American pop fans soon learned that the man behind that voice was a boy-"Boy George" O'Dowd, the band's 21-year-old lead singer and a familiar face on London's pop scene, where image is all. Unlike such soul-struck British pop stars as Martin Fry and ABC and Kevin Rowland of Dexys Midnight Runners, however, Boy George has constructed a public image that's politically complex and maddeningly dense. It's a pastiche of racial and sexual references encompassing everything from flowing robes emblazoned with Hebrew lettering to long, narrow braids similar to Rastafarian dreadlocks. It also includes George's plucked and penciled eyebrows and bright red lipstick. "I want Culture Club to represent all peoples and minorities," Boy George says, "but I see myself as a traditional type of person. I'm not interested in being outrageous."

On the other hand, being outrageous hasn't hurt him any. Androgyny is a timehonored tradition in pop music, from Little Richard to David Bowie-a way of ensuring public notice. Boy George's calculated weirdness has attracted attention even from those who are unaware of its political significance. So has the band's sound, an amalgam of Third World musical styles-reggae, calypso, funk-with American rock and disco mixed in. Culture Club's album, "Kissing to be Clever," was still in the Top 30 last week. Its singles are hits as well: "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me" remaind in the Top 40-six months after its release. A new single, "Time(Clock of the Heart)," a lushly produced pop tune that calls to mind the great days of Philadelphia soul, had just cracked the Top 20. America is mad about the Boy.

Chance: Not a bad few months' work for a band that's been together just two years. Kicked out of school at 15, Boy George drifted through a series of jobs-as a milliner, secondhand cloths dealer, makeup artist for the Royal Shakespear Company and, for three months, singer with the band Bow Wow Wow ( in which guise pop impresario Malcolm McLaren dubbed him "Lieutenant Lush"). Then he joined forces with drummer Jon Moss, the "ideas man" in the band, bassist Michael (Mikey) Craig and ex-hairdresser-guitarist Roy Hay-and Culture Club was launched. "None of us could do much at the start," says George, "but we all evolved as a real band together." When Virgin Records took a chance on Culture Club, the chance paid off. "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me," the groups third british single, rose to the top of the U.K. charts. Stardom in America was just a step away.

Though the band was well recieved, its recent U.S. tour pointed up its limitations. Boy George may be a top-flight soul crooner, but he's no Jackie Wilson onstage; his manner in concert is gawky and awkward. What's more, George sets an artistic agenda that the band can't as yet fulfill. "The aim is to be a bridge between white rock and black soul." But outside the recording studio, in which the sound os the group can be carefully manipulated, emotionally charged tunes like "White Boys Can't Control it" and "I'm Afraid of Me" sound only ragged and diffuse.

Whatever its political overtones, the real strength of Culture Club is as a great singles band. The band's two U.S. releases, as well as its current hit back home, "Church of the Poison Mind," are fine soul tunes in a classic mold-stirring, catchy, well crafted. In the end, it's Boy George's gripping voice, not his wild, carefully constructed public persona, that makes the group's records work. But the Boy is canny enough to enjoy the vocal-versus-visual confusion. "It pleases me that my image dosen't quite fit with the music," he says. "I like the audience to have the impression that things aren't quite what they seem. I want to keep shuffling my cards."

Written by : Bill Barol with Rita Dallas in London