“What if we fall?” I shouted in her ear.
But I was drowned out by the high-pitched screams from all directions.
It was 1984, I was thirteen, and this was my first concert.
The energy and excitement, borderline hysteria, was enough to burst my teeny-bopper brain into a million pieces.
Music was emanating from the giant speakers, but the band had yet to take the stage.
It seemed like every girl born between 1968 and 1972, within a thirty mile radius of Dallas, was under the roof of Reunion Arena that night.
All of us screaming, some crying, releasing the pent up energy that we’d been harboring since we first received the envelope in the mail from Ticketmaster.
As the band took the stage, I felt as if I might be able to fly.
I propped open the lid of my laptop to catch up on the day’s events and return some work emails, and of course, ended up on Facebook.
Scrolling through my news feed consisting of political diatribes, pictures of cute kids, and shared news stories about Shaun White, something unusual caught my eye.
A ticket stub from thirty years ago, this very night.
The Duran Duran concert.
My friend had posted it with a shout out to the girls with whom she attended the concert, one she met that night for the first time and is still friends with today.
Women from the far-reaching corners of Facebook were commenting on her post, sharing, and reminiscing about that staggering night.
Everyone had a story about the concert, and what the band meant to them.
Thinking back, there was plenty of shared eagerness to go around, but not everyone got it. I recall boys in my eighth grade class teasing me about my enthusiasm for the band. Ninety percent of the friends who signed my yearbook in 1984 mentioned my “Durannie-ness” in their notes.
|8th grade yearbook note from one of my sweet tormentors.|
The reason why we went (and still do) go crazy for this band is not just the music, their astonishing good looks, or their glamorous personas. The core of why we remain dedicated to this group is how it brought us together.
In bedrooms with gingham-checked bedspreads and canopies, we swapped more than vinyl. We shared our secrets, struggles, and fears. According to the highs and lows that only a teenage girl can conjure, we went from dancing around the room, laughing and singing, to crying over the things that troubled us.
Divorce. Distant fathers. How much we hated our hair, our complexions, and our thighs. Whether a boy would ever like us. Whether we would ever like ourselves.
It was more than fluff. Duran Duran’s music allowed us to slip into a pain-free world where we could be that beautiful woman on the boat or the mountain top, commanding attention and full of confidence.
Many a vulnerable moment was shared between me and my friends, wedged in with outbursts of sheer teen silliness, and the sum of those parts is something that will be remembered for a lifetime. It made us belong somewhere and be part of something bigger than ourselves.
And as long as John Taylor is still walking this earth, I’m not ready to give that up.
|Meeting John Taylor at his book signing in Oct. 2012|