Gitane Demone on Motherhood, Transformation, and the Legacy of Christian Death
From the haunting shadows of deathrock to the smoky allure of cabaret, Gitane Demone has carved out a musical legacy that’s as radical as it is fearless.
Emerging in the early 1980s as a key member of the pioneering goth band Christian Death, Demone quickly became known not only for her striking voice — equal parts operatic and primal — but also for her bold aesthetic and fearless exploration of taboo themes.
Through the decades, she has transformed herself from a deathrock icon to an avant-garde cabaret chanteuse, exploring torch songs, jazz, and visual art with a sensuality and defiance that willfully defies categorization.
True to her name, Gitane’s career has remained a testament to the power of reinvention and radical self-expression — a living archive of the underground and a mirror reflecting both the beauty and the brutality of the world that we live in.
KP: We could speak for hours alone about the immeasurable legacy of Christian Death, but it wasn’t long ago that I found out that you were pregnant when you first joined the band.
I recently had a chat with Zoe Marie Federoff of Cradle of Filth, where we spoke about the incredible juggling act that women have to keep up to both be in a band and make it through early motherhood. If anything, it even further cemented my belief that women are simply limitless. I’m not sure that I could handle that, so I admire it incredibly much.
I also read that Rozz [Williams] was very supportive of you during this time, which was refreshing to hear, particularly when so many people often view pregnancy as an inconvenience to the work at hand.
What was your experience like during this transitional time? What advice would you lend to new mothers who are struggling to find a work/life balance?
GD: In ‘83 and ‘84 we were all living by punk ethics — it seemed “normal,” though it wasn’t common to be pregnant in a band. We toured Europe while I was 7 months pregnant and recorded an album in Wales after the first part of the tour. I was studying and practicing the Lamaze method for birth in the touring van.
My son was born in London while the band awaited our Bat Cave show. It was postponed two weeks, and I was onstage in two weeks for that show, coming right out of Middlesex Hospital with baby, to the hotel, to the show. My mother, bless her, had just flown into the UK to see her grandson and help. I breastfed and put my boy in her arms, promising to be back in 2 hours. It was a jolt to be out and onstage suddenly.
My mother stayed and followed the tour by train… I’d breastfeed my son backstage, give him to my mother while I was onstage. Shows were longer then, and encores could lead to 2-hour shows, or thereabouts. My son had to nurse every 2 hours, so he’d be ravenous to feed when I got offstage. My mother, baby, and I would return to the hotel after the show. Everyone else went out afterwards to celebrate, but I didn’t care about that. I cared about my darling boy. I was incredibly lucky that my mother came. After she left when that tour was over, it was a lot more difficult.
My child is most important in my life, yet I still had work to fulfill for myself and for survival. It’s incredibly difficult to tour with babies, toddlers. Packing for a one- or two-month tour took so much thought and organization. I was in a tour bus with the band, and I took over the back area with my 3-year-old son and newborn daughter. I spent every bit of time with them other than when I was onstage. I had a helper to watch them when I played, who toured with us at that time. The kids were looked after until I got offstage. Backstage, I’d nurse my infant son or, later, my daughter.
Kids get up early, and then later there’s school. I’d get my warm-up vocal practice done while making their breakfast for many years. The kids knew my routines, singing along with cassettes of Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughn, Ella Fitzgerald, Etta James... They know those songs! I’d work at the piano or on lyrics during their naps or later school times. You just get used to routines and go to work. I stayed up till 2 at night working on lyrics or song ideas. I never got enough sleep, but I’m not someone who needs a lot.
Touring was always harder, but it was also beautiful to go through the passing countrysides with the children, pointing out things — language differences, custom differences, food specialties. I always had activities for them when we flew. They were such good kids to travel with; we could always make games out of everything. Of course, touring changed once school began.
I’m sure that everyone has their own way, but that’s how I did it. I included them as much as I could. I always explained everything to them very carefully so they knew what to expect.
KP: I’m blown away; I don’t know how you did that! It’s truly remarkable, and what an incredible upbringing that they both had. You have also gotten to work with your children, and what a gift that must be. What was that experience like?
