Jerry Hall
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lady stardust
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so glamorous..
pics from ebay.com
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lady stardust
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lady stardust
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from the roxy music album "siren" 1975..
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tigerrouge
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The Observer has run some of Jerry's quotes:
60swildchild
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Who The Hell Does JERRY HALL Think She Is?
Tom Hibbert, Q, May 1990
WANTED: drawling Southern belle with modelling experience, fun-loving socialite/raunchsome rock star's moll with sidelines in amateur dramatics, swimwear design and promoting beefy hot drinks. Position suits professional person, practised at playing the dumb blonde. Applications in writing to Tom Hibbert. P.S...
WE TAP SOFTLY and politely upon the dressing room door – nameplate: "Miss Jerry Hall" – in the Lyric Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue, and it's tugged, fairly wrenched, open by this peroxide Amazon, beaming beneath acres of lipstick, drawling Southern-wise, like Scarlett O'Hara on the sauce, "Wayull, and how ahre youwew!!?" You'd think she had never been quite so delighted to see anyone in her life. "Cayum eehyounn!" she goes, battily fluttering the eyebrows set within the overlong face and baring a set of monstrously gleaming, somewhat equine nashers. In her left hand she brandishes a vase of flowers, and there are similar bloom-filled vessels lined all along the mirror counter.
"Just leeyook at all these flowyers!" she says, gesturing dangerously with the vase at her florist shop-styled display. "I just leeyurve flowyers. They're from all my friends. Aren't they nahce? Aren't people nahce?"
Flowers, one must admit, are sometimes very nice, but these ones have been there in water since the play she's performing in, Bus Stop, opened a week ago. The dressing room now has a certain less-than-pleasant fragrance. Observing that we have noticed this fact, Ms Hall turns up her ample nose and all but bellows, "Eeyuh, this duressing room smeeyewulls! Mah curleaning lady, she's so nahce and surweet, she just cayun't bayear to throw my flowyers away!" At this she laughs a laugh that's almost a whinny, a thing born in the throat that comes out the nose and is almost impossible to express on the printed page...something like "Shnawwwlsnffffhuhhuhhyawl."
I will refrain, from here on, from attempting to translate Ms Hall's utterances phonetically. You would get a dreadful headache. Suffice it to say, she is clearly very proud of her Southern accent. She exaggerates, uses it, in combination with fluttering eyelashes, as a flirting device – "What, li'l meeyuh?" – just like Scarlett/Vivien Leigh did in Gone With The Wind. But if riled or angered, the accent slips; she loses it and she sounds, of a sudden, not some Southern belle but more like...well, Mick.
"Hi, Chris! How are you?" We have been interrupted (again...someone came scuttling in with Ms Hall's tea and then a make-up lady came to pop her head round the door and say "Hi!" and then there was a bearded bloke relaying some message about Saturday's matinee and now there's assistant director Chris Pickles, dropping by for pre-performance salutations.) "Hi, Chris! How are you? Wasn't Ben sweet? Did you meet him? He's so sweet. He loves the play!"
Chris looks rather blank.
"Ben Kingsley." Jerry darts a look at me to see if I have registered the name of the famed British Thespian.
"Ben Kingsley. He just loves the play."
Chris perks into action. "Oh, yeah, Ben. Ben was saying in the interval how he adored it. It was really nice to have such an open, honest reaction."
Jerry: "Sure was! Byeeee!"
Chris: "Byeeee!"
Jerry (to me
"Isn't Chris sweet?" (How on earth should I know? I only saw the geezer for a few seconds, but Jerry Hall seems to imagine – or wants you to imagine she imagines – that everybody is sweet and nahce.) "Oh, he's so sweet. Everyone in the play is so sweet and nahce, all the people in the theatre are so nahce, it's just like having a family. They're so sweet and so supportive and so positive, full of energy, and so sweet that it's really..."Sweet?
"...nahce."
JERRY HALL, dressed in simple sweater and jeans, though made up to the gills, stalks her dressing room, fussing with her hair and dabbing at her flowers, saying just how very delighted she is to be here, starring in the West End.
"I think the West End is wonderful. And you know, this is a really sweet play. It has lovely messages..."
