by John Taylor
In the squat, our new musical direction aroused scorn and suspicion. Moving our gear back up the stairs to Andy’s room after a gig, we were confronted by the words “DISCO SUCKS!” daubed in red paint across the front door.
We were far too energized by the progress we were making to be bothered by such childishness. In their puritanism, the Hawks—for it had been they with the paintbrush—were out-of-date. We were doing something new, drawing inspiration from what was happening now, not twenty years ago. We were attempting to innovate. They were being left behind.
But all was not rosy. Our relationship with Andy began to fray, and after a couple more gigs with him, we decided to cut him loose. It wasn’t personal, but Nick, Roger, and I just couldn’t imagine taking the long ride with him, and the long ride was what we were in for.
We replaced Andy with Jeff Thomas, the singer from Roger’s old band, the Scent Organs. In an act that created further indignity for the departing singer, Andy’s girlfriend Jane stuck with us, now dating Nick and helping to manage the band. At the same time, I started dating the Hawks’ guitarist’s ex-girlfriend.
She was the first girl I slept with. We went to church together the following morning, good Catholic girl that she was. That settled the battle of the bands.
I wanted a girlfriend, to be sure. A little eye candy never hurt any musician. But I wasn’t going to get hung up on it. I had absolutely no interest in marriage and was far too dedicated to the boys in the band to really make a good boyfriend. In fact, I would not be anyone’s idea of a good boyfriend for another twenty years or so.
Jane, Nick, and I went on our first expedition to meet record companies in London that winter. We took our latest demo tapes to Island, Phonogram, and EMI.
We actually got into the A&R offices at Island and played the songs to someone there.
“Where you boys from?”
“Birmingham.”
“North of the border, eh? What’s the band’s name?”
We told him. He tapped the tape against the palm of his hand, considering.
“All right, let’s put it on.”
We listened. He nodded along appreciatively. I needed to pee.
After the last song, he popped the tape out of the deck and offered it back to us.
“You can keep it. It’s got our number on it.”
He looked more closely, as if to make sure we weren’t lying.
“Oh yeah, right. Good to know. Thanks for coming in.”
And we were back out on the street in St. Peter’s Square.
By Christmas, Jane had drifted away. Shame. She had legs for days. They just weren’t enough to get us a record deal.
18 Enter the Eighties
As we glided toward the end of the seventies, no one I knew was giving much thought to what the eighties were going to look or sound like. Maybe it was being discussed in the pages of big media like Time or Newsweek or The Guardian, but I wasn’t thinking about it. I was too busy living.
No one knew then just how important the music that Kraftwerk had been making at their home studios in Düsseldorf, with their handmade keyboards and effects pedals, would turn out to be. They were inventing techno, and not just the sound.
The cover of 1978’s The Man-Machine took its look from Fritz Lang’s twenties monochrome masterpiece Metropolis, adding Russian Constructivism’s signature colors and shapes; red, black, and gray; all hard angles and triangles. The influence of that cover alone would take a year to fully enter the cultural stream. By late 1979, there wasn’t anyone doing anything that mattered who wasn’t in some way influenced by that album. Everything that was worth saying visually could be said in black and white, with the ubiquitous gray and accents of red.
Manchester’s Warsaw renamed themselves as Joy Division and wore smart gray shirts, dark ties, and military surplus raincoats.
Visage would sing “Fade to Grey.” Ultravox recorded in Cologne with Conny Plank, Can’s producer, and filmed a black-and-white video in Vienna as an homage to Orson Welles’s The Third Man.
• • •
No one who had a clue was dressing “punk” anymore. The punk look had moved on. In Birmingham, designers and boutique owners Patti Bell and Jane Kahn would honor the spirit of punk regalia but soften it, romanticize it. They would provide some perfect looks for Duran over the next year or two.
