Girls On Film
The Viking was wrong about Duran Duran. When I asked him to go to the concert with me, he opined that they were a has-been hair band, and he didn't want to watch a bunch of sad old men trying to recapture their youth. Which, as it turns out, was code for "I don't want to go out with you."
I think he's just jealous of their hair.
They've still got it. The hair, and the minor key kickass sax-infused anthems.
What surprised me was how many Torontonians apparently agree with me. The Air Canada Centre was full on Tuesday night: 16,000 fans. Oasis is playing at the Molson Amphitheatre later this spring, and that venue only seats about 5,000. I don't get it. Before the show, while I was out on Bay Street having a cigarette, I met a guy who had purchased VIP tickets from the Duran Duran Web site, a fan with a capital F. He was more excited than I had been at age 12 when my mother took me to Exhibition Stadium to see Shaun Cassidy.
He was also one of only a dozen or so guys at the show. The demographics of the crowd were as follows: White women, aged 29-45, most with bad hair. Soccer moms, in other words. During the cheering for the encore I heard one behind me yell, Hurry up, I've got kids to put to bed!
Except for the lack of soccer kids, Lana and I fit the profile. Right down to the bad hair — though for us that was temporary. In honour of the 1980s, and the band, and our teenage memories of them in their heyday, we went with matching big hair.
Lana and I had a great time. She's way more fun than the Viking, anyway. He probably would have spent the whole two hours trying to drown out Simon LeBon. Which would have been possible, though unneccessary. The backup singer, Anna Ross (the only black woman in the Air Canada Centre that night) was doing a good job of it all by herself.
I was never wild for the new romantic 80s art school hair bands, but as they go, Duran Duran was my favourite. Girls on Film is a great song. Too bad everything since their first album has been anticlimactic. The thing about Duran Duran is they're only two steps above mediocre.
The stage show was well orchestrated, included several costume changes, and was choreographed to the best of Simon LeBon's limited ability to move gracefully or with rhythm. Still, he can eat crackers in my bed any Saturday night. Andy Taylor tripped onstage twice, prompting Lana to quip, "Duran down! We have a Duran down!" The highlight of the show was the Japanese animé video during Careless Memories, featuring the members of the band as the heros. Oddly, the animated Taylors were more animated than the real ones.
The encore was predictable, since the only hits they didn't do during the show proper were Girls On Film and Rio. What was a surprise was the first encore number: White Lines. What was a disappointment was that they paused half way through Girls On Film, their best number, to introduce the band — the Taylors are all tiny, Nick Rhodes looks like a pixie, and Simon LeBon is a total babe: cute face, great hair, big shoulders; not a skinny boy; I don't like 'em too skinny — and then never finished the song.
After the concert we repaired to my local for a beer, and I found out something I didn't know about Lana — lipstick cherry all over the lens as she's falling — as a hobby, she edits porn films for a friend who produces them. Lesbian porn. Hardcore. And no, Lana neither is, nor acts.
Halfway through our second beer we ran out of Duran Duran choruses to hum, and Lana made the mistake of turning briefly to her other side, where sat a drunken rubbie who was only too eager to engage her in conversation. She tried to politely disengage, but he moved closer and began telling her about how he'd been painting a picture of the CN Tower. The man clearly didn't belong in The Banknote. He may have been looking for the Wheat Sheaf, which is across the street. I'd noticed that Andrew, the bartender, had been keeping an eye on him since he'd sat down. When the rubbie didn't take Lana's hint, Andrew told him, gently, to leave us alone. The Rub started to rant, and Andrew took his beer away and asked him to leave. Which the Rub did, but then he made a bolt for an unattended pint and tried to dash, in the teetering, bowlegged way only a rubbie can dash, for the door. Andrew reached him just before he reached it. Grabbed him by the collar, deftly removed the pint from his hand, and literally booted him out. Then, for good measure, and since it would otherwise have gone to waste, threw the beer on him.
I've always liked Andrew, but just then I would have been quite willing to take him home with me.
Back when a few of you, Gentle Readers, offered to take care of the Viking for me, my friend Mo commented, "I've always found it interesting how the most evolved and seemingly cultured women will respond warmly to the offer of physical violence dished out on their behalf."
I'm not sure why that is, but as has-beens with hairdos go, Lana, Simon, and I are doing OK.
* * *
In the next story, Postmodern Sass bids adieu to her new friend, Operaman. A couple of weeks later she returns to The Banknote with her friend Zee, to get her drunk. It'll be a couple of months before Sass's friend at the ACC gives her concert tickets again, and to her surprise it'll be for James Taylor.
