I'm tired of being around men all the time. I'm going to start a

Host: The London night buzzed with electricity — streetlights glowing like fever dreams, rain streaking down the glass, and the low hum of taxis moving through puddles that reflected the city’s restless neon pulse. Somewhere in Soho, down an alley with graffiti older than the century, a basement club throbbed with sound — distorted guitars, a heartbeat of rebellion.

Inside, the walls were painted black and pulsed with sweat and memory. Posters of Bowie, Patti Smith, and Iggy Pop stared down from peeling wallpaper like silent saints of defiance. The crowd was gone, but the air was still alive — heavy with smoke, laughter, and the smell of spilt beer and risk.

Jack sat on the edge of the small stage, tuning an old Fender that had seen too many nights. The strings were a little off, but so was the world — it fit. Jeeny leaned against a speaker, cigarette glowing between her fingers, her eyes still lit from the chaos of the last set.

Jeeny: “Brian Molko once said, ‘I’m tired of being around men all the time. I’m going to start a band called Skirt with three girls, and I’ll play the guitar and sing backing vocals in drag. I went window shopping when I was in New York, saw a lot of amazing dresses.’”

Jack: (grinning) “Molko — the eternal misfit. Always playing with gender like it’s a guitar string. Tight, dangerous, and electric.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not just rebellion. It’s reinvention. He’s saying, I’m done performing masculinity; I want to perform humanity.”

Host: The lights hummed, the sound of an amp dying slowly. Somewhere a neon sign flickered — LIVE MUSIC EVERY NIGHT. The irony wasn’t lost on them; life itself was live music — messy, raw, improvised.

Jack: “You know, I get that exhaustion. Being around men — the constant posturing, the noise. Every room becomes a competition. Every silence becomes a threat.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “That’s the tragedy of masculinity — it eats its own sons. Men grow up told they can’t wear color, can’t show softness, can’t even admire beauty without explaining it.”

Jack: “Yeah. God forbid you admit you think a dress is beautiful.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Molko’s mocking. The absurd limits of identity. He’s saying, if I have to play this game, I’m going to rewrite the rules in lipstick.”

Jack: (smirking) “And he did. Placebo wasn’t just a band — it was a dare.”

Host: The camera panned slowly across the club — discarded beer bottles, a lone feather boa on the floor, the lingering perfume of performance. The world above might have been asleep, but here, in this dim, sacred chaos, rebellion still breathed.

Jeeny: “What I love about that quote is how playful it is. It’s not heavy-handed politics; it’s humor as protest. Drag as philosophy. Dresses as weapons.”

Jack: “Exactly. There’s more truth in a sequin than in most speeches.”

Jeeny: “Because the act of joy itself is defiance. Especially for those who were told they weren’t allowed to enjoy themselves that way.”

Jack: “You ever notice how drag, glam, and punk all orbit the same star? They’re all about saying, I refuse to be what you built me to be.”

Jeeny: “And about turning what’s ‘feminine’ — what’s dismissed — into power. That’s what Molko got. That softness isn’t weakness. It’s the courage to expose yourself and still shine.”

Host: Jeeny walked to the stage, her boots clicking softly. She picked up the microphone, her reflection caught in its dull chrome surface. The spotlight flickered, throwing her shadow large across the wall — fractured but graceful.

Jeeny: “You know, when he says he saw ‘amazing dresses,’ it’s not about clothes. It’s about desire. Not sexual, but existential. The desire to feel beautiful, even when the world tells you you’re not supposed to.”

Jack: “Yeah. Beauty as rebellion. Vulnerability as armor.”

Jeeny: “And drag isn’t disguise — it’s revelation. It’s the soul saying, this is how I want to exist for five minutes — free, loud, and fabulous.”

Jack: (smiling) “Maybe that’s what rock ’n’ roll was always supposed to be. The art of refusing the ordinary.”

Jeeny: “And wearing eyeliner while doing it.”

Host: The camera lingered on the two of them — the smoke curling between their words, the light catching in the dust like stars trying to be reborn. The hum of the amp returned, low, trembling, as if the room itself wanted to play again.

Jack: “You know, I think he’s also pointing at something deeper — that masculinity’s a prison. That sometimes you have to put on a dress to escape the uniform.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The uniform of being ‘normal.’ Of being what everyone else expects.”

Jack: “And that band he dreamed of — Skirt — it wasn’t just fantasy. It was a declaration: ‘I don’t owe you comfort.’”

Jeeny: “Right. The courage to be misunderstood — that’s what separates the artist from the imitator.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, pounding against the metal doors. The sound was like applause from an invisible audience — nature’s encore.

Jeeny: “You know, I went to a Placebo concert once. The crowd looked like chaos — glitter, leather, velvet, lipstick, bruises, tears. But everyone there had one thing in common: they were unapologetically themselves. That’s freedom, Jack. That’s what he’s talking about.”

Jack: “Freedom from performance by performing something truer.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Drag is truth in disguise. Art disguised as sin.”

Host: The lights dimmed, leaving only the soft hum of neon bleeding through the doorway. Jack stood, slinging his guitar over his shoulder, his voice quiet but sure.

Jack: “You ever think we all have our own version of Skirt — something we’d start if we stopped trying to impress the world?”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Mine would be a café that only plays music from the ’90s and serves coffee named after philosophers.”

Jack: “Nietzsche’s Espresso Shot. Kierkegaard’s Cold Brew.”

Jeeny: “And yours?”

Jack: “A band, obviously. But I’d wear gold heels and call it sanity.”

Host: The two of them laughed, the sound rising and fading like feedback. Outside, the storm began to quiet — its fury spent, its rhythm fading into the hum of the city’s insomnia.

And through that fading soundscape, Brian Molko’s words lingered like perfume in the air — bold, irreverent, and entirely human:

That identity is not obligation,
but art.

That sometimes, to feel alive,
you have to play yourself in drag —
to wear what scares you,
sing what frees you,
and dance in defiance of every rule
that told you how to stand still.

And that maybe the most amazing dresses
aren’t the ones we wear,
but the selves we dare
to try on.