A love letter to the musicians who made us rethink what manhood means
When it comes to broadening the definition of masculinity, musicians are essential vanguards. We pay tribute to the ones who changed our lives When it comes to showing us different ways to be a man, musicians have often led the way. Whether it's Freddie Mercury and Queen dolled up in drag for “I Want To Break Free”, the outrageous garb of Mick Jagger or David Bowie, or the forlorn wails of The Smiths, we've all had a moment with a rocker who completely changed what we thought men were allowed to say, think, feel and wear. During his speech at the GQ Men Of The Year Awards this year, Years & Years' Olly Alexander spoke candidly about how he lacked examples of what it is to be a man and how femme or queer men couldn't feel comfortable within traditional ideas of manhood. "I was too ashamed to admit that I was different from the man that I was supposed to be. It has taken me almost up until now to feel in any way comfortable about being a man," he said. "But I found my groove, I found who I am as a man, but it's been a struggle. And I'm not the only one." Inspired to see how musicians – as Alexander has done – have changed how we perceive our own masculinity, we asked the men, and women, of GQ: who changed what you thought a man could be? Below are some of our answers.
Getty Images1/6Hirsute, bearish men are pretty present in most areas of our lives, but in pop music they are astonishingly absent. As an ursine gent myself, I didn’t realise how little I’d heard myself in music until I first played John Grant.
Grant’s music has a lilting, sluggish sexuality. His music is always a couple of whiskeys down, dressed comfortably, probably a bit of glitter caught in his beard, maybe from the night before. His eloquence – name me another musician who can work the word callipygian into his lyrics – his naughtiness and his confidence are blessed powers. Seeing him sing “GMF” or “Black Belt” will convince you that you can both have a dad bod and be a sex god. God bless John Grant and all he seduces. David Levesley
Getty Images2/6I'm not sure if “Being Boring” by the Pet Shop Boys changed or altered my view of masculinity, but it certainly highlighted a feeling of exploration and transformation that I don't think had been articulated in this way before. Perhaps Brian Wilson's “I Just Wasn't Made For These Times” expressed a similar emotion, but the Pet Shop Boys were granular in their portrayal of a journey through time, through generations, one that involved leaving people leaving behind. They once called themselves “the Smiths you can dance to”, but Neil Tennant's lyrics were always far more sophisticated than Morrissey's. Dylan Jones
Getty Images3/6Few British musicians have done as much to open up the conversation around male mental health and notions of masculinity as Professor Green. As a rapper from a white, working-class background, Pro Green (AKA Stephen Manderson) understands and speaks to communities where mental health and masculinity can often be taboo issues, making his voice all the more powerful when it comes to affecting change and reaching those who need a normalising public discourse the most.
Manderson uses his platform to destigmatise mental health among men, from looking at genetic causes and the specifically medical (he regularly posts about his own anti-depression treatments) to highlighting external influences such as poverty and class. The most poignant thing of all about the way Manderson handles these issues? He comes from a place of personal experience. Manderson's father committed suicide in 2008, and he too struggles with mental health.
He is especially vocal on Instagram, has a column on masculinity on website The Book Of Man and has wracked up documentary credits including Suicide And Me (BBC) and Working Class White Men (Channel 4). But he also uses his music. Manderson's most recent song, "Photographs" featuring Rag'n'Bone Man, is an exploration of grief, featuring a photo of him and his dad as the cover (the refrain goes: "I wish that I took more photographs of us"). Manderson kick-started a social media campaign alongside creating an online community of people sharing photos of lost loved ones and their experiences of grief, from the parents of stillborn babies to those who have lost their partners. If there's one thing GQ's 30th anniversary State Of Man campaign shows, it's that the most important thing of all is teaching men to talk. Kathleen Johnston
Shutterstock4/6From the time I took up CrossFit for six months to thinking excessive White Lightening consumption could substitute for a personality, my teenage years can be surmised as one ill-fated quest for masculinity. Or at the idealised version of that trait that belongs to people with chiseled pecs, a limitless tolerance for alcohol and actual charm. Luckily, someone handed me a copy of Our Band Could Be Your Life at university and I quickly realised those aspirations were nonsense.
