The Dandyism website has put the L’Uomo Vogue article online, with a translation:
http://www.dandyism.net/?p=970
Says the site:
Dickon Edwards, who doesn’t typically pontificate on dandyism itself but who is a fine example of a dandy rocker, was also included.
Not a typical pontificator perhaps, but I know my Brummell from my Baudelaire, and my Beaton from my Barbey d’Aurevilly. He said, in danger of seeking a thick ear. And I am acquainted with Lord Whimsy, if not the others in the piece. Not sure if I’ve ever properly ‘rocked’ either. That’s always been my problem. Not a proper musician, not a proper dandy. Not a proper writer, either. I must be a proper something. Don’t answer that.
From the L’Uomo Vogue article itself, a rather flattering opening line:
The leading online rock-star dandy is not David Bowie or Bryan Ferry, but Dickon Edwards (dickonedwards.co.uk). The 36-year-old Englishman, who has sang in several bands, has earned admiration in Dandyland for his spare build, slim suits, and blond hair that is as authentic as his first name. Adding to his dandy credentials are his contributions to ‘The Decadent Handbook’ and an afterword to a new edition of Jerome K. Jerome’s classic, ‘Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow.’ Like the dandies of old, Edwards avoids responsibility, preferring to supplement his uncertain musical income by going on welfare rather than taking a job.
Interesting that they assume ‘Dickon’ is as artificial as my hair colour. They’re not the first. It’s like saying someone born Robert but better known as Bobby is assuming a fake name. Dickon is just a more obscure derivative, that’s all. The Richard is also there for the times I can’t be bothered to have the ‘Ooh, interesting name’ conversation.
I did try reverting properly to Richard a few years ago purely to make life easier, in the same way I’ve experimented with not being blond. But in both cases, it just wasn’t me.
And though I’m Richard on my passport, the medical services know me as Dickon, because they need to know the name most likely to bring someone out of unconsciousness. Dickon is my ‘coma name’. Though I realise if I ramble on any more in this hair-splitting mode, I’ll send the reader into one.
As to the bit in the article about my avoiding responsibility: well, it’s more that responsibility avoids me. I do keeping trying to find paid work, work which I think I can do fairly well, where I don’t feel a fraud. Most recently, I emailed all the newspaper blogs with offers of reporting on the Latitude Festival for them, seeing as I’m going to be there anyway, camping for the first time since I was a teenager, and in a white suit too. I thought that would be a vaguely interesting and entertaining perspective: certainly less dull than your average festival report. ‘The Festival Flaneur’, it could have been called. But no one at the broadsheets was interested. Ah well.
Besides, responsibility is all relative. I speak as someone who’s just had to escort Shane MacGowan onto a couple of planes.