Bus Stop, written in 1955 by William Inge, is pretty trifling, sub-Tennessee Williams stuff, concerning the fractured relationship between a would-be rodeo cowboy Bo Decker (played by David Cassidy's younger brother Shaun) and a would-be showgirl singer Cherie (Hall), who are stuck in a Kansas diner during a snowstorm. Maybe you have seen the 1956 film starring Marilyn Monroe. Jerry Hall is not Marilyn Monroe (her feet are too big), and reviews have been "mixed", as they say, some unkind gentlemen suggesting that Ms Hall is to the art of Thespis what Yves St Laurent is to speedway. To be polite, Ms Hall is adequate in the part (called upon to lounge upon the diner's counter and sing 'That Old Black Magic' out of tune, she proves that when it comes to singing off key, she's the tops). Ms Hall does not take kindly to criticism of her craft. She sits, slowly crosses her legs, slowly ignites a Marlboro Light and blows the smoke out with something approaching a snarl.
"Some of the reviews were nahce but, you know, they picked on me a lot about being too tall, which is so stupid because everybody knows I'm tall. But they just wanted to pick on me and be bitchy and stuff."
Paranoid tendencies dissipate and Hall composes herself once more into a life-loving Southern belle.
"But I've gotten wonderful letters. All my friends liked it and I've been offered four other plays and two movies," – she is positively beaming – "so it's very good for my career."
Ah, career. Thus far, the career has consisted of highly-paid modelling and, more important, being the much publicised paramour of Mick Jagger. She doesn't need the money that the West End offers but, well...
"I have a whole lot of creative energy and I have all these big ideas and I want to entertain people. It's something that's in you from childhood, this desperately wanting to please and entertain people. It's like a gift, or something. Maybe it's that. It's different with Mick."
Ask Jerry Hall about herself and her response often, somehow, turns to things Mick.
"Mick dreams music. He hears music, you know. He's always hearing songs in his head. It's some sort of special talent. With me, I like to do different projects because if you have too much energy, it can go bad on you if you don't do something about it. I just have to work because if I don't work I tend to re-arrange the furniture all the time."
JERRY HALL WAS born in Mesquite, Texas about 35 years ago ("about" = age in some dispute). Her father was a truck driver, transporting explosive chemicals across America. Her mother was a medical records librarian. The girl had to share a bed with three sisters, which sounds frightfully Southern-impoverished-romantic and Dolly Partonesque but "we weren't like dirt poor, you know, we weren't really white trash, we were just sort of on the verge of being regular suburban lower-middle-class American. I have never had to starve."
It was mother who taught Jerry that a woman should be a cook in the kitchen, a maid in the living room, a wh*re in the bedroom.
"Oh, that old quote. I try not to say those things any more. When I was modelling, I was hanging out with wild people and the reporters would want me to say some wild quote. I used to be quite good at that stuff."
Yes, it was Ms Hall who offered this valuable snippet of advice on how to keep a man to gals everywhere: "Even if you only have two seconds, drop everything and give him a blow job." She laughs her whinnying laugh, a disconcerting sound.
"Oh, that's dumb. I don't say those things any more...Actually my mother was a bit old-fashioned, really. She did believe that the man was the king of the castle and that you should try and please them and she thought if you were nahce and sexy you got a lot more out of life."
Does Hall believe that "man is the king of the castle"?
"I don't know because I feel very liberated. I've always made more money than the men in my job, I've always worked and I've had my own money and done what I like with it. And actually Mick is actually much better at organising, you know, things to do with the house than I am. I like to do the decorating and invite people and entertain them but he's much more practical."
What? You mean Mick Jagger, latter-day rock Lothario, can change a fuse?
"A feeyews? What's that? I dunno. He's good with his hands, haha."
Oo-er, sounds a bit rude.
"I wouldn't say I was the sort of typical unliberated, you know, house-wifey thing. But I suppose man is still king of the castle...if he's got some muhney, hahaha..."
Hall has always been drawn to men with muhney, it seems. Flings with David Ogilvy and former racing mogul Robert Sangster, relationships with Bryan Ferry and Mick. But she does not wish to dwell upon the men in her past.
