Talking To Girls About Duran Duran Part 4

"b.i.t.c.h-off? There's no such thing as a b.i.t.c.h-off."

"Yes there is, and you are one."

"No, I'm saying there's no such word. n.o.body says b.i.t.c.h-off."

"I'm saying it."

"No, I mean, it isn't even a fake word. n.o.body says it as a name to call somebody. You just made it up."

"f.u.c.k you, b.i.t.c.h-off. Don't you know that song? Billy Joel. You had to be a b.i.t.c.h-off, didn't cha? Oh no, you had to be a b.i.t.c.h-off. Don't come b.i.t.c.hing to me, you big b.i.t.c.h-off."

"I've changed my mind. You are such a f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h-off."

One day in July, Harry told us things were going to be different. We had a new crew member. She was Kelly Ryan, and Harry told us her dad knew somebody. So there were rules: n.o.body was supposed to talk to Kelly Ryan, look at Kelly Ryan or bother Kelly Ryan. There was a girl on our truck now. Kelly Ryan showed up her first day wearing makeup and a cute little miniskirt, with Bonnie Tyler blond hair. Lots of girls had the Bonnie Tyler hair that summer.

Kelly Ryan basically ruined everything, because all anyone tried to do now was put each other down to impress Kelly Ryan, which would have required an Act of G.o.d and not merely a bunch of hormonally crazed seventeen-year-old boys in orange vests. That first day, when we piled off the truck to clean the Casimir Pulaski Memorial Underpa.s.s, Kelly stayed behind, sitting on the truckbed, dangling her legs and reading Harper's Bazaar Harper's Bazaar. n.o.body complained to Harry about Kelly Ryan not working. The crew got a lot more violent.

Kelly Ryan seemed like what they used to call "stuck up." She never talked to her coworkers on the back of the truck. At Dunkin' Donuts, she sat at the other end of the counter and pretended not to know us, even though she had the same matching orange vest. She never had a nice word. Every time she opened her mouth, it was like she gave birth to a litter of b.i.t.c.h-kitties.

After work on Wednesday, Kelly Ryan talked to me for the first time, because I had a car. She needed a ride home from work. She lived in Quincy, but I was happy to make the trip, especially since I knew it would p.i.s.s off Okie, because he also had a car but she did not ask him for a lift. I didn't know why she picked me, but I a.s.sumed it had something to do with being "sweet." Teenage boys do not necessarily like it when girls tell them they're "sweet," because it means they're safe, but I did not have a problem with this.

I had never driven a girl around in my car before. It was the brown '74 Chevy Nova with no winds.h.i.+eld wipers and the floor rusted clean through. I had driven around with guy friends, which was no problem, because teenage boys are vaguely excited by the risk of losing a limb if you get your shoe caught in the hole. But I could tell it had been a while since Kelly had been in a car this crummy.

"Nice car," she said. "You got brakes in this thing?"

"Used to. Now I just drag my feet, like the Flintstones."

"Do the windows go down?"

"Mine does."

"Great. My boyfriend's car has this thing called air-conditioning."

"Never heard of it. How's your boyfriend?"

"Fine. Tomorrow's our three-month anniversary."

"Well, not reeeally reeeally. 'Annus' means 'year.' "

"Excuse me?"

"It's Latin. Technically you can't have a three-month anniversary, because 'annus' means 'year.' As in 'annual,' or 'annuit coeptis.'"

"Right. What about a.n.u.s?"

"That's different. They're not etymologically related."

"But you're related to an a.n.u.s. As in, you are totally an a.n.u.s."

"You have a point. This is your street?"

"Let me off at the curb."

"Technically, I guess it's your quarter-anniversary."

"The curb."

The next day, everyone on the truck knew I'd given Kelly Ryan a ride home, and there was a vague sense of aggro in the air. n.o.body could figure out why she picked me. Kelly Ryan, as usual, didn't say hi to anyone, and sat in the back of the truck, reading her fas.h.i.+on mags. We cleaned up alongside the breakdown lanes on Savin Hill and debated which of the models on her fas.h.i.+on mags was hotter, Christie Sprinkley or Paulina Pork Her All Over.

