Matt Goss: ‘I’m not a big fan of guns, but I have one by my bedside’

I get it,” says Matt Goss, shrugging. “Some of the memes were really funny. But also, I’m f***ing over saying that our film [2018’s Bros: After the Screaming Stops] was funny. Because I’m not some vacuous human who can’t string a sentence together. I’m not just a piece of novelty cultural nostalgia. I’m a real, emotional, contemporary person. I’ve got my idiosyncrasies. Of course I have. But who doesn’t?”

Speaking to me via video link from his home in LA, the quintessentially stonewashed Eighties British pop star is – straight up – the most likeably unfiltered celebrity I’ve met in 25 years on the job. It’s weird, because the image – fake tan, impeccably plucked brows and tinted lashes – makes him look very fake. But everything about Goss in conversation is 100 per cent genuine. He absorbs every question. He responds with extraordinarily direct warmth and engagement. He’s uncompromisingly proud of the slick, mature, contemporary pop of his new album – The Beautiful Unknown – and understandably upset by some of the online mockery that he’s experienced since the Bafta-winning documentary was released.

I feel a twinge of guilt on hearing his hurt because, before I watched the film, I had been among the crowd smirking at context-free quotes, including: “The letters H. O. M. E. are so important because they personify the word home,” and “I made a conscious decision, because of Stevie Wonder, not to be superstitious.” I don't think, back then, I realised how successful Matt Goss had been in Las Vegas, where he had a 12-year residency.

Most of us would, surely, be furious and defensive if our innermost thoughts were exposed to such widespread public ridicule. But Goss maintains a superhuman calm as he accepts this is what I’d like to discuss with him.

“OK, you’re going there?” he sighs. “Fine. So you need to remember that the film was edited. I can’t tell you about the argument I had with [my twin brother and bandmate] Luke the night before filming. It was very, very personal. It was an attack. It wasn’t something that I could heal because of the cameras in the room. You don’t get to kick the shit out of me the day before and think it’s all OK the next morning just because there are cameras in the room. The point was to be authentic.”

Goss takes a yogic breath. “And that ‘Superstition’ thing? Well. I don’t know what your background is, but when you grow up like we did, in a family without money, you can fall very heavily upon superstition. The jeopardy is constant. It’s tempting to say: ‘Don’t do this or that will happen.’ As a kid I grew sick of the fear-based philosophy that built up around us. ‘Don’t put your shoes here. Don’t put your hat on the bed.’ It was exhausting. I remember asking Mum why we had to be so worried. Then I heard that amazing line: ‘If you believe in things that you don’t understand, then you suffer’. I realised: that was our family. In a home like mine, album liner notes were literature. People want to laugh at that? Go on, then, if you were lucky enough to have a different experience of life. But I think you can do a lot worse than learning from Stevie Wonder!”

The Goss twins’ fractious love was at the heart of their documentary, and they remain in close contact. “I play video games for an hour or so with my brother every night. That's how we connect. And we FaceTime while we’re playing. It’s kind of sweet although we can also ignore each other. We’re playing Battlefield 5 at the moment. It’s an escape. The hand-eye coordination, the tactics make you feel more alive. It’s like the games we played as a kid.”

I mention a Canadian study of children that found that playing war games built better bonds between boys. “You played war with your mates: it’s tactical, it’s skill. Listen. I have a gun in the house. I’m not a big fan of guns but I have one by my bedside. I go down to the range and I’m a good shot, a good shooter. It’s terrifying, absolutely terrifying what that thing can do. What happens, you get this immense adrenaline rush of respect. The last thing I ever want to do is use that thing. Being here, though, I guess it’s what you have.”

Would he be glad if guns were banned there? “Yeah, I would. I live in a gated community. I’ve got a pretty insane security system in my house, but I’ve been burgled. I’ve had situations where people have turned up to my home saying they’re moving in with me. It is a very different mindset, though, to owning a gun and knowing how to use it.” Does he have a plan for a home invasion? “Yes. I definitely know what my plan would be.”

When I finally watched After the Screaming Stops, I ended up in a mess of hot tears at the story of the twins who became teen pop stars. I was also a teen when Matt and Luke made the scene, but as an indie kid I sneered at their peroxide buzz-cuts and ripped jeans. Their lyrical demands struck me as brattish: “When will I, will I be famous…?”. And the Grolsch bottle tops that fans stuck on their shoes struck us indie kids as naff.

