John Taylor, John Taylor…

Oh, John Taylor of Duran squared, still going strong in your 60s, you ageless beauty you. How I loved you when I was just learning to love…and to sing out all of my dreams in harmony with your songs…

I must have been ten years old when I discovered these New Romantics as their musical movement was referred to. Their artistry was so indicative of the 80s, the use of eyeliner while highlighting their pouty lipped stares indicated a new direction in fashion, masculinity and music. Their songs were melodious, even though the lyrics feel a bit obtuse now. I wondered when I was a young child why they chose that fateful moniker, why they were the beautiful British band with the repetitive name. Was that for effect or in hopes nobody would forget Duran Duran, which clearly is impossible. I am proof positive of their prowess, writing about them close to a half century later, days out from a concert I almost feel desperate to attend. They are quite rightly seared on my memory and I was hungry like the wolf to see them in the flesh.

Up until yesterday, I was planning on how to make my great escape from the destruction of Pacific Palisades to The Fountainebleu Hotel in Las Vegas where I would make the pilgrimage from my suite to the theater so that I could finally say I saw them live. I was perceiving the trip as a full circle journey to the holy land of my youth where I wasn’t allowed to attend concerts on The Las Vegas strip alone as a young girl. Alas, that exercise is not happening, my moment not to be realized, as I have decided in the final hours against it.

Sadly, I won’t be going to Las Vegas to see those lovely boys for a myriad of reasons. And maybe, I will have to wait another 45 years to see the British band from Birmingham who defined my childhood.

I was an encyclopedia of fun facts about the band until my 20s and until I married my own British boy, who couldn’t play bass like Mr. Taylor still does so skillfully. He wasn’t a huge fan of music the way I am and maybe that accounts for why the marriage was doomed from the start. Although, in fairness, his last name is Sultan and he was cool enough to both know and listen to Dire Straits. He even playfully let me refer to us as The Sultans of Swing in reference to the band’s well known hit. But, even they are not Duran Duran and that effort not enough to save that marriage.

I remember reading the name was based on a character from a movie I never saw called Barbarella, but, now less than a month before my next birthday, I contemplate Duran Duran’s influence on my hopes, my sound, and my dreams, most notably through the myth of John Taylor.

As a precocious child, I did find it odd that three members of the band all shared the last name “Taylor” but weren’t related. While I, like most prepubescent young girls at the time, signed my last name Taylor across my peach Pee Chee folders and within my slam book, I never really believed I’d marry him, but rather a guy in his vein if I was to be that lucky. Now that I think about it, in my elementary school slam books, I signed my name as John Taylor and answered all of the questions as though him and not his betrothed. What was it about him that inspired my school girl crush to be so lingering that when I look at him now all of those feelings of youth and longing feel fresh and as tangible in my mind’s eye?

Firstly, he was empirically beautiful to look at. Tall and slim with a confident swagger, he had an infectious laugh and smile. He was towering in a way that only Simon LeBon, the lead singer, comes close and he always seemed invested in what he was playing and interpreting on the bass. He represented everything that I wanted as a 12 year old and I am sure he knew he fulfilled those exact fantasies for young girls across the globe. I wasn’t quite as committed as one of my girlfriends, Gia. Living between two parents, at her mother’s house, she had two bedrooms, one of which was literally wallpapered on each wall with endless images of the band. She even called it “The Duran Room.” When we were in our 20s, Gia followed their tour literally and strategically through making friends with their travel agent. Upon finding out, in 1993, that John Taylor allegedly lived on a street called Lime Orchard, she made me come out with her on Halloween to see if she could run into him in a trick or treat scenario she dreamed up. I was much less invested when she casually dropped in the car that River Phoenix had died a few hours before. I think I was equally in awe of his talent as I was of John Taylor’s, so that hardly seemed the time to be looking for JT when I felt like mourning RP.

My parents were a huge part of the legacy of Duran Duran in my life. When my mother would travel abroad, she so sweetly brought me back posters of the band from London that friends in Las Vegas couldn’t acquire and often coveted. My parents gave me a beautiful home that framed a magical childhood where I could put posters strategically on bedroom walls I didn’t have to share with a sibling. Were things perfect in my family? Of course the answer is no; we had our challenges as most people had to contend with during the human experience: loss, death, and occasional shooting (I should explain that, but I won’t). I was one of the challenges my parents were forced to contend with when I was growing up. I was willful and loved to socialize as though I was already an adult. Parties were the ultimate aim and objective for teenaged boys and girls, I was not unusual in craving that pastime, but I often attended without asking permission when my parents were in The Palisades and I was left home with my brother and my babysitter in Las Vegas. Sunday nights they returned from the beach and it often followed with when my punishment would be meted out. Having only one daughter, my father was morally opposed to spankings when I probably deserved my fair share. I was grounded on a perpetual basis, so being in my room around Duran Duran posters did offer opportunities for me to study the chiseled angles and perfection of John Taylor’s face. I remember on one occasion, my behavior must have been so off the charts that my father entered my room, fuming and in his Shakespearean induced delivery (he has a British accent and a flair for the dramatic I am quite convinced I inherited)

“I don’t know what to do with you or how to discipline since I don’t hit women.”

Smugly, in my head, I remember thinking then get the hell out of my room if we are done here and my face must have registered that sentiment because he turned and with full force ripped my Duran Duran poster in two and off of my wall. I remember being inconsolable as though struck with an incurable disease while screaming,

“Dad, come on! Why didn’t you just hit me? It would have hurt a lot less.”

And now, my beloved father sits in a rehab center after the seventh hospital stint he’s had to endure since the fires. His memory fails him as he’s on the precipice of dementia, sometimes completely lucid and encouraging me to travel, other times asking about his 7 year old son who is actually 47 now. To take two days away from comforting, encouraging, and offering him a familiar face he sometimes mistakes for my late mother’s (he has asked about his daughter who is me but who he thinks is still 12) seems unnecessarily selfish when I have full access to sit bedside until he is discharged.

So, in the words of my beloved Duran Duran, I will “save a prayer” that one day soon, I get my moment to hear them in concert, to celebrate their influence upon my life musically and otherwise, and to cherish the memories when life seemed a lot simpler, happier, and filled with lyrical possibilities.

Thank you, John Taylor, et al for providing the inspiration. I know your Vegas performances next week will inspire magical thinking for all of your other diehard fans.