Now that Kelly had seen the inside of my car, I a.s.sumed she wouldn't b.u.m any more rides-and now that she'd seen the inside of my personality, I a.s.sumed she would never speak to me again. But I still had a car, and she still needed a lift.

"Where's your boyfriend?"

"His car is in the shop. His car, which has air-conditioning."

"Are you going out tonight?"

"Yeah, I don't know. I didn't call him. I've been procrastinating all day."

A few exits went by before I spoke up again. " 'Cras' means 'tomorrow,' by the way."

"What are you talking about?"

" 'Pro cras' is Latin. It means 'for tomorrow.' So technically you can't procrastinate till tonight."

"Thanks for clearing that up. What's Latin for douchebag?"

"Ecce h.o.m.o."

"Ever heard of the word 'v.a.g.i.n.a'?"

"That's Latin too. Caesar uses that word in the Gallic Wars Gallic Wars. I mean, I know what that word means. I know all about it, you know? I'm just making conversation here."

"Please don't."

"What do you want to talk about then?"

"Just don't say anything and I won't either. And fifteen or twenty minutes will go by, extremely f.u.c.king painful minutes, but then we'll be in Boston and I will get out of this car and take an aspirin or something."

So I didn't say anything.

The next day, she told Harry she hated the garbage truck, and if he didn't find an office job for her at the barracks, her dad was going to break his legs. Friday was our last day of Kelly Ryan, and we had a vague sense of detumescence. We knew we were still going to insult one another's mothers and threaten to stab one another, but it wasn't going to be as much fun. After lunch, Chicken went for Okie with his idiot stick and drew blood, and even that couldn't cheer us up.

Friday was the last day Kelly Ryan needed a ride home, and also the first day she didn't even ask, just showed up at my car. I did a pretty good job of not talking. I turned on the radio and she looked out the window. We were cruising north on the expressway, the same stretch of road we'd been cleaning up all week. Then I cleared my throat.

"Am I always going to be this way?"

"What?"

I repeated my question. "Am I always going to be this way?"

I was as surprised as she was. I was surprised I'd said it, but I was even more surprised she took a second to think about it.

"Yes," she said eventually. "You are always going to be this way. It's okay, though. Some girls are probably this way too."

"Great. Do you know any?"

"Shhh. It's the tunnel."

We rolled into the Callahan Tunnel. She held her breath. In ordinary traffic, from one end of the tunnel to the other is a minute and twenty seconds. Some girls can hold their breath all the way through the tunnel. Kelly Ryan had her lips clenched and her eyes closed. There was no radio in the tunnel, so the only sound I could hear was Kelly holding her breath. I knew she was going to make it to the other side.

HAYSI FANTAYZEE.

"s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny"

1983.

Now, really. Haysi Fantayzee. When the good Lord was handing out brain soup, these guys must have shown up with a fork. Any discussion of this group has to start with a few basic questions: (1) who were they? (2) what kind of idiot actually listened to this s.h.i.+t? and (3) how in the blood-spattered name of the lords and the creatures could such a musical atrocity happen?

The first one is easy-they were an English new-wave duo who had one hit in 1983 called "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny." The third one is easy too-we do not live in an ideal universe, and our tribe is a sewer of vanity and corruption, and songs like "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny" are the wounds we bear from our cosmic floggings. The second one is kind of hard, though. The only answer I can come up with is "me," but since there were clearly a lot of other people out there who paid actual money for Haysi Fantayzee records, that's just not an adequate answer.

I don't meet a lot of other Haysi Fantayzee fans. Sometimes I've played the song for people who respond, "Hmmm, this is interesting," but in a way that's more like "There are two exits in this room, the window and the door. If this song doesn't end soon, I'm going to opt for the window." So the possibility remains that for all intents and purposes, n.o.body n.o.body likes this song. That's fine with me. It's part of being a fan-sometimes it's a lonely thing to devote your heart to a song, especially when it's a song that literally n.o.body can stand, from an idiotic group with an idiotic name and idiotic haircuts. Everybody's got something like this in their life, whether it's a song n.o.body else likes or a celebrity crush everybody else finds hideous or a team that always loses. We all have our Haysi Fantayzees. Do we choose them or do they choose us? likes this song. That's fine with me. It's part of being a fan-sometimes it's a lonely thing to devote your heart to a song, especially when it's a song that literally n.o.body can stand, from an idiotic group with an idiotic name and idiotic haircuts. Everybody's got something like this in their life, whether it's a song n.o.body else likes or a celebrity crush everybody else finds hideous or a team that always loses. We all have our Haysi Fantayzees. Do we choose them or do they choose us?