"No, no nah, I don't want to talk about all that. I'm sick of talking about that. I'm sick of talking about Bryan. I'm sick of talking about Mick." (Really?) "I don't want to talk about all that. The English press can be pretty ghastly, can't they? They sure can." All she will say about Bryan is "He was great fun around the house." The rest is silence.
Jerry Hall, girl from Mesquite, worked at Dairy Queen, dishing up ice cream, before her mother encouraged her to take up modelling.
"Everybody said I was nahce and pretty and photogenic but I was tall and thin and I used to be very upset about it. I'd cry and crah and stuff but my mother said, Well, you know, look at this girl Twiggy, she's really well known and she's skinnier than you are and she's made it, so maybe you can do that. And my school picture came out real good. It gave me a happy feeling."[/FONT]/FONT]
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60swildchild
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So she left Texas when she was 16 (or thereabouts), came to Europe and was discovered by Helmut Newton, billed as the new Verushka, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Catwalks and the covers of all the high-gloss magazines and piles and piles of dough. This top model person now has her own swimwear "collection"...
"I lerve choosing fabrics. I lerve design. I do it all myself. Sometimes when I see somebody on the beach that I don't know and they're wearing all my swim-suits, I get the biggest thrill. It's called Jerry Hall Swimwear..." (a plug) "...for lack of imagination. It's about the third most successful swimwear line in the world."
Golly! And she has a proper acting career – of sorts. She was in the thoroughly tiresome Urban Cowboy (starring John Travolta) for about two seconds; she was in Batman for about 10 seconds, scuttling in and out of rooms with shopping bags as Jack Nicholson's bimbo girlfriend ("Boy, was Batman a success!" she exclaims, almost taking the credit herself). But she is probably best known to the casual viewer for her appearances in telly commercials for Applause (a chocolate bar confection) and Bovril (a peculiar beverage). In one of the Bovril ads, for Chicken Bovril, the glamour-puss was called upon to dress up in a stupid chicken suit. Not very dignified, was it?
"Oh, that was fuhn! I've been so lucky in my career because most of my commercials are kind of tongue-in-cheek and have a lot of irony and I lerve that. Dressing up as a chicken is kinda funny, you know. It's not a hard, dumb sell. And all the products I do are quite good. I've never done commercials for things that I thought were awful."
You mean you actually like Bovril?
"I lerve it!" she says, brand loyal to the last. "I lerve it, I swear. I drink it all the time. Have you ever tried the Chicken Bovril?"
No.
"I swear, if you don't like the beef, the Chicken Bovril is very good. I like the beef Bovril, too. My mother had this beef wine and iron tonic that we had to drink and we were brought up on cows, you know, beef, beef, beef for breakfast, lunch and dinner so I lerve the beef Bovril. I think it strengthens me."
Jerry Hall takes a sip of tea and lights another cigarette. She's said she thinks the English tabloid press is "ghastly" but, in fact, the newspapers have always been unusually soft on Jerry Hall. They rave on about her striking looks and her glamour and her impeccable nahceness; they've never done a scandalous number on her. When she got into her spot of trouble in Barbados, arrested on drugs charges, they rose in her defence crying this-is-not-a-fair-cop-hands-off-our-Jerry and that sort of thing. The entertainment correspondent of the Daily Mail fed her mints every day in court.
So how was Barbados? She draws heavily upon her cigarette, summoning up her righteous anger. The accent slips.
"That was so awful. So stupid. As if I would go through customs with a cardboard box full of 20 pounds of marijuana. It was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard of. I actually didn't go through customs. What happened was I asked my butler to send my sweaters from the States and my butler sent them and someone picked them up and put them in the wrong locker at the airport and then they put my name on this other box (the marijuana-stuffed box, that is) and I went to collect it and, God, it was like a nightmare. It was like something so awful, you can't possibly imagine. You can't imagine that that could ever happen in the civilised world. But they're so idiotic there in Barbados; they are all fools and they're horrible and they were getting bugged about their drug problem and they were trying to blame it on somebody well known. It was just pathetic. But the judge was very sweet and nahce...and the customs man got fired for it." Well! "I mean, I don't even like drugs, you know. You can ask Mick. When I first met him, I didn't even drink and he used to laugh in my face, huhhuh. I drink now, because alcohol is very good for your blood..."