Today Goss laughs about his influence on fashion. “I wish there was a good, elaborate story behind those bottle tops,” he laughs, “but there isn’t. I was sitting waiting for a photoshoot and there were some bottles of Grolsch. I realised the tops fitted my Doc Martens and put them on for the shoot. A week later we were driving through London and I saw this kid in a bomber jacket and he had them on his shoes. Within an hour I’d spotted all these people wearing them.

“My dream is to do a British brand beer commercial. I’d take those off my shoes, pick up a London Pride or whatever and say: ‘Now that’s a proper pint.’” he laughs.

Back in Bros’s Eighties heyday, there was no rolling news cycle. So when the twins’ 18-year-old sister, Carolyn Goss, was killed in a car accident in 1988, not everyone knew. Watching the documentary, it’s horrific to see the two bereaved brothers casually wheeled onto Terry Wogan’s talk show while still shell-shocked by the loss of their sibling. They were expected to “perform” as though nothing had happened.

Reflecting on the experience today, Goss says: “You could see we were numb. I couldn’t feel my own elbows.” In public the lads struggled with the attention. “The paparazzi laughed at us at my sister’s funeral,” says Goss. “That’s when my brother said, “F*** off”. Then the headline was ‘Four Letter Fury at Bros Funeral’.”

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In the Goss home, Carolyn’s death was not talked about. “When my sister died, we didn’t say the word ‘Carrie’ any more. So she died twice. She left us physically and then she left our conversation. Why should people leave our space?”

Back at the peak of Brosmania in the Eighties, Goss’s mum, Carol, was famous for making sandwiches for the fans who congregated outside the family home. She died in 2014 from cancer. Today Matt says: “I honestly never speak about this but f*** it… My mum is dead. I have no relationship with my family. My father does not speak to us. He lives in France. I forgot his birthday. I’m sorry, it was Covid. It was Groundhog Day. My industry had vaporised. There was no ‘Are you OK?’ When you are famous, people don’t think you’re also the son. Yes, we are still the juniors. No matter how old you get you still need that parental influence and reassurance.”

After Goss’s mum died, Matt took in his stepfather. “I made a promise to Mum I’d look after my stepfather,” he admits. “Tony said he didn’t want to wear grey and black. So I really tricked him out, the 72-year-old, and he loved it. I gave him some Jimmy Choo’s sneakers in bright burgundy. He lived with me for four years and really cramped my style. It was difficult. But funny. We were called the odd couple on social media. My chat-up line was: ‘I’m Matt Goss and I live with my stepfather.’ Which is not very sexy. I bought him a car, I incorporated him into my show… After a while he said: ‘I’m ready to go back to London.’”

You’d think that a famous heartthrob would have no problems getting a date. But Goss says he has struggled with romance. Lately he has tried online dating. The consequences are detailed in his new song “Soldiers of War”, of which he says: “It always baffles me that you can love somebody so deeply and end a relationship at war. It amazes me how quickly formality creeps into massive love towards the end of a relationship. Gargantuan love can be eroded at such a pace. Six months later you can walk up to somebody you knew everything about and it would be the strangest thing to have any contact.”

So dating is hard, even for a guy as successful and famous as Goss? “Oh yeah. I was in a relationship recently and I cared very much for this person. But there was this insistence that we posted about it online. I said the consequence of that is our lives are going to be digested. I want to hold hands in the park. Watch Netflix. Eat takeout. I don’t want to be under the microscope. It’s different if you’re engaged or married. Then I think it’s safe. But if there’s even an element of transience then I don’t want to be exposed like that. But I have never lost the expectation of love and safety. I know what I want. I was on a dating site, and I just said: I want to find my person. Somebody with a beautiful heart and a sense of humour who likes my dog. Good conversation…”

I wonder if the fashion-obsessed Goss’s tastes can really be so pure, and he admits: “Don’t get me wrong, I am extremely connected to aesthetics. I annoy myself with that: my fascination with watches and jewellery and cars and architecture. Look, you might see a beautiful coat. But if it hasn’t got a good lining, you're gonna end up cold. You NEED that good lining,” he breathes. “In time, you learn and grow with somebody else’s style. What turns me on is love. That’s what my mum taught me.”

When it comes to the new album, Goss has very clearly invested in the smooth, silky linings of which he speaks. It’s an album on which he “camouflages some of the pain of life and twisted romance” in “some joyful pop melodies”. The record includes a cover of Fleetwood Mac’s classic “Landslide” – a song that Goss tells me has been “hitting me in the wrong place at the right time for many years”. Stevie Nicks’s lyrics about the effects of time passing have caused Goss to reflect on personal and professional shifts over the decades.

