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priestesses@templeofsaintnick.com

Duran Duran

Duran Duran.

Although I've been writing and editing news articles for a few years now, no one seemed to care or notice until I happened to interview actors Russell Wong and Dean Cain for YOLK. After that, no matter what good articles I had done before -- whether it be a piece on Proposition 187 or a story on garment workers in sweat-shops -- I became unofficially known as "the woman who interviewed Russell Wong and/or Dean Cain."

But all that excitement about Russell and Dean was nothing compared to my reaction when a friend of mine interviewed the one and only Nick Rhodes.

Yes, Nick Rhodes. Keyboardist of Duran Duran. Birthday: June 8th. Favorite colors: pink and gray. My favorite member of Duran Duran.

Granted, the favorite color tidbit may not be up-to-date, but I remember that color combination because my friend -- also another Duranie at the time -- knitted scarves for each band member in his favorite color. She never received a response from them, but I remember how exciting it all seemed that maybe Simon, John, Andy, Nick and Roger were warding off the winter chills with those hand-knitted scarves.

Like many of the teeny-boppers who swooned at the thought of meeting Duran Duran, I, too, often fantasized about accidentally encountering a member of the Fab Five. I had this one crazy fantasy that I'd be at a wedding for an aunt or cousin, and that I'd bump into John Taylor, who was there because he was related to the groom. That would have made us cousins by marriage!

In another fantasy, I imagined I was part of a band (as the keyboardist who played a Roland synthesizer, like Nick, of course) and that Duran Duran heard our demo tape. I imagined they liked it so much, they befriended us and helped us get more gigs (a hip word I picked up after hearing Nick and John use it during an interview) and eventually, a record contract with Capitol Records.

That, of course was G-rated compared to some of my fellow Duranies' fantasies. I believe "I want to have John's baby" was a frequent expression of a then 13-year-old friend of mine.

The wish to meet Duran Duran affected my daily life. Whenever a limousine passed by, I always waved at it, hoping it might be Simon, John, Andy, Nick or Roger. After school, I made sure I got home in time to watch Video One, a TV program that sometimes aired Duran Duran videos (I didn't have MTV back then and still don't). The show had too many commercial breaks, but that didn't matter. If host Richard Blade said a Duran Duran video was coming up next, by God, I was not budging from that TV set!

I used to spend hours pouring over the lyrics of Duran Duran's records (yes, records). What did they mean? It all seemed so very cool, sophisticated and esoteric back then. For example, why "The Seventh Stranger"? Why not the sixth? And was "The Chauffeur" lusting after his employer? What about "New Moon on Monday"? Great song, but what did it mean? And what was "Union of the Snake" all about? I have a tape recording of an interview in which the band said the song had to do with the subconscious and conscious mind. Cool, I thought. So intellectual.

I was so enthralled by Duran Duran that for the Halloween dance in seventh grade, I dressed up as John Taylor. My friend (the one who knitted the scarves) and I copied an outfit of his from a music video and sewed a similar ensemble, complete with a red sash. Originally, I had planned to go as Nick, but I couldn't find the matching material to duplicate one of his shirts.

Then came the Great Schism. The group split up to do separate projects as The Power Station and Arcadia. At the time, they said it was only temporary, but we fans sensed something was amiss. Sure enough, guitarist Andy Taylor and drummer Roger Taylor later left the band.

Duran Duran was never the same after that. From an artistic standpoint, the change was good because it presented a challenge and an opportunity to expand the band's boundaries. But for the young fans who had devoted their allowance money to buying Duran Duran records, tapes, posters, pins and T-shirts, it was the end of an era.

I don't know when it ended exactly, but some time between elementary school and high school, I lost that glittery vision of the Fab Five. I still thought they were talented, but somehow the magic was gone. They no longer seemed so...godlike. The mystique -- which had hit so suddenly -- had quietly tip-toed out of my life.

Later in college, I met quite a few people who confessed they, too, had been struck with Fab Five fever during their younger days. We bonded through nostalgic chats about who our favorite band member was and the crazy things we did for the band. A Duranie friend of mine, who is at the ripe age of 21, refers to that crazy period as "the good ol' days."

Nowadays, there are still actors and musicians I admire, but somehow, it's not on the same level of excitement and adoration. It'd be impossible to get hysterical and crazy about anyone anymore. For me, that time of innocent awe was over long ago. I didn't realize just how fleeting that time was until it had already slipped between the pages of pop culture history.

In my closet, my Duran Duran folders, magazine articles, newspaper clippings and pins are all stored away in two sealed plastic bags (in case of flood). Duran Duran posters stand rolled up in a corner of my room. And on the shelf, dust collects on my Duran Duran vinyls.

The day after my friend told me about his good fortune at having snagged an interview with Nick Rhodes, I gave Arena a spin on the turntable. I thought I felt an echo of that unabashed hero worship reverberate faintly within me.

But by the time I reached the end of "Save a Prayer," it became clear I'd never feel that way again. Perhaps, I thought, the time of being a crazy, screaming teenybopper belonged in the past, in "the good ol' days."

My friend's article came out last week. I clipped it out; I'll add it to my collection of Duran Duran articles the next time I swing by home.

It was kind of like what I used to do -- collect articles about Duran Duran from Bop magazine and the Los Angeles Times. This time, though, it wasn't about adoration; it was more about recollection and bittersweet reflection.


Brett Tam, Yolk, 30 September 1995.