To the vulgar newspapers, and others, Jerry Hall represents some kind of Queen of London Society. Seen at all the best parties with the nobs and the toffs and the Billy Connollys of this world. She denies this all, of course, says she's really just a hard worker and a homebody with no time on her hands for playing the flitting socialite. It's just that, you see, photographers tend to snap her whenever she deigns to attend some frolicsome function or other. They like to have her pic in their publications because she's, well, nahce and pretty...
"I don't think I'm a Queen of Society, I don't think that's true at all. It makes me laugh when I read that. I think, God, I spend so much time working and staying home with the kids. But I like the Summer season. In the Summer there's lots of parties. Don't you go to them?"
No. She throws me a look of pity.
"Oh, that's sad. In the Winter there's dinners and stuff and charity events, you know, but most of the parties happen in the Summer, with all the events, the horse racing and the tennis and this and that. I love it."
She plays a dumb blonde act, batting the lashes and tossing back the peroxide mane and pouting and flirting and purring (except when the accent slips) with gusto, does Ms Hall. Is the act genuine, one wonders, or is it something she learnt at her mother's knee, to please and entertain and get her way? Is she a woman of artifice?
"I've heard them say that but, you know, Little House On The Prairie (dreadful American TV series with Michael London and raccoons and much sentimental backwoods inactivity) makes me cry. I cry and crah. I'm always crying at the soppiest things. Mick makes me cry when he does sweet things. He does so many sweet things. You know, he's gone off for three days with his father hiking in Cornwall. Isn't that sweet? He's so nahce. He does such sweet things. He's so sweet and nahce and caring and..."
Not having a sickbag to hand, I feel it necessary to interrupt quickly with a brusque query. If Jerry is not a woman of artifice, is she, then, really dumb?
"Oh, well, that woman of artifice stuff could come from something I said. I said when men were being patronising to me in business or something I just sort of smile sweetly and think, Beneath this peroxide lies a smart brunette, haha. And then L'Oreal, the hair people, liked it and so they used that line in their campaign that I did for them, but I said, Beneath this blonde lies a smart brunette. So you would presume I was faking dumb, but I don't think I have to fake dumb. I'm so uneducated on so many things, I am dumb. I've been trying to read Proust for a while but I haven't got through it. And I hang out with lots of people who are very intelligent, writers and different things, and I feel quite lost sometimes in their conversation so I try to read all the great classics, Proust and stuff, and a lot of them change my life because they're fascinating but it's a lifelong job. And I'm dumb. But I'm not stupid. I trust my instincts so I don't think I'm stupid..."
I ask Jerry Hall if she believes in God and she looks wide-eyed, amazed at the question.
"Why, of course I do. Don't you? I was brought up to believe in God and I always have. It gives me great joy to believe in God. I enjoy gardening and being with my children and being with God and I hope to continue all those lovely things. I think God is nahce."
I ask her where she stands on The Rolling Stones. Does she sort of dig the elderly R&B ragamuffins?
"Oh, yeah I lerve The Rolling Stones. But I was brought up on country and western music. It's my roots. Have you ever listened to Nanci Griffith? She's great."
So what's her favourite Rolling Stones song?
"Um...um..." She pauses and withdraws another cigarette from the emptying packet.
"Um...I think 'Miss You' is the best."
'Miss You'? That rather fearful disco thing rather than 'Gimme Shelter' or similar "golden great"?
"I like 'Miss You'. And I lerve the new album. You know, "You're not the only ship adrift on the ocean" – I think that's so sweet. Every time I ask Mick, he says, All my songs are about you, honey. Hahaha. Actually, I guess I'm not a good judge of music."
JERRY HALL SUDDENLY swoops to her feet crying, "What tahme is it?" It is a quarter to seven and the stage is calling. "Quarter to seven? You're kid-ding! Ah got to get ready!!"
