Nightclubbing

Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Grace Jones...

In late 1989, I went to interview Grace Jones in Milan. She had a single out and was promoting it in a nightclub, I think. I say “I think” because most of the evening we spent together is lost in memory’s spent fumes.

It began with a formal interview in Grace’s hotel. She told me her three reasons for smoking cigarettes (”I like to pose with things. I think they look good in pictures. And I like the way the English call them fags”), she made a remark about some men who were sitting nearby and chatting (“Maybe someone could tell them to fucking get out.”) and she agreed that she has had a varied career – “I’m all over the place! It’s my nature, I’m all over the place, I’m a firefly! A jumping bean!”

And then we went out. The next thing I recall is it’s four am and I am in a club with Grace and NME’s legendary photographer Derek Ridgers, who is famous for his pictures of clubbers and youth tribes. It is about now that Grace pulls down her skirt down to show us that she has got no knickers on, then cackles merrily.

“I can’t help it! I’m a preacher’s child!” she giggles.

“You’re the son of a preacher man,” I reply. “You’re Dusty Springfield!”

“I am! I am!” says Grace.

For some reason I tell Grace Jones that I have bigger breasts than she does.

“I love big breasts!” she roars and begins to vigorously knead my chest.

Around this time, Derek takes a photo of Grace and me. I look quite happy and Grace is smiling.

(pic ©Derek Ridgers)

Time to go. A limo comes and we get in. So does a woman nobody has seen before.

“I have something to tell you!” she cries.

Grace is unfazed.

“Are you getting in the car or not?” she asks.

This goes on for a while until Grace has had enough. She grabs the women by her shoulders and pulls her out into the road. The woman lands on the pavement and - in my memory at least – rolls down the hill away from us, possibly propelled by Grace’s foot.

Grace gets back in the car.

“I thought she was sweet...”.

The rest of the night is uneventful. The next day I have a terrible headache and my chest feels like a used drum kit.

But the memories…