One-hit wonders are a n.o.ble breed. It's a fallacy that artists should have long, productive careers. William Wordsworth invented modern poetry in one ten-year bang, 1795 to 1805, but then he was cashed out, although he lived to write utter rubbish for another forty-five years. Walt Whitman wrote American literature's most towering achievements between 1855 and 1865, and then sucked for the next twenty-seven years. T. S. Eliot? Spent the twentieth century dining out on a handful of poems from his 1915-1925 hot streak. Rock stars did not invent burning out. They just do it louder.

It's hard to guess in advance which one-hit wonders are going to go on to be famous for their hit and which are going to be obscure. If you asked around in 1983, or for that matter, 1993, n.o.body would have guessed that Kajagoogoo would one day be remembered as a consummate '80s one-hit wonder. Their song has gone on to everlasting life. (I actually thought their second single, "Hang On Now," was in some ways a more thought-provoking and inspiring statement of the Kajagoogoo ethos.) Anyway, everybody who likes pop music knows the hits by Kajagoogoo and Dexy's Midnight Runners and Tommy Tutone. But not Haysi Fantayzee or Total Coelo or the Belle Stars. I'm not here to argue that they should should be more famous than they are; I'm just asking why. be more famous than they are; I'm just asking why.

This applies to one-hit wonders of all eras, of course. For instance, every year I hear "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" and "Play That Funky Music" more times than I heard them in the entire 1970s combined. These songs are much more famous and popular now than they were when they were actual hits. "Y.M.C.A." was a hit for about a month, then vanished for more than a decade, but you will probably hear it at some point in the next week, especially if you attend a wedding, a baseball game, or a mud-wrestling match. Whereas the biggest one-hit job of the 1970s, and in fact the decade's biggest hit, was Debbie Boone's "You Light Up My Life," which I haven't heard since it came out. How come "Y.M.C.A." lives forever, while "Undercover Angel" and "Heaven on the 7th Floor" disappear completely from our collective memory? Some songs get pimped on soundtracks, commercials and sporting events, while other equally popular songs sail away like Brandy's sailor boyfriend. n.o.body knows how this works. The G.o.ds of pop music are fickle b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

But it's different when we talk about the '80s, because the era's one-hit wonders are by far the era's most loved songs, and in fact, if you mention " '80s music" to someone, they probably a.s.sume you're talking about Kajagoogoo or Dexy's Midnight Runners or Men Without Hats. Styx were infinitely more popular than these groups at the time, and had a lot more hits. Yet the music we remember as typifying the era is the stuff that seemed most frivolous and temporary at the time.

Which brings us to Haysi Fantayzee. Man oh man, did I love this band. "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny" was their anthem: a boy and a girl, two Brit kids who looked like they just got lobotomized with knitting needles, wearing midriff s.h.i.+rts and top hats and dreadlocks, chanting about nuclear war over a bouncy little jump-rope riff, rapping lines like "I'm a hot r.e.t.a.r.d / Marquis de Sade!" There's a fiddle solo. Every time you think the song's about to end, they rip into another chorus, yelping "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny, bad times behind me / s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny, sha na na na." The boy was named Jeremy Healy; the girl was Kate Garner. "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny" hit number sixteen in the U.K. and never charted here, but it got a fair amount of MTV airplay. The alb.u.m was called Battle Hymns for Children Singing Battle Hymns for Children Singing, and included a sixteen-page comic book of the two Haysi kids looking alienated over street scenes, and looking naked while looking alienated. They sang in a made-up language of brain-damaged slang like "John Wayne Is Big Leggy," which is a critique of U.S. imperialism as well as a song about kinky s.e.x, and their major existential statement, "I Lost My Dodi."