Vivienne Westwood continued to innovate. She never got hung up on her iconic punk creations; she kept moving forward. The clothes she would unveil on Bow Wow Wow in 1980 were extraordinarily beautiful, and we would be adding some pieces from that collection to our wardrobes once the money came in.
The shapes right now were sharp and structured. Gary Numan got that right. He would have a Top 10 song in the United States with “Cars.”
The military look was back. Ground Control to Major Tom. Bowie in Berlin. 2001. Keyboards were in, guitars were out.
No more “No Future”; the future had been reinstated. The Sex Pistols’ message was already passé.
The original punks drifted back to Bowie and Ferry, disillusioned with Sham 69 and the “Oi” crowd. Back to dressing in sleek suits, slicking their hair back. People wanted to dress up again.
Glamour came back—Decadent Empire Dressing. The machismo of punk disappeared overnight. Disco was winning the war on rock. Halston, Gucci, and Fiorucci all made it to the Midlands. Fonts were modern and democratic. Kidnapper typography and ink splatters were out. Avant Garde became the font du jour and Helvetica continued its ride to the top. Girls and boys began to cross-over-dress again, as they had done during the glam-rock years. The nihilism that had been so crucial to fueling punk rock’s beginnings had been replaced by something equally, if not more, motivational: the will to win, to succeed, to triumph. The United Kingdom elected a woman prime minister. Ambition was cool.
I didn’t know any of this then, could not have articulated it if I tried. It takes perspective to recognize the shifting of trends. But 1979–80 was undoubtedly a cultural crossroads.
I learned lessons watching the paths taken by my idols. Turned out the Clash wanted to be the biggest rock and roll band in the world, the new Rolling Stones. I didn’t get that when I was following them around the country, screaming along with their anthems, “Complete Control” and “1977.”
Sadly, the Sex Pistols had not been able to ride out the insanity their notoriety had brought them. They had the most acrimonious breakup, and now Johnny Rotten, who had reverted to his given name of John Lydon, in a very postmodern move, was doing something new. He would have a place in eighties culture with Public Image Ltd almost as significant as he had with the Pistols in the seventies.
Buzzcocks were proving to be tremendously resilient, turning up every other week on Top of the Pops, performing a string of perfectly composed pop masterpieces, one after another, as did Blondie. Both bands set a blistering pace.
The year 1980 would see the death—almost—of the music weekly. Only the NME would survive long-term. There was a new, glossy, full-color pop press gaining in popularity, exemplified by Smash Hits, who liked putting full-color photos of Adam Ant on their covers because they sold well.
A taste of the zeitgeist as it stood in December 1979. The Culture Wave. Wherever it was going, I would be going with it.
19 Music Never Sounded Better
In February, Nick and I were going around venues in Birmingham looking for unconventional places to play, like art galleries and cafés. Although our residency at the Crown had served Dada well, we now agreed that we would do anything to avoid the pub circuit. The dank, beer-sodden Victorian carpets and gloomy stained glass would have been a death knell to us.
We used to make fun of the bands that seemed to be constantly in residence at the same old, tired pubs that made up the less inspiring end of the local Birmingham rock scene. On BRMB Radio, late-night DJ Robin Valk would always be saying, “And Wednesday, Bright Eyes will be sparkling at the Barrel Organ.” We would collapse in hysterics. They’d be
en sparkling at the Barrel Organ for so many years now, it was hard to believe there could be any sparkle left.
One band that had got it right was Fashion. The Police had introduced the term white reggae into the music lexicon, and Fashion had a lot of that. They also had an interesting electronic synthpop aspect that we found appealing and the most entertaining drummer on the scene in Dik Davis. Plus, thanks to Mulligan, the keyboard- and bass-playing dreadlocked blond art student, the best flyers the city had ever made.
We watched Fashion closely, in much the same way as we were following UB40, except with Fashion it was more about concept; the strength and substance were in the ideas.