And in her hurried panic, she lets fly a curse that sounds more Mick than Southern belle. "****!" she says. But then she remembers herself, corrects the word with a coy Texan smile and a flutter of eyelids.
"Aw, shoot! And we were getting on sowayull...!"
© Tom Hibbert, 1990
http://www.rocksbackpages.com/index.html
Catwalks and the covers of all the high-gloss magazines and piles and piles of dough. This top model person now has her own swimwear "collection"...
"I lerve choosing fabrics. I lerve design. I do it all myself. Sometimes when I see somebody on the beach that I don't know and they're wearing all my swim-suits, I get the biggest thrill. It's called Jerry Hall Swimwear..." (a plug) "...for lack of imagination. It's about the third most successful swimwear line in the world."
Golly! And she has a proper acting career – of sorts. She was in the thoroughly tiresome Urban Cowboy (starring John Travolta) for about two seconds; she was in Batman for about 10 seconds, scuttling in and out of rooms with shopping bags as Jack Nicholson's bimbo girlfriend ("Boy, was Batman a success!" she exclaims, almost taking the credit herself). But she is probably best known to the casual viewer for her appearances in telly commercials for Applause (a chocolate bar confection) and Bovril (a peculiar beverage). In one of the Bovril ads, for Chicken Bovril, the glamour-puss was called upon to dress up in a stupid chicken suit. Not very dignified, was it?
"Oh, that was fuhn! I've been so lucky in my career because most of my commercials are kind of tongue-in-cheek and have a lot of irony and I lerve that. Dressing up as a chicken is kinda funny, you know. It's not a hard, dumb sell. And all the products I do are quite good. I've never done commercials for things that I thought were awful."
You mean you actually like Bovril?
"I lerve it!" she says, brand loyal to the last. "I lerve it, I swear. I drink it all the time. Have you ever tried the Chicken Bovril?"
No.
"I swear, if you don't like the beef, the Chicken Bovril is very good. I like the beef Bovril, too. My mother had this beef wine and iron tonic that we had to drink and we were brought up on cows, you know, beef, beef, beef for breakfast, lunch and dinner so I lerve the beef Bovril. I think it strengthens me."
Jerry Hall takes a sip of tea and lights another cigarette. She's said she thinks the English tabloid press is "ghastly" but, in fact, the newspapers have always been unusually soft on Jerry Hall. They rave on about her striking looks and her glamour and her impeccable nahceness; they've never done a scandalous number on her. When she got into her spot of trouble in Barbados, arrested on drugs charges, they rose in her defence crying this-is-not-a-fair-cop-hands-off-our-Jerry and that sort of thing. The entertainment correspondent of the Daily Mail fed her mints every day in court.
So how was Barbados? She draws heavily upon her cigarette, summoning up her righteous anger. The accent slips.
"That was so awful. So stupid. As if I would go through customs with a cardboard box full of 20 pounds of marijuana. It was the dumbest thing I'd ever heard of. I actually didn't go through customs. What happened was I asked my butler to send my sweaters from the States and my butler sent them and someone picked them up and put them in the wrong locker at the airport and then they put my name on this other box (the marijuana-stuffed box, that is) and I went to collect it and, God, it was like a nightmare. It was like something so awful, you can't possibly imagine. You can't imagine that that could ever happen in the civilised world. But they're so idiotic there in Barbados; they are all fools and they're horrible and they were getting bugged about their drug problem and they were trying to blame it on somebody well known. It was just pathetic. But the judge was very sweet and nahce...and the customs man got fired for it." Well! "I mean, I don't even like drugs, you know. You can ask Mick. When I first met him, I didn't even drink and he used to laugh in my face, huhhuh. I drink now, because alcohol is very good for your blood..."
To the vulgar newspapers, and others, Jerry Hall represents some kind of Queen of London Society. Seen at all the best parties with the nobs and the toffs and the Billy Connollys of this world. She denies this all, of course, says she's really just a hard worker and a homebody with no time on her hands for playing the flitting socialite. It's just that, you see, photographers tend to snap her whenever she deigns to attend some frolicsome function or other. They like to have her pic in their publications because she's, well, nahce and pretty...
