled not to laugh as I slowly teased away my gloves, finger by finger, dropping them to the stage. Shirlie handed me my guitar and I pulled it over my shoulder. Showtime.