One Friday afternoon, Nick and I, as part of our continuing search for special venues, visited the Ikon Gallery in the city center and discussed with them the possibility of staging a “happening.” From there, walking up Hill Street, we noticed posters for a “Bowie night” at a nightclub called the Rum Runner. “New Sounds, New Styles,” the poster promised.
Looks interesting.
We walked up to Broad Street and knocked on the door of the Rum Runner.
The only thing I knew about the Rum Runner was that it was very old school. I had never been there. Neither had Nick. It was not on our radar. I had always assumed it drew an older clientele, much like the Opposite Lock jazz club around the corner. It had been used as a location in the drama series Gangsters, a BBC Birmingham production.
We were directed up an external fire escape to the club’s office, where we met Paul Berrow, a tall, rather debonair guy, suavely dressed in very un-Birmingham clothes; silk scarves, cravats, seersucker suits, and handmade shirts were Paul’s thing.
We had recorded another set of songs at Bob Lamb’s, this time with Jeff Thomas at the vocal mic, and we handed Paul this tape, hoping he would have a listen to it at some future time.
But Paul wanted to hear it there and then. He responded eagerly, “Follow me, chaps. Let’s have a listen to this downstairs.”
Undoubtedly, part of the reason Paul wanted to put our tape on right away was because he was very proud of the Rum Runner’s sound system and was happy to have someone to show it off to. He and his brother Michael had been to Studio 54 in New York and had their minds blown, and were in the process of creating something similar at home. Their father owned a string of the city’s top venues—clubs and casinos—and had gifted his sons the Rum Runner.
Michael, the more circumspect brother, was not there that day. If he had been, I don’t know if any of the rest of this story would have happened.
Paul fired up the power amps, and four six-foot-high speakers—one on each corner of the dance floor—hummed into life.
He slotted the tape into the machine and pressed play.
Music never sounded better than it did in that room.
Paul loved what he heard on the tape, and he seemed to like Nick and me. He was by nature an optimist and an idealist.
“This is very bloody interesting,” he said. “My brother and I have been thinking about getting into management. Why don’t you come down to the club tonight, and bring the rest of the boys with you?”
So later that night, Nick and I showed up to introduce the band to Paul—our five-piece with Roger on drums, Alan Curtis on guitar, and Jeff Thomas on vocals. We all seemed to get along, so Paul agreed to put on a gig at the club in March with Fashion headlining and Duran opening.
A few days later, we moved our gear into the Rum Runner. One of the bars wasn’t being used, and that was where we set up our stuff. Paul said we could practice in there during the day.
Having a connection with the Rum Runner was crucial for Duran Duran. Paul and Michael became our patrons, and we effectively had this establishment representing us.
The deal was clear: Our job was to write the songs and develop the sound, and it was the Berrows’s responsibility to find us places to play, buy us whatever gear we needed, and ultimately find us a record deal.
On March 12, we played for the first time in the club, on a low, makeshift stage set up next to the DJ booth. At the time it felt like our best performance to date, and I was happy with where we were at and where we were headed. But at 8:00 A.M. the following day I got a call from Alan Curtis; he was at a motorway service area on the M1. Anxiously putting coins into the callbox he tried to explain to me, “I don’t like that scene. It makes me nervous. I’m going back to London.”
I just didn’t get it.
He must have been watching Gangsters.
Then Jeff and Paul started arguing. Musical differences, between singer and manager? One of them had to go. It wasn’t going to be Paul. Another singer we could find, but a manager like Paul comes along once in a lifetime.
We held on to Paul; Jeff was out the door. Now we are looking for a singer and a guitarist.
And yet it didn’t feel that daunting. Our commitment to Paul, Michael, and the Rum Runner bought us a degree of comfortability that we had not previously experienced.
Paul and Michael invested in some gear for us. I needed to step up from the cheap Hondo bass I was using and the cumbersome amplifier combo I was schlepping around with me. I replaced that with a slick Peavey amp head and matching speaker cabinet. For my next bass, I was looking for something I could call my own. Something with style.
