George Michael, one of the most critically underrated pop geniuses of the 20th century, had the kind of taste in music that was as immaculate as his vocals. While the public perception might have pegged him as merely a glossy chart-topper, the truth, as ever, was far more nuanced.
This was a man who was once photographed in tight denim on Top of the Pops, casually reinvented masculinity during the Faith era, and still found time to study the structural brilliance of synth-pop like it was scripture. He was, in his own words, “in awe” of one track in particular.
The song? Don’t You Want Me by The Human League.
Yes, the shimmering, chart-dominating, endlessly parodied 1981 synth anthem that soundtracked a thousand dance floors and at least as many heartbreaks. While some may now dismiss it as the apex of ‘80s kitsch, George saw something else entirely, not irony, but “commercial perfection.”
“I remember sitting in Andrew Ridgeley’s bedroom when we were kids,” George once told Mark Goodier, “and hearing The Human League’s Don’t You Want Me, and it wasn’t that I loved it, because I much preferred Love Action. But I said, ‘This is going to be f***ing massive.’”
It wasn’t a throwaway remark. That moment would stay with him throughout his meteoric rise, and he would later reflect on it with a startling degree of clarity: “It could not fail... It wasn’t cheesy. Maybe it was a bit cheesy. But it was still a cool record.”
What makes this revelation so fascinating is that it offers a rare glimpse into how George viewed the pop landscape, not just as an artist in it, but as a fan of it. He understood when something was transcendent. He knew when a record hit that impossible sweet spot between mass appeal and artistic credibility. And more importantly, he knew how to use that understanding to shape his own path.
This from the man who also adored Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, considered it “the best-produced rock record in the history of rock,” and grew up on Joy Division. The same George Michael who idolised soul goddesses like Aretha Franklin, and whose career was built on unshakable melody wrapped in emotional vulnerability.
To be in awe of Don’t You Want Me wasn’t a contradiction. It was confirmation: George Michael had the instincts of a pop fan and the precision of a pop architect. He knew what worked, how it worked, and how to push it further, without compromise.
He didn’t just respect the art of pop. He mastered it.