GD: It’s wild. My daughter and I were the Crystelles. As a duo, guitar and drums, dressing the stage up with our paintings, we were really doing things our own way. Touring across the US or Europe... My daughter was not yet 21, so often we had to wait in the car until showtime for her to enter the venue. We practiced nearly every day — painted and wrote, created video and film, played hundreds of shows, and self-released a vinyl LP (Attach and Detach,) living together in a creative bubble. Our friends and family played shows, so it was a natural part of life. Although we haven’t had that band since 2014, we continue creating individually and together to this day. My son plays music — he had his own bands but joined us for one show. My heart was overfull. They’re the most important, the highest “achievement” in my life.
KP: That’s the coolest thing. But going back to Christian Death, after Rozz left, there was much animosity regarding the band continuing – particularly under the “Christian Death” name. After you left in 1989, he wrote you a letter thanking you for leaving, and you both went on to work together again, leading to the eventual recording of Dream Home Heartache. What was it like reuniting? I could imagine that perhaps your loyalty to him forged you even closer.
GD: Yes, it was the most terrible time. I just wanted to die. Rozz was on a tour in Europe, and I was living in Amsterdam. He had a show coming up in Nuremberg, Germany, and I decided to make the long drive and give him a little surprise! It felt like no distance had ever happened between us. I had to say goodbye that night, but plans began rolling along for a tour and recording fairly soon after that meeting. Dream Home Heartache was a natural part, a flowing continuance of reuniting. We toured the material in Europe and in the US, returning to Holland, spending time together, having deep talks, walking through Amsterdam, or in the woods nearby. My kids loved him, and he loved them, too. I think we went on 4 tours while I was still in Holland — in Europe and the US. Then I moved back to California. I think we saw each other every day. He was a great friend and my favourite artist, too.
KP: That sounds like the most incredible friendship — how lucky you both were. But after leaving Christian Death in 1989, you launched your solo career, which is a journey that some ex-band members find freeing and others find incredibly daunting. What was your headspace like at the time? Did you view it as an exciting opportunity, or did you find it intimidating?
GD: I knew that I had to keep going. I had relocated from London to Amsterdam, living with a very supportive new partner. I borrowed a keyboard and started working on songs right away. My new guy knew musicians, artists, filmmakers, and photographers, and helped me with booking shows, tours, and recording — basically “managing” me… I needed that help!
Once onstage, I realized what it meant to fully lead the performance — you’ve got to be “on” completely, honestly, authentically… Every moment, every note sung. It was challenging at first — one stray thought breaks the magic spell of vocal intimacy.
KP: I could imagine. It seems so demanding, both physically and mentally. One of your first loves was jazz, particularly Billie Holiday, which I love. My favorite music to listen to at night is jazz, which no one ever expects by looking at me! I love Billie too, and my other favorite is Julie London. I’m sure no one expects it by looking at you, either! [Laughs]. But while listening to your solo music, it’s beautifully evident.
GD: I love certain eras of jazz and jazz singers, but I started in rock, destroying my vocal cords. I was told by a doctor that I’d never be singing again. Once I healed a bit, I began finding intense emotional inspiration in Billie Holiday’s sadder, darker songs. I’ve never been a fan of happy, poppy music. I learned a repertoire of probably nearly 50 or so of the sad, lonely jazz standards from different singers. I love “Cry Me A River” from Julie London. She’s inimitable. All of the singers are — they inspire, and you learn from them.
“Transformation is really the best. All it takes is dedication, strength, and true discipline, and you can totally transform and renew yourself.”
KP: I love that, too! I have so many favorites of hers — “There Will Never Be Another You,” “My Baby Just Cares For Me,” “I’m In The Mood For Love,” “I’m Glad There Is You,” “Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man…” I love her dearly! What is it that initially drew you to jazz, and how do you think your involvement in rock evolved from that?
GD: I had tried to get involved in the jazz scene in Amsterdam but was labeled “the rock and roll girl” with my bleach-blonde hair and leather jacket. It hurt being rejected, but jazz is a very difficult scene to enter.
KP: I could imagine — it’s very insular! You created a lot of artwork in the early aughts, and I saw that you recently exhibited some paintings in a group show with Gaye Black, who I just spoke with not too long ago! She’s incredible.
GD: Gaye is amazing. I admire her immensely. I believe the group show was to benefit a cat rescue, Punks For Pussies. I’ve painted quite a lot over the years.
KP: What led you to start creating visually? What is your process like? Does it differ at all from your musical work?