“I’ve had some tumultuous times in this business,” he mulls. “In personal relationships, too. There are many times when I’ve been left bewildered by people’s betrayals but I’m still here and enjoying the journey. You have to let people go. I learned that quite young. As a younger man I was less patient. I’m sure I thought: I want karma to work NOW!”

Along with the behind-the-scenes betrayals, on which he won’t elaborate, he can reflect on giddy highs, including “the time I went to the Royal Albert Hall as Liza Minelli’s guest. Sammy Davis Junior came into the dressing room and asked to wear my jacket. I walked out of the room and Frank Sinatra was there, he raised a glass of scotch to me. It was everything you’d want it to be.” He grins and pauses. “We also hung out with the Stones for a day in Kansas City. We were on tour. Keith Richards came over and said, ‘What the f*** are you doing here?’ Then we played tennis with them and Ronnie Wood borrowed my jacket to wear on stage. He came out playing “Start Me Up” – baah-nahh-nah-nahh – wearing it. They signed it and gave it back. They could not have been cooler.”

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Although Bros’s breakup was difficult and Matt’s twin, Luke, went off to make movies in LA, Matt’s music career got an unexpected boost in Las Vegas. There, the singer who always aspired to Rat Pack smoothness worked his way through a 12-year residency, winning the keys to the city and becoming, he says, “king of the strip”. He says he learned there that the greatest connection a performer makes with the audience is “in the gaps between songs… So I’d be honest. I’d go on stage and say: ‘I’ve had a crap day. This is going to be a great show.’ And it would be. I believe in the energy of Doctor Show. It’s such a physical release.” But after a decade, he admits, he was done.

“The number of shows, the strain on my voice… I had to become protective,” he says. “My doctor said I came close to rupturing my vocal cords four years ago. And I became so weary of performing that I didn’t want to hold the guitar or touch the piano.”

Goss’s connection to the UK is still an emotional one because of his mother. Tattooed onto Goss’s collarbone are lines from a letter she wrote when applying for custody of the boys around 1982. “We lived in a caravan for six weeks while waiting to move into a new house,” he says, “and my dad thought that was good time to get custody of us.

“It was horrendous. This letter is from my mum saying why she should keep us. I could see how angry she was because the dots of the i’s are two letters ahead of the stalks. That’s how fast and passionately she was writing.”

Goss grins. “I have my mum’s fire. Whenever s***’s been done right in my life it’s been by a woman. I am not to be messed with, either physically or emotionally. And that comes from my mum’s tenacity. She wouldn’t let anyone mess with her boys. My dad has said he would not have allowed us to be musicians. If he had raised me, I would have been more fearful.”

He treasures other aspects of his homeland, too: “There’s a beautiful pub inside the Tower of London and my mate Gary is a yeoman there. So I’ve had many a pint there. My favourite thing after a few pints is to go into the beautiful tiny little chapel where Anne Boleyn was buried, sit down in those beautiful old pews and pray. She watched them build the gallows from her window. It gives me chills.”

During California’s lockdown, Goss reconnected with his fanbase via social media. He opened up about the death of his mother and his difficult relationship with his twin. “It’s strange but speaking publicly about those heavy things made me feel that I wanted to get back into the studio. I called [producer] Babyface and he said: ‘this is great, keep going’ and so I did…”

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Goss gushes at the affection with which he is greeted back in the UK. “Fame doesn’t go away,” he says, “I consider it a place of privilege. I know I can make or break people’s day. It has developed to a place where I feel like part of the furniture and that feeling has kept me company through the losses in my life. I don’t have a supportive family now, but I am treated with a love and respect that’s conversational when I go out. People come up to me and tell me great stories. Every cab I get into it’s, ’ello Matt, how you doing? How’s your brother? I find that very comforting. And after 35 years I recognise the courage it takes for somebody to come and say hi. Somebody might be contemplating it for 10 minutes and in the end, I’ll break the tension and go over first.”

Goss says he keeps himself young by embracing the new. He shows me paintings of Jesus and the Buddha painted on opposite walls of his lounge. He also got a kick by learning to dance during the pandemic. “I began moving my body in new ways,” he says. “I’ve been boxing for 20 years. I love to have explosive strength, and this helps me express that. People say I don’t look my age, well I don't feel it!”

These days, Goss says he’s a man “looking for peace, looking to make sense of things”. But he also warns detractors that “If you’re rude to me, I will literally change shape”. I think we all wish for him to remain in the same affable shape. A quirky, stonewashed national treasure. Drop the boy, he’s a lovely, complicated bloke.

‘The Beautiful Unknown’ is out on 25 March