They were one of the bands that sent me frothing to the fan mags, devouring any sc.r.a.p of information I could get. I was thrilled to read that Jeremy kept a wheelchair in his apartment, which he'd nicked from a local hospital. There wasn't anything wrong with him; he was just lazy. That had to be every teen boy's biggest fantasy, at least in the non-Phoebe Cates division.

I was intrigued by their ideas on politics and the impending end of the world. I thrilled when they picked fights with other pop stars, like a synth duo I'd never heard of called Mirror Mirror; according to Kate Garner, "It made a mockery of the idea of a video band. Their image was lousy." I had no idea it was even possible possible to make a mockery out of what the Haysis represented, but I guess it was-they took not being taken seriously very seriously. to make a mockery out of what the Haysis represented, but I guess it was-they took not being taken seriously very seriously.

From the fan mags, I knew Jeremy used to live with Boy George in London, where they would have loud public fights over hair spray. Kate was a fas.h.i.+on photographer having a bash at pop stardom. They were scenesters from the artsy milieu that gathered around the Blitz nightclub; they explained that "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny" was about nuclear apocalypse, and that their clothes were inspired by literary influences such as Charles d.i.c.kens, with his portrayal of Victorian street scruffs in novels like Oliver Twist Oliver Twist. (Boy George, in his biography, said Jeremey was "d.i.c.kensian . . . with the emphasis on 'd.i.c.k,' " which could only be a compliment.) There was a third member of the group who didn't sing, but who apparently did nothing besides think about the Haysi Fantayzee att.i.tude of life and make statements to the press giving updates on their opinions, like "The one thing we all had in common was a dislike of doom-laden electronics," or "I'm very sick of doom. There was a whole couple of years of it, that feeling of romanticism in wandering amongst the atomic ruins and being n.o.ble when the world is collapsing around you." But I never noticed he existed. His picture was on the back back cover of the alb.u.m, so who cares? New-wave attention spans are short. cover of the alb.u.m, so who cares? New-wave attention spans are short.

There were loads of philosopher kings who got a lot more respect and attention than these clowns-the Police, for example, who I also loved. The difference is that the Police were a rock band, while Haysi Fantayzee was a pop group, so Sting's ideas about Jung and Nabokov and the Loch Ness Monster were taken more seriously than whatever drivel Haysi Fantayzee were rapping about.

It would suit my argument perfectly if Haysi Fantayzee made better records than the Police did, but I like music better than arguments, so I'm going to have to concede that point. The Police had lots of good songs; the Haysis didn't. But the Police never peaked as high as "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny." I play it more than I play all the Police songs combined.

I expected a lot more from Haysi than this one song. I thought they were the future of something. I was moved when People People magazine reviewed magazine reviewed Battle Hymns for Children Singing Battle Hymns for Children Singing in their Picks & Pans section, and said, "They do, though, seem to represent an unrest that demands to be recognized." But I can't claim it got that recognition, really. The group fizzled out not long after "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny." They never made a sequel and left their fans hanging, children singing waiting for more battle hymns. They went on to fame and fortune in their different fields. Kate Garner kept rising as a photographer-she took the cover photo for Sinead O'Connor's in their Picks & Pans section, and said, "They do, though, seem to represent an unrest that demands to be recognized." But I can't claim it got that recognition, really. The group fizzled out not long after "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny." They never made a sequel and left their fans hanging, children singing waiting for more battle hymns. They went on to fame and fortune in their different fields. Kate Garner kept rising as a photographer-she took the cover photo for Sinead O'Connor's The Lion and the Cobra The Lion and the Cobra-and Jeremy Healy became a huge U.K. techno DJ, scoring a hit with his 1990 Clash remix "Return to Brixton," and joining E-Z Posse for the lowest-common-denominator acid-house cash-in novelty hit imaginable, "Everything Starts with an E." He ended up marrying the English starlet Patsy Kensit, becoming her fourth rock-star husband, after Oasis's Liam Gallagher, Simple Minds' Jim Kerr and a guy from Big Audio Dynamite.

