Oh 1980s, how I miss you sometimes. You were so silly and pretentious it’s a shame we had to part.
On the Wikipedia page for “Vienna” I read that it is “often performed live by Midge Ure in solo performances, most recently at Butlins in Skegness on Sat 8th May 2011″ which is, you know, both funny and sad.
Singer Lana Del Rey refers to herself as “a gangsta Nancy Sinatra” which pushes all the right buttons for me, as does her voice and face (not sure about those lips though), and this song is so gorgeously atmospheric you could sink into it. I think I’d like it more if it had a snappier tune but I’m just being picky, me like it a lot and the video is fantastic.
Look at this beautiful young girl, brimming with promise and talent at the start of her career. If only you could go back in time and warn her.
Of course we don’t know what killed her yet but we can guess. A lot of people have been saying they saw this coming but I’m with Davy, it was still a big shock as I thought she’d get her shit together in the end, that the daughter of a London cabbie would be tougher and more sensible. So I’m stunned and sad and, I have to say, a little angry with her for pissing so much promise away — but that’s just me being selfish. What a tragic bloody waste.
I was pleasantly surprised to find out that the new film by acclaimed documentary-maker Errol Morris was about the Joyce McKinney story which dominated the British press in 1977 — when they weren’t frothing at the mouth over the Sex Pistols, that is. It’s a doozy of a story too, involving a former beauty queen who became obsessed with a Mormon missionary, followed him to England where she kidnapped him and handcuffed him to a bed (with mink-lined cuffs) in a Dorset cottage for three days while she forced him to have sex with her (according to him anyway, McKinney always claimed it was consensual). He eventually escaped, she was arrested but skipped bail, fled the country, and was found in Atlanta a week later hiding out disguised as a nun.
It really doesn’t get much more perfectly tabloid than that so it’s no wonder Fleet Street had a collective orgasm over it, especially when at the centre of the story was a colourful, curvy blond given to statements like “I loved him so much that I would have skiied naked down Mount Everest with a carnation up my nose if he had asked me to.”
But perhaps the most surprising thing about McKinney is how completely forgotten she is (or was, before this movie.) Despite the lurid, you-couldn’t-make-it-up nature of her story she vanished and tumbled down the memory hole pretty soon after she left England (though she continued with her highly eccentric behaviour.), even people who were around in England in 1977 might have a hard time remembering what she was infamous for. That’s how things were in the old-media world of the 1970s, only one cheapo book was published about the case and yesterday’s tabloid sensation quickly became tomorrow’s fish and chip paper.
She obviously picked the wrong decade (wrong century, actually) to kidnap a Mormon missionary and chain him to a bed. Today there are plenty of ways for a person to milk their Warholian fifteen minutes for all they’re worth and even people who don’t seem to actually do anything can become world-famous, so the sky should be the limit for a character like Joyce to turn her notoriety into money and celebrity: hire Max Clifford to keep her in the papers, a reality television show, a tell-all autobiography, her own line of fitness videos, make-up, shoes, perfume, and probably her own brand of fur-lined handcuffs to sell on QVC too.