Despite being told "it's OK to be yourself" by my priest, parents and countless teen movies, this tome finally made the message click. Why? I don't really know. Maybe it was Henry Rollins managing to wear shorts and still look like a badass. Perhaps it was the belated realisation that homosexuality is a totally normal thing thanks to Bob Mould and Michael Stipe. Most likely, it was The Replacements elevating "loser" status into an artform. Now that was an ethos I could relate to.
If there's one tune by The 'Mats that sticks with me, it's the howling piano ballad Androgynous. "Kewpie dolls and urine stalls will be laughed at the way you're laughed at now," croons a defiant Paul Westerberg in a seering riposte to popular notions of gender and sexuality in 1984. Today this song reminds me that my understanding of what it is to be a bloke is still a work in progress. Robert Leedham
Getty Images5/6Why is this puckish musician so crucial to my development as a man? Maybe it’s because the way he writes is the lyrical and musical equivalent of satin bedsheets. Maybe it’s the way he tears himself open and yet also makes it very clear he’d like to tear you in half too. There’s something both romantic and brutal about the way Prince writes about sex, loneliness, love, family and pain.
The fact Prince’s work often sounds just as good in the mouths of women (Chaka Khan, Vanity Six, Sinead O’Connor) shows that he writes songs that are transcendent, androgynous and absurdly sexy. There’s something twitchy but never nervous, something clunky but never inelegant. He is both Bacchus and mortal. He made it clear that any man at all could walk into a room and say, “I’m sexy and I won’t apologise for that.” I can’t thank him enough for that. David Levesley
Shutterstock6/6Picking the performer that changed my idea on what it was to be a man is an easy one. It was the summer of, ahem, 1981 (yes, I am that old) and at the ripe old age of 12-and-a-half I went to my first gig to see the band who rewrote the masculinity code in my head. It was 20 June 1981. Ladies and gentleman… Adam And The Ants.
To give you a little context, despite being born in Wythenshawe (south Manchester) and being part of an exclusively northern, working-class family, I had grown up in mid-Cornwall from the age of five where I was the weird ginger-haired kid with the funny accent (still am, I suppose). My view of what it meant to be a man back then came from three influences: my grandad, who was my hero and role model; my football team, Manchester United, who I was obsessed with; and James Bond (specifically Roger Moore). Manly men in my eyes (yes, even Rog, before you start raising one arched eyebrow), traditional role models, completely conservative. Back then music wasn’t a big deal for me.
That all changed with Kings Of The Wild Frontier. Released in late 1980, Adam had apparently transformed from punk to new wave but, thanks to that charging double drummer Burundi beat, for me it was love at first listen. Then I saw them on Top Of The Pops (yes, I told you I was old) and I was blown away. Here was a man with skinny arms and a naked torso, dressed as a kind of sexy pirate with American Indian-style make-up, just rocking out. It was brilliant. My grandad, however, was unimpressed: “Look at that big Jessie.”
I didn’t care. For me, Adam was cool, charismatic and just completely... different. Fans of glam rock would probably just sigh and tell me it was nothing new, but I was hooked. I didn’t think less of my grandad for his old-fashioned dismissal, but neither did he put me off the band.
And at school – remember, this was Cornwall, circa 1980… not exactly enlightened times – there was one similar common response: “You know he’s queer, right?” That’s when I realised that I just didn’t care one way or the other. I’m not gay, but what dawned on me was that I wasn’t bothered if Adam was either.
He wasn’t less of a man because he wore make-up. He wasn’t less of a man because he dressed like a dandy highwayman. He wasn’t less of a man because he may or may not have been gay. Looking back, that was a big moment for me. Paul Henderson
Follow us on Vero for exclusive music content and commentary, all the latest music lifestyle news and insider access into the GQ world, from behind-the-scenes insight to recommendations from our Editors and high-profile talent.
Now read:
Kali Uchis on learning curves, loneliness and why she'll never sell out
Peggy Gou: ‘I want to look good. If I can play a good tune, then so what?’
Jorja Smith: ‘I need to be doing what I love without someone else dictating me’