Another example of how the rules were changing at the beginning of the eighties was in musical instrument manufacture. Fender and Gibson had the monopoly on seventies music; everyone played one or the other, And most bassists used Fender Precisions. I didn’t want to be part of any tradition. Was that the times or was that the teens? As I have gotten older, tradition, and being part of a continuum of bassists, writers, and performers, has become more important to me.
But in 1980, I wanted to stand apart from what had come before as much as I could. There was a wave of manufacturers coming out of Japan, producing instruments that were strong and stylish, and the common knowledge was that they made the grade. The same thing would happen with cars ten years later.
I liked the Ibanez basses that Sting used, but they were expensive. At Jones and Crossland on the Queensway, I saw and tried out a bass I liked the look of by a Japanese manufacturer I had not heard of before, Aria. It had a similar look to the Ibanez, and there were two models on offer: the 1200, which had two pickups and active electronics—which required six-volt batteries to power it—and the 600, with a single pickup, no active electronics, but sleek and very pretty, with a two-tone wood grain. It was also half the price; maybe the Berrows were footing the bill, but I had no intention of taking advantage of them.
It was a good choice; the Aria would become my signature instrument and get me around the world.
I’ve never had the kind of relationship with my basses one often hears guitar players talk about having with their six-string lovers. I don’t cook breakfast with my bass strapped on, and I’ve been known to take it to bed with me only once or twice in really desperate times. I never became a real tech-head, and I am still using Peavey amplifiers.
Every night at the Rum Runner, we were exposed to the best of contemporary music—European dance music, funk, disco, and jazz funk—all accompanied by a steady stream of vintage wine, champagne, a little smoke now and again, and even a little toot.
The next few months found us auditioning for singers and guitarists. They would come to us from all over the Midlands, some from farther afield, having answered ads that we had taken out in the music press. We would tell the guitar players that the singer was sick, and we would tell the same story to the singers about the guitar player. And all the time, Roger, Nick, and I were refining the backbone style of what would become the sound of Duran Duran.
• • •
Andy Taylor was born on the northeast coast of England in Cullercoats, Northumberland, a hardy boy from a hardy land. He had decided he wanted to be a guitar player early on in life. He was a year older than me and had not gone to college, so he had already been a professional working musician
for several years. He had a band that regularly toured the air force bases in Germany. Andy sang, played guitar, drove the Ford van, and could fix it if it needed fixing. His was an entirely different experience to ours.
The night before Andy came down to Birmingham to meet and play with us, I had been watching guitarist Gary Moore on television. I was taken by his ability to switch from bluesy rock to choppy funk styles. I felt our band needed a similar level of skill and versatility. Gary Moore happened to be Andy’s favorite guitar player. Andy didn’t look like one of us. He showed up wearing a T-shirt with a logo in the style of a Kit Kat chocolate bar, saying “Have a break / Have a kwik krap.” Nick would always say the writing was on the wall right there and then.
And it’s true, he didn’t talk or think like one of us, but we connected over music, and that was what mattered.
Andy liked what happened the day of his audition and agreed to move to Birmingham. Paul’s brother Michael installed him in the spare room of his flat, and pretty soon Andy was spending most of his nights there with the Page Three model Janine Andrews.
A third Taylor? Is that a joke? For weeks, Nick thought it was.
Now we were back to four.
• • •
A part-time business associate of Paul and Michael’s named Keith Baker began to obsessively insist that we install local beauty and Rum Runner hostess Elayne Griffiths as our singer.
For a few weeks, this idea had some currency. Cameras were brought into the club to film her singing two of our songs. I took my glasses off, as we were only miming and I didn’t need to see the fretboard in detail. After the filming, the beautiful Elayne remarked, “You should get contact lenses. You look cute without those glasses.”
I did?
The feeling among Andy, Roger, Nick, and me was that Elayne was not the right singer for the band. It was not our vision. In effect, we’d become her backing band.