"I don't think I'm a Queen of Society, I don't think that's true at all. It makes me laugh when I read that. I think, God, I spend so much time working and staying home with the kids. But I like the Summer season. In the Summer there's lots of parties. Don't you go to them?"
No. She throws me a look of pity.
"Oh, that's sad. In the Winter there's dinners and stuff and charity events, you know, but most of the parties happen in the Summer, with all the events, the horse racing and the tennis and this and that. I love it."
She plays a dumb blonde act, batting the lashes and tossing back the peroxide mane and pouting and flirting and purring (except when the accent slips) with gusto, does Ms Hall. Is the act genuine, one wonders, or is it something she learnt at her mother's knee, to please and entertain and get her way? Is she a woman of artifice?
"I've heard them say that but, you know, Little House On The Prairie (dreadful American TV series with Michael London and raccoons and much sentimental backwoods inactivity) makes me cry. I cry and crah. I'm always crying at the soppiest things. Mick makes me cry when he does sweet things. He does so many sweet things. You know, he's gone off for three days with his father hiking in Cornwall. Isn't that sweet? He's so nahce. He does such sweet things. He's so sweet and nahce and caring and..."
Not having a sickbag to hand, I feel it necessary to interrupt quickly with a brusque query. If Jerry is not a woman of artifice, is she, then, really dumb?
"Oh, well, that woman of artifice stuff could come from something I said. I said when men were being patronising to me in business or something I just sort of smile sweetly and think, Beneath this peroxide lies a smart brunette, haha. And then L'Oreal, the hair people, liked it and so they used that line in their campaign that I did for them, but I said, Beneath this blonde lies a smart brunette. So you would presume I was faking dumb, but I don't think I have to fake dumb. I'm so uneducated on so many things, I am dumb. I've been trying to read Proust for a while but I haven't got through it. And I hang out with lots of people who are very intelligent, writers and different things, and I feel quite lost sometimes in their conversation so I try to read all the great classics, Proust and stuff, and a lot of them change my life because they're fascinating but it's a lifelong job. And I'm dumb. But I'm not stupid. I trust my instincts so I don't think I'm stupid..."
I ask Jerry Hall if she believes in God and she looks wide-eyed, amazed at the question.
"Why, of course I do. Don't you? I was brought up to believe in God and I always have. It gives me great joy to believe in God. I enjoy gardening and being with my children and being with God and I hope to continue all those lovely things. I think God is nahce."
I ask her where she stands on The Rolling Stones. Does she sort of dig the elderly R&B ragamuffins?
"Oh, yeah I lerve The Rolling Stones. But I was brought up on country and western music. It's my roots. Have you ever listened to Nanci Griffith? She's great."
So what's her favourite Rolling Stones song?
"Um...um..." She pauses and withdraws another cigarette from the emptying packet.
"Um...I think 'Miss You' is the best."
'Miss You'? That rather fearful disco thing rather than 'Gimme Shelter' or similar "golden great"?
"I like 'Miss You'. And I lerve the new album. You know, "You're not the only ship adrift on the ocean" – I think that's so sweet. Every time I ask Mick, he says, All my songs are about you, honey. Hahaha. Actually, I guess I'm not a good judge of music."
JERRY HALL SUDDENLY swoops to her feet crying, "What tahme is it?" It is a quarter to seven and the stage is calling. "Quarter to seven? You're kid-ding! Ah got to get ready!!"
And in her hurried panic, she lets fly a curse that sounds more Mick than Southern belle. "****!" she says. But then she remembers herself, corrects the word with a coy Texan smile and a flutter of eyelids.
"Aw, shoot! And we were getting on sowayull...!"
© Tom Hibbert, 1990
http://www.rocksbackpages.com/index.html
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tigerrouge
don't look down
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And nearly twenty years later, she's still talking, to the Daily Mail:
tigerrouge
don't look down
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The images that went along with her Daily Mail interview... this was the cover story on the TV supplement on Saturday, my father bought it - and strangely, someone had gone through the copies in the shop and cut out one of Jerry's eyes on each cover, and on each copy, the incision was done in a neat square, perhaps to be used in some insane voodoo ritual where you need a supermodel's eye (dailymail.co.uk
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