#itpg4

On July 2, we played the Peppermint Lounge in Manhattan, and Robert Palmer came backstage to meet us. We clicked right away. I was a fan of Robert’s music, and he was known for his great style. Nick and I had seen him in concert at the Odeon in Birmingham and loved his most recent album, Clues, which was was proving to be a big success for him, particularly the single “Johnny and Mary.”

The outdoor concert was held at Villa Park football ground in Birmingham, home of Aston Villa. In a stroke of marketing genius, all of our merchandising for the event was in claret and blue—Aston Villa’s colors. We gave a press conference at the Dorchester on Park Lane with four of the five Durans wearing Villa scarves and Nick—reluctantly—holding up a Villa rosette, aware of betraying the loyalties of his dad, Roger, a serious Birmingham City fan.

Robert Palmer and his band flew in from touring the United States to open up. We partied at the Rum Runner like old times. After that, I made the cover of the Aston Villa match-day program, photographed with my bass in the Villa colors for their game against Sunderland in August. I am the only non-player or coach to have had that honor.

Packing for the West Indies, I realized I was going to need a new wardrobe for the climate there. The five members of the band always had a strong collective consciousness when it came to putting a look together for a photo shoot, a tour, or a working vacation like this.

Duran arrived in Montserrat with an entirely integrated new look, wearing pale earth tones, pastels, pale blue and pink, cream and white. No black, no leather, no military!

The inspiration for the “Rio” video came from a book of photos that Russell owned, “Foxy Lady” by Belgian photographer Cheyco Leidmann. 

The photographs were provocative; jarring, high-contrast neon colors, surrealist images of girls on beaches with milky oceans, girls with razors and shaving foam.

Nick had already been to a couple of concerts -- yes ,this boy was advanced for his age -- Gary Glitter and Slade, if memory serves. But I was yet to pop that cherry. So, in the spring of ‘74, the two of us lined up outside Birmingham Town Hall on Saturday morning and got a pair of seats to see Ronson’s first solo tour that coming April. We got our tickets in Row J, for one pound thirty-five each, about two dollars. It was the first time my parents allowed me into the city at night. Their approval was conditional on Nick’s mom, Sylvia, agreeing to drive us in and pick us up afterward. No need for the night bus.

What do I remember most about the concert? Not so much what was happening onstage, but off, a foreshadowing, maybe of the experience I would have in the Brighton Dome just a few years later. The violence of it all; seats getting smashed, all this pushing and shoving, girls screaming, standing on top of each other. I had expected it to be like going to the movies -- that we’d be able to sit back in our velvet seats in Row J and soak up the experience -- but this was no passive activity. It was visceral.