Confess

by Rob Halford

The biggest myth about this new stage gear is that I had somehow masterminded the image as a cover and a vent for my homosexuality – that I was getting a thrill from dressing on stage as I’d like to dress in the street, or the bedroom. This is utter bollocks. I had no interest in S&M, domination or the whole queer subcult of leather and chains. It just didn’t do it for me. My sexual preference was for men, sure, but I was – and still am – pretty vanilla. I’ve never used a whip in the boudoir in my life.

We did a sweep of European festivals in the summer, and when we got back to the States in August, Deep Purple joined us for a month. It was fantastic. They were a band I had always idolised, but now, as well as heroes, they felt like kindred spirits. Purple had been through the ringer in so many of the same ways as us, from addiction issues and band fall-outs to line-up changes, yet, just like us, the integrity of the band and the music remained intact. We had been living the same lifestyle, in studios and on the road, forever. Ian Gillan sounded as colossal as always. I stood at the side of the stage each night, tingling to see him at close quarters – Ian fucking Gillan! – singing ‘Highway Star’. He took my breath away. Just as he always has.

The Purple dates gave us a chance to catch up with Roger Glover. It was brilliant to see him again, more than forty years after he’d produced Sin After Sin – and, with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, he returned to an old topic like a dog with a bone. ‘You still haven’t paid me for that album, Rob!’ he told me. ‘Roger, mate,’ I said, ‘I don’t know a thing about it. Speak to bloody Arnakata!’