Both are still successful and acclaimed and doing nothing at all that would remind anyone of this group they used to be in. It's safe to say all regard "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny" as a youthful indiscretion, a blot on otherwise laudable careers full of artistic achievement, and wish people would forget this song ever happened. Why stir up the ashes? Why make trouble? Why not let sleeping one-hit wonders lie?

Because the song is too d.a.m.n good, that's why. It's a Taj Majal of awesome, a basilica of No f.u.c.king Way.

Most groups, after recording a hit this transcendently ridiculous, would run for the hills and try to atone, like Kajagoogoo or Haircut One Hundred after they ditched their pop-idol lead singers, remade themselves into tastefully mature jazz-rock combos, and slipped into quality nothingness. It was a big letdown to find out that Kajagoogoo were big Steely Dan and Joni Mitch.e.l.l fans who wanted nothing more than to climb out of the teen-pop ghetto as fast as they could. Nick Beggs even told Smash Hits Smash Hits their name was based on infant language. "Goo-ga-ga-goo was the first thing that came into my mind. I didn't like the goo-ga-ga part and went for something more casual. So Kajagoogoo. The sound of primal life, don't you know." Yeah, their name was based on infant language. "Goo-ga-ga-goo was the first thing that came into my mind. I didn't like the goo-ga-ga part and went for something more casual. So Kajagoogoo. The sound of primal life, don't you know." Yeah, real real primal. But once they ditched the "goo goo" and started calling themselves Kaj, they lost their dodi. primal. But once they ditched the "goo goo" and started calling themselves Kaj, they lost their dodi.

Haysi Fantayzee had no "We hope you like our new direction" phase. They blew it out, in true "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny, bad times behind me" style. They went down in a blaze of glory. But that suits the song. That's part of their beauty. They were phonies who never sold out their phoniness.

I wonder why phonies spoke to my teen self more profoundly than . . . truies? But they did. I suppose it goes back to the time I spent in the hospital when I was eight. Six weeks is a long time to be laid up with pneumonia when you're that age, and I was often too feverish to read, and the TV in my hospital room only had a couple of channels. But I got The Banana Splits The Banana Splits every day at four. I bonded with the Splits. Fleegle had the power to heal. In case you don't remember, the Banana Splits were four animals playing in a . . . okay, guys in animal costumes, pretending to be a rock band, living in a wacky psychedelic clubhouse. It's one of those drugged-out '70s kiddie shows that has an unexpected afterlife in reruns, much like every day at four. I bonded with the Splits. Fleegle had the power to heal. In case you don't remember, the Banana Splits were four animals playing in a . . . okay, guys in animal costumes, pretending to be a rock band, living in a wacky psychedelic clubhouse. It's one of those drugged-out '70s kiddie shows that has an unexpected afterlife in reruns, much like s...o...b.. Doo. s...o...b.. Doo. Fleegle (the dog), Bingo (the ape), Drooper (the lion) and Snorky (the elephant) were a jungle culture club, and I found them immensely comforting. Fleegle (the dog), Bingo (the ape), Drooper (the lion) and Snorky (the elephant) were a jungle culture club, and I found them immensely comforting.

Their best song was "You Can't Buy Soul"-for some reason, the Banana Splits really liked to sing about soul, a surprising fixation for a band comprised of cartoon characters. But they had other great songs too, like "I Enjoy Being a Boy" and "Doin' the Banana Split," both of which were on a special 45 single you could cut out from the back of a Frosted Flakes box. A lot of talent and energy went into these tunes, much more than anybody should have felt obliged to give, considering they were never going to get the credit and that n.o.body past p.u.b.erty would hear it. I felt bad for Snorky, who never got to talk (much less sing), but merely played keyboards. I had so much time on my hands in the hospital, so I wrote customized verses for him to sing in their songs. (I never got around to mailing them in to the band because . . . well, at a certain point, I realized he was just an elephant. They don't talk.) There was something soothing about the Banana Splits, even knowing they weren't real animals-I was too young then to know who Oscar Wilde was, or what he meant when he said, "Give me a mask and I'll speak the truth," but I knew what Fleagle and crew were trying to say. "I Enjoy Being a Boy" was such a beautiful song, it was as if they had to disappear behind the animals in order to sing it or they'd shrivel up. It was as if the Splits were the only boys who felt safe speaking the truth about what they enjoyed about being a girl, which was being with a girl. The Splits were hugely different-realer-than the boys I knew at school, with their endless dumbness and meanness. It was good training for a pop fan, since I didn't worry too much about what was going into the music; I was just enjoying what came out.

