Bête Noire

“I know you, inside me/like poison, like wine”

How did I overlook this? It’s only the title track from one of the most important albums in history. It’s piercingly beautiful glamorous sorrow, as only Bryan Ferry can deliver it. He’s got the art of poetic pining honed to a razor’s edge. There is, very lightly, an element of camp here. It’s residual from the flouncy days of early Roxy Music. But just because it’s campy doesn’t mean it’s somehow not heartfelt. The essence of camp is, after all, the not-at-all-contradictory balance of detachment and sincerity. Ferry does camp with exceptional subtlety. It’s the magical sweet spot in the deft dance between maudlin emotion and cold irony. I adore camp (darlings!). The idea that the fake is more real than what’s real holds infinite sway over my imagination. Camp is the process of becoming what you’ve pretended to be, to paraphrase Kurt Vonnegut.