I’d Rather Die (Polari): A Song, A Statement, A Responsibility Written by George Redwood

For most of my career, my music avoided one specific detail: my sexuality.

It wasn’t intentional at first, but it became a pattern. When I wrote about love, I kept everything gender neutral. I never referred to him or her. The songs could apply to anyone. On the surface, that felt inclusive, but if I’m honest, it was also safe.

That changed with what I’ve nicknamed Project Polari.

The catalyst was anger. Over time, I began receiving homophobic comments on social media, where I was posting online. At first, I tried to ignore them. You tell yourself not to react, not to feed it, not to give it power. But eventually, the noise becomes impossible to dismiss.

So instead of shrinking, I decided to reclaim something. That moment became the starting point for a project rooted in queer history, identity, and the refusal to stay quiet.

This is when I started writing my single “I’d Rather Die (Polari),” and this time, there’s no ambiguity.

For the first time in my music, I’m declaring something openly and unapologetically.

The chorus says it plainly:

For years, queer people had to speak in code just to survive. I don’t want to live that way, and I don’t want to make art that hides anymore.

The Question That Changed Everything

Ironically, the turning point came from a question I didn’t expect. During a radio interview on the BBC with Akylah Rodriguez (of whom I love!) I was asked something along the lines of:

“What does it mean to you to be an LGBT member, and do you feel a responsibility in your music and when on stage?”

The question completely threw me.

I had never really thought about it. I knew I was part of the community. I had performed at Pride events for years. I thought that was enough. I loved the celebration and the joy. I recognised that Pride had roots in protest. But when that question was asked, I realised something uncomfortable…

I didn’t truly know.

I hadn’t deeply engaged with LGBTQ+ history. I hadn’t fully acknowledged what people before me had endured, or how much work still remained. I’d never experienced many of the hardships others had faced.

And suddenly I felt a profound sense of guilt.

That interview became a turning point.

Educating Myself

From that moment, I made a decision: if I was going to be part of this community, publicly, visibly, then I had a responsibility to understand it.

I dived in head first. I read everything I could find about LGBTQ+ history. I watched documentaries. I explored stories about different parts of the community, spoke with people, and examined experiences in my own family and society. The deeper I went, the more confronting it became.

I was shocked. Saddened. At times, mortified.

I learned about the criminalisation of homosexuality in Britain before the Sexual Offences Act 1967, and how queer people lived under constant threat of arrest. I learned about the police raids, the discrimination, and the social exile. The AIDS crisis. The Admiral Duncan attacks. Stonewall. The list is endless. And let’s not forget Margaret Thatcher’s infamous comments either. We’re all meant to have inalienable rights, but honestly, if Margaret Thatcher had her say, she’d have snatched them faster than a drag queen grabbing the last pair of size-10 heels in a charity shop.

I learned about the struggles faced by trans people, who remain disproportionately targeted by hate crime. According to Stonewall, in the UK, 1 in 5 LGBT+ people experience a hate crime or incident each year. Trans people are nearly twice as likely as cisgender LGB people to be physically attacked. Globally, LGBTQ+ individuals still face criminalisation and violence in over 70 countries.

Yes, we have come a long way as a community — but now is the time to stand our ground and refuse to forget what generations before us endured. In my opinion, a large part of the LGBTQIA+ community has lost touch with that history, especially when it comes to Pride events. We need to be reminded that Pride is still a protest.

Somewhere out there, there is a young gay man who is afraid to come out.

Somewhere out there, someone is terrified to tell their family they are trans.

Somewhere out there, a lesbian is married to a man out of fear of rejection.

Somewhere out there, an LGBTQIA+ person does not feel safe leaving their home because of the country they live in.

Yes, we’ve progressed.. slowly, painfully, defiantly, but there is still so much work to do. If you’re reading this and you identify with any of the statements above, just know there is a whole community behind you. Have courage, be proud and stand your ground. You owe it to yourself, and to those who came before us, to fight for the rights we have now.

The Secret Language of Survival: Polari

I was introduced to Polari by my collaborator Fionn Connolly. Polari was a secret language used widely by gay men in Britain during the 20th century. It was a coded way of surviving, of finding safety and navigating in a world where being part of the LGBTQIA+ community was illegal.

It blended theatre slang, Italian, Romani, and Cockney rhyming slang. Playful on the surface, it masked a deeper purpose: protection.

Learning about Polari didn’t just inspire the message; it shaped the song. Its rhythm, mischief, and wit seeped into the track, not as a code to hide behind, but as a tribute to those who used it to stay alive.

I initially wanted Project Polari to be a full concept album, a journey through queer history. Songs about the AIDS crisis, Stonewall, underground nightlife, stories lost and stories surviving. But I couldn’t fund it. “Polari” became the song that carried all that weight.

The style is intentionally glam-rock, almost Queen-esque. It’s dramatic, loud and unapologetic. That era was full of queer struggle and brilliance side by side. I wanted listeners from that time to feel recognised, as though the popular music of their youth was finally telling their story.

The production is raw on purpose: distortion added after mixing, a quiet bridge exploding into a massive chorus, gritty textures woven throughout. Nothing is polished because the history isn’t polished.

The Symbolism of the Artwork

The artwork for “Polari” shows a coffin on a plinth, draped in the LGBTQ+ flag, in a meadow under a faint rainbow.

The coffin represents the voices we lost: to violence, to silence, to AIDS, to criminalisation. The plinth elevates them, turning tragedy into honour. The flag is visibility. The meadow represents the world we’re still fighting for. And the faint rainbow symbolises hope, fragile, precious, hard-won.

Love, Visibility, and Responsibility

Recently, I got engaged to my beautiful fiancé in New York City and released a track about him, “All That I’ve Done Led To You.”

For the first time, I shared that love without hesitation. I have never been ashamed of my sexuality, ever. But I’ve never been more proud.

‘ID RATHER DIE (Polari)’ is about more than visibility. It’s about education. About remembering those who came before. About acknowledging ongoing struggles. It’s about inspiring a future where LGBTQ+ people are safe, proud, and free to love without fear.

Our visibility today is built on the defiance of those who came before us. Their courage isn’t just history; it’s a blueprint. We owe it to them to be loud and proud (or as I say, be ‘gay with something to say’). Share our lives, unapologetically. Share our struggles. Share our love. Be ourselves. Be unique. Be proud.

Project Polari is my way of honouring that legacy.

ID RATHER DIE (Polari)

ID RATHER DIE (Polari) will be available on all streaming platforms NOW.