All kiddie shows had rock bands in those days: Josie and the p.u.s.s.ycats, the Archies, the Chan Clan, Lancelot Link and the Evolution Revolution, Fat Albert and the Junkyard Band. They'd sing a song at the end of the episode to remind us all what we'd learned. Sometimes it got pretty freaky, as in the glam-rock weirdness of Kaptain Kool and the Kongs. There was one episode of Electra Woman and Dyna Girl Electra Woman and Dyna Girl where they had to save the world from an evil madman genius named Glitter Rock, who wore a rainbow-colored Afro wig and threatened to cause ma.s.sive destruction with each strum of his guitar. where they had to save the world from an evil madman genius named Glitter Rock, who wore a rainbow-colored Afro wig and threatened to cause ma.s.sive destruction with each strum of his guitar.

All these fake bands gave me a preference for pop stars who rejected the pose of naturalism, the pose of really-meaning-it. There's probably a direct correlation between all the cartoon bands I grew up loving as a little kid in the '70s and the new-wave poseurs I loved in the '80s. The Banana Splits didn't look any more ridiculous pretending to play guitars than Missing Persons did.

There were tons of nuclear-annihilation songs back then, but for some reason, the one that I still shudder for is the one by the biggest phonies around. Haysi Fantayzee left absolutely nothing behind that anybody could conceivably build on, least of all themselves. That's how pop trash works. So as to the question we started with-"What kind of idiot actually listened to this s.h.i.+t?"-it still seems to remain a mystery. It's one of the mysteries that makes "s.h.i.+ny s.h.i.+ny" the quintessential artifact of a unique moment in the history of this pitiful planet.

"John Wayne Is Big Leggy," though? That one blows.

A FLOCK OF SEAGULLS.

"s.p.a.ce Age Love Song"

1982.

There are times in a man's life that can only be described as "times in a man's life." The first time he experiences A Flock of Seagulls is one of them.

It was my first rock concert: A Flock of Seagulls, the Fixx and the Police at Sullivan Stadium in Foxboro, Ma.s.sachusetts, in August of 1983. The master of ceremonies was everybody's favorite MTV personality, Martha Quinn. I tagged along with my sister Tracey and her friends, one of whom drove us in his Pontiac Parisienne station wagon. Since this was the Synchronicity Synchronicity tour sponsored by MTV, there was a giant video screen playing MTV all day between the bands. It was a long, hot afternoon in the bleachers, but fortunately I'd brought a book in my back pocket. So while the couples around me necked, I read the Pelican Shakespeare edition of tour sponsored by MTV, there was a giant video screen playing MTV all day between the bands. It was a long, hot afternoon in the bleachers, but fortunately I'd brought a book in my back pocket. So while the couples around me necked, I read the Pelican Shakespeare edition of Hamlet Hamlet.

Sting probably would have been gratified to know that at least one of his fans out there in the nosebleed seats was psychically wandering the castle in Elsinore in preparation for the literary rock-and-roll rigors of "Don't Stand So Close to Me." But it wasn't like I felt out of place-far from it. Au contraire mon frere Au contraire mon frere, I felt right at home.

The Fixx went on first, committing the cla.s.sic touring-band gaffe of yelling "h.e.l.lo Foxboro!" between songs, even though Foxboro is merely the town where Boston keeps its local football stadium. Since I was curious about the right and wrong ways to comport myself at a musical event, I studied the crowd-some people were standing up, but most people were sitting down. The guy right in front of me kept yelling for "Saved by Zero," as if he were worried they weren't going to play it, after huddling backstage: "I don't know, lads-maybe we should skip the hit this afternoon?"

