Stacey D’Erasmo is the author of the novels “Tea” and “A Seahorse Year.”
March 27, 2005
THE FABULOUS SYLVESTER: The Legend, the Music, the ‘70s in San Francisco, by Joshua Gamson. Holt, 306 pp., $26.
Biographers, says the truism, inevitably end up hating their subjects by the time they’ve finished writing the biography. Years spent with the same, all too human person, no matter how extraordinary that person’s achievements, can only puncture the dream, leaving a small, deflated creature. If you’re smart, you won’t look at the man behind the curtain; he’s never the wizard you had imagined.
Joshua Gamson, however, in his delightful look at Sylvester, the pop star whose most famous hit was “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real),” defies this and much other received wisdom about what can and can’t happen in considering a famous life. He is obdurate and excessive in the love that rarely speaks its name: the love, that is, for one’s subject. I’m not sure I’ve ever read an account of a life that has so much sheer joy, raffishness and humor on each page. Gamson, apparently, doesn’t just admire Sylvester or wish to study him in a perceptive but cool cultural studies sort of way. He thinks Sylvester rocked the galaxy. And, from the evidence of “The Fabulous Sylvester,” Gamson is right.
Indeed, it’s Gamson’s delight in Sylvester that not only brings Sylvester back to life on the page, but also reanimates a topic - the ‘70s, disco and San Francisco’s gay history - that might otherwise seem all too well-known by now. The culture has digested and redigested the ‘70s so many times that it’s difficult to experience that history with any sort of perceptive edge. The fact that it was capped by the beginning of the AIDS epidemic also overdetermines the way those years are often read: well, fun, yes, but look what happened.
Gamson avoids these traps, first by looking with great care and specificity at the black drag queen and the radical commune scenes of which Sylvester was a part. But mostly he keeps the spotlight - where else? - on the tall, flamboyant, glowing figure of Sylvester himself. Moreover, under the sign of Sylvester, as it were, he unabashedly tosses off such bon mots as, “Wigs flew; nails were broken. History was made,” or “The Disquotays were wound up, jittery in that way you turn when you’re getting ready for something you know you can’t get ready for, like a tornado or a spanking or a first kiss.” Somehow, one doesn’t imagine that, say, Robert Caro had the same kind of fun with LBJ.
Sylvester, born Sylvester James in 1947 in South Central Los Angeles, was the oldest of six children. His mother was a ferociously churchgoing, no-nonsense woman who tossed her effeminate son out of the house when he was in his mid-teens. He graduated from high school at the age of 22, but by then he was already a veteran superstar of a black, gay, mid- ‘60s drag scene known as the Disquotays in Los Angeles. He knew how to rat a wig and carve ladylike hips out of foam (the best kind came from the seats of Cadillacs) like no one else.
His outfits are still the stuff of legend: babydoll dresses and buckled Pilgrim shoes; full-length sequined gowns; a dress accessorized with a knife, fork, spoon and canteen; checkerboards or Star-Spangled Banner glitter painted on his eyelids, with earrings to match. He was 15, 16; he was a beautiful black girl. He was, comments a friend from those days, “in a Doris Day musical, and it was ongoing.”
When Sylvester moved to San Francisco in 1970 and hooked up with the Cockettes, the famous commune-performance troupe-gender-anarchist-psychedelic-continual happening, he began, both with and in resistance to their free-floating ethos, to forge in earnest the performance persona that would, all too briefly, make him famous. In the company of the Cockettes, he transformed himself from gorgeous black girl to indeterminately gendered hippie fantasy to “vintage blues diva” in the tradition of Billie Holiday. When the Cockettes bombed in their first New York performance in 1971, Sylvester shone.
But it wasn’t until 1978, after several albums and various thudding non-starts, that Sylvester, with the backing of Two Tons of Fun (Martha Wash and Izora Rhodes), finally found his moment with “Mighty Real” and “Disco Heat.” Of the former iconic hit, Gamson perceptively observes, comparing the song to the “realness” aspiration of drag ball participants, “To feel real, in this sense, is to make the costume into your skin, to bring the fantasy self into actual being.” For perhaps a year, perhaps a bit more, Sylvester was, indeed, mighty real. His star fell as disco went out of fashion; he died of AIDS in 1988 at the age of 41.
The word “fabulous,” Gamson reminds us, is from the Latin fabulosus, or “celebrated in fable.” In this fable, the beautiful princess grew up to become an even more beautiful queen who was ... admired by many, many, many suitors (Sylvester once joked that he wanted to be reincarnated as a bicycle seat) and had many wigs and ruled a peaceful land. If she didn’t entirely live happily ever after, she did, in her short reign, truly live. As fables go, this is a good one.