I think he's just jealous of their hair.
They've still got it. The hair, and the minor key kickass sax-infused anthems.
What surprised me was how many Torontonians apparently agree with me. The Air Canada Centre was full on Tuesday night: 16,000 fans. Oasis is playing at the Molson Amphitheatre later this spring, and that venue only seats about 5,000. I don't get it. Before the show, while I was out on Bay Street having a cigarette, I met a guy who had purchased VIP tickets from the Duran Duran Web site, a fan with a capital F. He was more excited than I had been at age 12 when my mother took me to Exhibition Stadium to see Shaun Cassidy.
He was also one of only a dozen or so guys at the show. The demographics of the crowd were as follows: White women, aged 29-45, most with bad hair. Soccer moms, in other words. During the cheering for the encore I heard one behind me yell, Hurry up, I've got kids to put to bed!
Except for the lack of soccer kids, Lana and I fit the profile. Right down to the bad hair — though for us that was temporary. In honour of the 1980s, and the band, and our teenage memories of them in their heyday, we went with matching big hair.
Lana and I had a great time. She's way more fun than the Viking, anyway. He probably would have spent the whole two hours trying to drown out Simon LeBon. Which would have been possible, though unneccessary. The backup singer, Anna Ross (the only black woman in the Air Canada Centre that night) was doing a good job of it all by herself.
I was never wild for the new romantic 80s art school hair bands, but as they go, Duran Duran was my favourite. Girls on Film is a great song. Too bad everything since their first album has been anticlimactic. The thing about Duran Duran is they're only two steps above mediocre.
The stage show was well orchestrated, included several costume changes, and was choreographed to the best of Simon LeBon's limited ability to move gracefully or with rhythm. Still, he can eat crackers in my bed any Saturday night. Andy Taylor tripped onstage twice, prompting Lana to quip, "Duran down! We have a Duran down!" The highlight of the show was the Japanese animé video during Careless Memories, featuring the members of the band as the heros. Oddly, the animated Taylors were more animated than the real ones.
The encore was predictable, since the only hits they didn't do during the show proper were Girls On Film and Rio. What was a surprise was the first encore number: White Lines. What was a disappointment was that they paused half way through Girls On Film, their best number, to introduce the band — the Taylors are all tiny, Nick Rhodes looks like a pixie, and Simon LeBon is a total babe: cute face, great hair, big shoulders; not a skinny boy; I don't like 'em too skinny — and then never finished the song.
After the concert we repaired to my local for a beer, and I found out something I didn't know about Lana — lipstick cherry all over the lens as she's falling — as a hobby, she edits porn films for a friend who produces them. Lesbian porn. Hardcore. And no, Lana neither is, nor acts.
Halfway through our second beer we ran out of Duran Duran choruses to hum, and Lana made the mistake of turning briefly to her other side, where sat a drunken rubbie who was only too eager to engage her in conversation. She tried to politely disengage, but he moved closer and began telling her about how he'd been painting a picture of the CN Tower. The man clearly didn't belong in The Banknote. He may have been looking for the Wheat Sheaf, which is across the street. I'd noticed that Andrew, the bartender, had been keeping an eye on him since he'd sat down. When the rubbie didn't take Lana's hint, Andrew told him, gently, to leave us alone. The Rub started to rant, and Andrew took his beer away and asked him to leave. Which the Rub did, but then he made a bolt for an unattended pint and tried to dash, in the teetering, bowlegged way only a rubbie can dash, for the door. Andrew reached him just before he reached it. Grabbed him by the collar, deftly removed the pint from his hand, and literally booted him out. Then, for good measure, and since it would otherwise have gone to waste, threw the beer on him.
I've always liked Andrew, but just then I would have been quite willing to take him home with me.
Back when a few of you, Gentle Readers, offered to take care of the Viking for me, my friend Mo commented, "I've always found it interesting how the most evolved and seemingly cultured women will respond warmly to the offer of physical violence dished out on their behalf."
I'm not sure why that is, but as has-beens with hairdos go, Lana, Simon, and I are doing OK.
In the next story, Postmodern Sass bids adieu to her new friend, Operaman. A couple of weeks later she returns to The Banknote with her friend Zee, to get her drunk. It'll be a couple of months before Sass's friend at the ACC gives her concert tickets again, and to her surprise it'll be for James Taylor.
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