The Police headlined, by which point it was dark and everybody was standing up. Martha Quinn came on to introduce the band and ask, "Is everybody ready to see the Police? I can't hear you! Is everybody ready! To see! The Police!" It was an intensely moving experience, with everybody dancing while Sting sang "hee-yo, hee-yo-yo" for two hours. I had never seen the everybody-raises-their-lighters scene before, and it took my breath away. It was the same communal thrill I'd experienced in the dark of the Madrid discotecas discotecas, except it was outdoors under a starry sky.

But it was the Flock who moved me most that fine day. The singer wore a fetching powder-blue jumpsuit, darting from side to side behind his keyboard. Even from half a mile away, it was easy to see their bleached bat-wing haircuts wiggle as they performed their huge hit ("I Ran"), their medium-size hits ("s.p.a.ce Age Love Song," "Wis.h.i.+ng"), and a.s.sorted non-hits that n.o.body except me sang along to ("Telecommunications," "It's Not Me Talking"). The 'Gulls never had a chance, getting stuck in the middle spot, their hair wilting in the dog-day afternoon sun before a jaded crowd that was already exhausted waiting to see the headliners. But they gave it all they had.

Not everybody was into the music part of the event. In fact, the couple two rows ahead of me completely ignored A Flock of Seagulls and spent the whole set going to second. (Or at least what second base was in 1983. I couldn't even guess what second base means now. A foursome that doesn't involve dairy products?) But it was a glorious night. Back in the Parisienne, as we waited in line in the parking lot traffic jam, Synchronicity Synchronicity played in the tape deck so we could sing along with all the Stingian odes to Jungian mythology we'd just heard. It took us three "Miss Gradenko"s to even get out of the parking lot. played in the tape deck so we could sing along with all the Stingian odes to Jungian mythology we'd just heard. It took us three "Miss Gradenko"s to even get out of the parking lot. Hamlet Hamlet was excellent too. was excellent too.

But the thing I carried around with me most from that day was the sensation of dissolving into a crowd of other people. I didn't even make an excuse to go back and hide in the car. At any kind of party or social gathering, I was a pro at borrowing the keys from my ride, on the pretext of having left something in the backseat, and then staying there with my book until it was time to go home. I felt an immense debt of grat.i.tude to my sister, Sting, the Dark Prince of Denmark and Martha Quinn. But especially to the Flock, who had gotten less love than anyone that day, despite working harder for it.

What I didn't comprehend, and wouldn't for years, is that America was the only country in the world where anybody liked the Fixx or A Flock of Seagulls. Despite the fact that they seemed like certifiable English new-wave groups, they had no no fans back home. Not until I went to college, and met people who actually came from England, did I grasp the gap between what English people like and what Anglophile American teen twits like. "I Ran" didn't even make the Top 40 in the U.K., and the only time they came close to a real hit there was "Wis.h.i.+ng (If I Had a Photograph of You)." But in the United States, they had that exotic appeal of being an English band, and we imagined hordes of foxy British mod girls chasing the Flock down the street. It was painful to realize that this had never happened to A Flock of Seagulls, and therefore was that much more unlikely to happen to any Flock of Seagulls fan. fans back home. Not until I went to college, and met people who actually came from England, did I grasp the gap between what English people like and what Anglophile American teen twits like. "I Ran" didn't even make the Top 40 in the U.K., and the only time they came close to a real hit there was "Wis.h.i.+ng (If I Had a Photograph of You)." But in the United States, they had that exotic appeal of being an English band, and we imagined hordes of foxy British mod girls chasing the Flock down the street. It was painful to realize that this had never happened to A Flock of Seagulls, and therefore was that much more unlikely to happen to any Flock of Seagulls fan.

Everybody remembers the hair. They were the first famous rock group ever to have started out as hairdressers-and they definitely saved their best work for themselves. Even a big fan of their music, like me, has to concede the point that these days, they are remembered mostly because of the coiffures. That's only fair, because the hair helped get them noticed, and it's the main reason they sum up the Bad Hair Era for so many people. If you're making fun of somebody for having new-wave hair, the words "You! Flock of Seagulls!" are going to come up. John Doe of X accused them of making money with "a haircut and a dis...o...b..at." The hair made them a legend, but it trapped them in an image they could never escape. It became a peroxide prison camp.