GD: I drew as a young child — in my teens I wanted to be an illustrator. Then I found my voice and devoted myself to that. Creating art such as drawing or painting is similar to writing a song in the way that I have something to express — I have to work with it, I have to get it out. It’s like giving birth of a sort.
KP: I definitely understand that. Your song “Love Revolution” is a crooning anthem that calls for a culture of empathy. In it, you wrote, “Will there be a day politicians tell the truth / TV smiles all slick and smooth / The people on the streets don’t own TVs / How can you reach them through the poverty? / Missiles and bombs spray through space / Dusting off the human race / So many need help, all your presidents / Can you stretch your budget with this sentiment?”
GD: That song goes way back!
KP: Yes! But it is a song, unfortunately, that seems timeless — and perhaps one could argue that we need it more today than we even did back then.
GD: I agree. And there’s a greater problem, now more than ever. It’s absolutely heartbreaking.
Before the Covid shutdown, I was able to book bands and play benefit shows for the homeless in LA. We’d distribute donated, needed items downtown and around the city. Once the cold started in fall and winter, how could anyone turn their back and look away? But, of course, it was never enough — such meager offerings. We took action, but we were so small.
KP: That’s incredible, though! I think it’s impossible for any person or any one group to bear the responsibility of change, but collectively, we can change anything. How much do you feel that artists must own empathy and self-awareness in such a wayward, selfish world? Do you believe that we can find inspiration as a silver lining in such a malevolent, merciless culture?
GD: Not everyone has empathy or feels responsibility. In my time now, I realize that. It’s up to the individual to take action if they have an awareness to help others — if they can.
Inspiration can survive, even if it’s a song called “Dread!” I went through a terrible time, a paralyzing anxiety-depression over the current world situation. Well, it’s a repeat. The world is over 4 billion years old! We’re fucking it up for ourselves these days. Another “gilded age” is at hand, only much, much more dangerous.
KP: It’s criminal, really. I can’t believe the state that we’re in, particularly in this country. But switching gears, your album covers are so striking, and it’s often an art that I feel gets lost in the discussion of an artist’s sonic work. How did they come to be? One that particularly comes to mind is 1995’s With Love and Dementia — both the imagery and lettering are so strong. I love it!
GD: That’s a live album — I believe from Cannes, France. The lettering and image were chosen by the record company, I believe? That image was where I was at then… Expressing weakness and power, role-playing and exchange through alternatives in sexuality. I created an electronic album with Marc Ickx (Demonix: Never Felt So Alive). It must have been ‘93 or ‘94.
KP: I saw that! Your work often explores eroticism, death, and transformation. What draws you to these themes?
GD: Experimentation, and frankly, I have been a rather oversexed being. And death is still such a mystery. I think of death in as many ways as I can — simple ways, such as our bodies are like machines that just run out of power, time’s up, or the Buddhist “embrace Impermanence.” It’s the biggest mystery, perhaps.
Transformation is really the best. All it takes is dedication, strength, and true discipline, and you can totally transform and renew yourself. Of course, there are thoughts and memories, so it’s not always easy to transform. It’s difficult to leave the past behind. I say “all it takes,” but that “all” is everything!
KP: That’s very true. And your impact on music has been immeasurable — I cannot tell you how many times your albums with Christian Death in particular come up in our conversations, most recently with Actually Huizenga of Patriarchy.
GD: That’s a fine surprise! It’s so pleasing that my work with Christian Death has meant so much to so many listeners. It was so long ago — I’ve moved through so many phases and experiments musically over the years, but the Christian Death time was really special. I feel very lucky to have been a part of it, but I personally have not “dwelled” in it. I dwell in the current project. There’s a lot going on, music I’ve never done that I’m approaching next.
KP: I think that’s the best way to be. How do you view the impact of your immense discography on the world at large? What legacy do you personally hope to leave behind?
GD: Oooh. I don’t have such an immense discography, but I suppose I hope that my voice lingers as an individual one! A voice that you can tell apart from others.
KP: Oh, you’re being modest! [Laughs]. And it certainly does. With a career that spans decades, what is one thing you know now that you wish you knew then?
GD: Maybe the business side of things. I did not protect myself, nor did I have any idea of what “industry” meant.
KP: A double-edged sword for sure. What advice would you lend to female artists navigating identity, sexuality, and self-expression?
GD: Be authentically YOU.
KP: What do you feel makes a provocative woman?
GD: Creative independence. Fearlessly so!
