Biography
Widely hailed as rock’s inaugural openly gay icon—an image that has only solidified over decades—Jobriath nevertheless ranks among the most tragic figures in postwar popular music. The pair of albums he issued between 1973 and 1975 have since become prized collector’s objects, yet for twenty years after their appearance his reputation rested almost entirely on tales of extravagant promotion gone wrong, the music itself lost beneath layers of critical derision.
Morrissey and the Pet Shop Boys have since voiced their esteem, Jayne County has called him America’s foremost glam-rock figure, and Mark Stewart counts himself among his steadfast supporters. A newer wave of glam enthusiasts, undeterred by industry animus, likewise sought out the lavishly presented and richly performed LPs that carried his name; neither disc has dated, and both now feel ageless where once they were dismissed as pointless.
After appearing in the original Los Angeles production of Hair, Jobriath moved to New York and cut an album with the progressive-rock aspirants Pidgeon. When that project stalled he launched a solo career under the guidance of Mike Jefferies, a former associate of Jimi Hendrix. The partnership dissolved quickly, leaving Jobriath to confront mounting professional resistance on his own. One persistent anecdote recounts Columbia president Clive Davis’s verdict on a set of early demos: “mad and unstructured and destructive to melody.”
Far from deterring interest, Davis’s words piqued the curiosity of Jerry Brandt, then managing Carly Simon, who promptly arranged a meeting and offered Jobriath a management contract. Brandt’s excitement proved persuasive enough to draw Elektra Records president Jac Holzman into the fold, though Holzman would later admit, “I made two errors of judgment in my days at [the label] and signing Jobriath was one of them.” Jobriath’s name is likewise absent from Holzman’s authorized company history, Follow the Sun.
At the outset Elektra’s commitment appeared boundless: more than $80,000 was lavished on the self-titled debut, nearly half earmarked for marketing. Positioned as glam’s ultimate exemplar, Jobriath drew inevitable Bowie comparisons that Brandt rebutted with a now-famous flourish: “Jobriath is as different from Bowie as a Lamborghini is from a Model A Ford. They’re both cars, it’s just a question of taste, style, elegance and beauty.” Full-page advertisements ran in Vogue, Penthouse, and the New York Times; a fifty-foot-square Times Square billboard loomed above commuters while London buses carried his image across the British capital. Cashbox and Rolling Stone (“Jobriath has talent to burn”) offered enthusiastic notices, and a Midnight Special slot further amplified his visibility.
Sales, however, failed to materialize at home or overseas. The scale of the preceding campaign had raised expectations no recording could satisfy. Holzman himself later conceded that “the music seemed secondary to everything else. It was… lacking in any sense of reality. It’s an embarrassment.” Plans for a Paris Opera House debut were scrapped; although Elektra green-lit a follow-up, Creatures of the Street arrived with minimal support, tepid notices, and negligible commercial impact. A spring 1975 U.S. tour initially met indifference, yet by its final dates Jobriath and his band the Creatures had begun converting audiences. Their last show, at Tuscaloosa University, concluded with five encores and a near-riot.
The momentum arrived too late. Brandt severed ties midway through the trek, and once the dates concluded Jobriath declared his retirement, withdrawing to the glass pyramid he had built atop New York’s Chelsea Hotel, where he remained for the rest of his life.
A bid for Hollywood yielded an audition for a role opposite Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon, but the part went elsewhere. Plans for a third album never advanced past demos, and talk of an autobiographical musical titled Pop Star likewise came to nothing. By the early 1980s he was performing in a Manhattan cocktail lounge. He died in July 1983 from AIDS-related causes.
Morrissey and the Pet Shop Boys have since voiced their esteem, Jayne County has called him America’s foremost glam-rock figure, and Mark Stewart counts himself among his steadfast supporters. A newer wave of glam enthusiasts, undeterred by industry animus, likewise sought out the lavishly presented and richly performed LPs that carried his name; neither disc has dated, and both now feel ageless where once they were dismissed as pointless.
After appearing in the original Los Angeles production of Hair, Jobriath moved to New York and cut an album with the progressive-rock aspirants Pidgeon. When that project stalled he launched a solo career under the guidance of Mike Jefferies, a former associate of Jimi Hendrix. The partnership dissolved quickly, leaving Jobriath to confront mounting professional resistance on his own. One persistent anecdote recounts Columbia president Clive Davis’s verdict on a set of early demos: “mad and unstructured and destructive to melody.”
Far from deterring interest, Davis’s words piqued the curiosity of Jerry Brandt, then managing Carly Simon, who promptly arranged a meeting and offered Jobriath a management contract. Brandt’s excitement proved persuasive enough to draw Elektra Records president Jac Holzman into the fold, though Holzman would later admit, “I made two errors of judgment in my days at [the label] and signing Jobriath was one of them.” Jobriath’s name is likewise absent from Holzman’s authorized company history, Follow the Sun.
At the outset Elektra’s commitment appeared boundless: more than $80,000 was lavished on the self-titled debut, nearly half earmarked for marketing. Positioned as glam’s ultimate exemplar, Jobriath drew inevitable Bowie comparisons that Brandt rebutted with a now-famous flourish: “Jobriath is as different from Bowie as a Lamborghini is from a Model A Ford. They’re both cars, it’s just a question of taste, style, elegance and beauty.” Full-page advertisements ran in Vogue, Penthouse, and the New York Times; a fifty-foot-square Times Square billboard loomed above commuters while London buses carried his image across the British capital. Cashbox and Rolling Stone (“Jobriath has talent to burn”) offered enthusiastic notices, and a Midnight Special slot further amplified his visibility.
Sales, however, failed to materialize at home or overseas. The scale of the preceding campaign had raised expectations no recording could satisfy. Holzman himself later conceded that “the music seemed secondary to everything else. It was… lacking in any sense of reality. It’s an embarrassment.” Plans for a Paris Opera House debut were scrapped; although Elektra green-lit a follow-up, Creatures of the Street arrived with minimal support, tepid notices, and negligible commercial impact. A spring 1975 U.S. tour initially met indifference, yet by its final dates Jobriath and his band the Creatures had begun converting audiences. Their last show, at Tuscaloosa University, concluded with five encores and a near-riot.
The momentum arrived too late. Brandt severed ties midway through the trek, and once the dates concluded Jobriath declared his retirement, withdrawing to the glass pyramid he had built atop New York’s Chelsea Hotel, where he remained for the rest of his life.
A bid for Hollywood yielded an audition for a role opposite Al Pacino in Dog Day Afternoon, but the part went elsewhere. Plans for a third album never advanced past demos, and talk of an autobiographical musical titled Pop Star likewise came to nothing. By the early 1980s he was performing in a Manhattan cocktail lounge. He died in July 1983 from AIDS-related causes.
Albums
