Calling all girls of the ’80s — and, dare I say, their husbands. The epitome of our musical youth, in its original incarnation, will appear at a venue near you this weekend. Hairspray and blond streaks are not required for entry. An undying love for the music, and the band that created and executes it, will help you tolerate the crowd — a flammable group of fans gone wild again, now old enough to drink and smoke (unless they’re pregnant, of course) and still not missing a beat.
I oughta know. In a recent Duran Duran concert in New York City, I still managed to fit right in — hysteria and everything.
And it was 1984 all over again.
It was the fall of that seminal mid-’80s year. Duran Duran — comprised of the three Taylors, Rhodes and le Bon — had played the Spectrum twice that previous spring — March 10 and 18 — packing the house and sending hordes of teenagers screaming right through the rest of the decade. The group had toured behind its release of Seven and The Ragged Tiger, known to the masses for producing hits Union of the Snake, New Moon on Monday and The Reflex, but perhaps better appreciated for those of us "in the know" for the mellow Seventh Stranger and tension-filled Cracks in the Pavement.
The 1980s "Fab Five" (Rolling Stone‘s designation, and one we diehards happily live with until this day) was still enjoying the afterglow — and the fan mania — associated with their first two albums, Duran Duran and Rio. Sure, MTV did plenty for their careers — but, more than a pretty-boy image, the unique brand of new-wave pop and Simon le Bon’s oft-bizarre lyrics captured the loyalties of that generation.
This diehard fan was in Philadelphia’s Franklin Plaza Hotel with three of her equally Duran-drunk pals (names withheld to protect innocent Goretti grads), hopping from floor to floor and hiding behind the chambermaids’ cleaning carts in the hopes of finding our Mecca, the nexus of our 15-year-old existence — one-fifth of the Fab Five named John Taylor. A sweep of phone calls to Center City hotels divulged that the tall, slender bass player with the spiky blond and brown hair — or at least someone with his ubiquitous name — was a guest in the Plaza. ("Hi, can you transfer me to John Taylor’s … Roger Taylor’s … Andy Taylor’s … Simon le Bon’s … Nick Rhodes’ room?" This is how we spent our weekends. For the non-corner-hanger, what else was there to do?)
When the whole band was in town, of course, we’d camp outside their hotel — usually the Four Seasons or The Palace — at least until it got dark and our parental-enforced curfews were up. (We could get away with the "I’m-sleeping-over-so-and-so’s-house" only so many times before we were caught hanging out on the street all night.)
But this time, there was no tour, no album being recorded, no real reason for Duran Duran — the guys from Birmingham, England — to be in Philly. And, sausage aside, there were a gazillion guys named John Taylor. In the fantasy of four South Philly teen girls, however, it was entirely possible that this famous J.T. was staying at the Franklin Plaza for a little R&R;, a much-deserved respite from a crazy tour.
We just wanted to welcome him to our fair American city.
OK, so this John Taylor was a British Airways flight attendant, registered under her husband’s name. Allegedly. I wonder if she held onto those love notes we wrote, those heart-shaped stickers upon which we penned our deepest heart-felt sentiments for the lanky bassist who apparently was not lounging about in our fair city, or even craving a cheesesteak.
And, almost a year later, we didn’t get Andy Taylor’s autograph when he toured behind Belinda Carlisle (Go-Go’s), even after we sent a rather bewildered Steve Jones (Sex Pistols) back into the hotel to fetch his fellow strummer. (The reemerging Andy was not amused when I pulled out a strand of his long, shiny hair as a souvenir. Still have it, in a Ziploc bag — somewhere.)
And — this is the hardest to admit, but I may as well come clean here — a few of us (again, no names) did, uh, lick the petals off the rose we handed Nick Rhodes during an ’87 concert after a roadie handed it back to us. (The stem had spent a precious 20 minutes on his keyboard, after all. Still have petal dust somewhere in a Ziploc, too.)
It was this kind of fan mania that ultimately discredited Duran’s music and turned off scores of older and male enthusiasts. But now, nearly two decades later, it’s safe to go back in the water. The crazy gals of the ’80s have tamer hair and, in many cases, husbands — men who can finally let out their inner Duran. (It’s OK, guys. You can admit it now.)
It’s not as if Duran didn’t exist in the interim decades. A diluted version of the band, fronted by le Bon and Rhodes and sometimes John Taylor, continued to make music — damned good music — after they went their separate ways in the late ’80s with Arcadia (le Bon and Rhodes) and Power Station (John and Andy Taylor, with the late great Robert Palmer). Only drummer Roger Taylor (a personal favorite), never one for the limelight, stayed away for a while, and eventually was lured out of hiding by other musical projects.
The original band’s 18-year hiatus — the last time the members performed live together was, aptly, at Live-Aid in July 1985 at JFK Stadium — produced several hits, including the mid-’90s’ melancholy smash Ordinary World and Come Undone, the funky Electric Barbarella and the sexy All She Wants Is, as well as several high-ranking compilations. Meanwhile, other up-and-coming new-wave bands recorded Duran cover tunes, and the group itself kept working.
The early fans rolled with the changes as they graduated high school and college and embarked on careers and families, but longed for the day when the five founding members would play those ’80s tunes together again — which seemed more and more likely, given the popularity (and the profit) of reunion tours.
Japan first got to see the reunited group on tour; the U.S. got a taste when Duran hit the West Coast in the summer. Then on Aug. 27, a couple thousand lucky East Coast fans witnessed the group’s first performance in New York City together in 18 years. The Japanese and American shows had sold out in mere minutes.
The 25th anniversary of the formation of Duran Duran (they got together in 1978) was officially underway, with a small-venue tour in the works, the release of a boxed set of CD singles and a two-DVD video anthology, a new album projected for release in 2004 … and of course, that Lifetime Achievement Award from MTV.
I’m 34 now and work full-time (here, incidentally), and soon will be married — none of which stopped me from getting my butt to the East Village early on Aug. 27 in the hopes of getting close to the stage in the standing-room-only Webster Hall. Accompanied by a close friend and fellow Duranie (which is how we got to be close friends to start with), we stood outside on the scorching pavement for the better part of 12 hours. "We’re getting too old for this crap," we told each other.
Until, sweaty and fatigued, we saw Duran Duran at close range, opening the show, sweaty and fabulous, with Friends of Mine — a favorite from their very first album, back in those early Duranie days.
Had it been almost two decades since these five boys played together? To many an old fan and to throngs of new ones, the two-hour performance (including brand-new tunes What Happens Tomorrow and Virus) was as fresh and vital as ever.
I’ll be at Atlantic City’s Borgata on Saturday and Upper Darby’s Tower Theater on Monday. Am I going to sit back, have a cocktail and enjoy the reunion shows like any civilized adult?
Nah — I’ll be as close to the stage as my ribs will allow me. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a strand of hair.
