Let's file this one under things you probably didn't want to know about me but are going to hear anyway. Music is a very big part of my life.I spent my youth chasing tour buses, making posters to hold up at concerts, and plastering my room with the faces of the gods of rock/new wave/punk etc. Praying that one day the doors of that tour bus would open up with a loud WHOOSH and a priest would usher me on board, not for an exorcism, but for my wedding to the band member of my choice.
Ah youth.
There were any number of bands that made it into the inner sanctum of awesome that resided in my soul: The The, The Pixies, REM, etc. but none made an impact like the Police.
I was a wee lass when I heard my first Police song and I never recovered.
The catchy melodies, Stewart Copeland's thundering odd drum sounds, Sting's eye-watering tenor, and the elder statesman guitar genius of Andy Summers.
Sigh.
They straddled the top of the world and stole every one's heart.
And then....
Like a cheating boyfriend, they vanished in a puff of freaking smoke. I must have stood there for six months in my too tight Ghost In The Machine tour shirt with a cartoon question mark above my head.
What the hell?
No note, no explanation. Just behind the scenes skulduggery, betrayal and abandonment.
Cue the sexy music.
Along came someone to dry my tears and pick up the pieces. His name was Duran Duran.
He wasn't as tall, handsome, well-liked or respected as the Police, but he was HERE dammit!
That's the thing about rebound guys, they don't have to be the the lanky blond quarterback who's great in the sack, they can just be the water boy and that's OKAY.
"Here baby," he cooed. "I'll make the pain disappear. Try not to dwell on my lame attempts to rise to the kind of greatness you had before, I'm wearing lots of eyeliner so I can distract you."
My two friends The Smiths and The Cure didn't approve. They thought I should be in a dark bedroom crying and brooding over my loss while listening to them on an endless loop through the speakers of my grey metal boom box.
Time passed and I moved on but I never forgot the hurt.
Recently, my friends from the Police popped up again during a reunion tour and as always there was something keeping us apart.
Kids.
I now had three of them and one was a tiny baby during this ill timed last chance at happiness reunion.
I think back often of the special moments we shared. Blaring "Walking on the Moon" in the local park after dark, holding hands (in my warped imagination), and those zany pillow fights......
Good times.
Stewart, Sting, and Andy: we were like two ships passing in the night and you steaming ass nuggets still couldn't manage to plan your tour when I could attend?
I would have moved mountains so that we could be together.
Thanks boys, I'm going to be looking out for Duran Duran this summer.
Post Script:
Let me take a moment to clarify that like all good rejected groupies that hang like barnacles around the neck of greatness, I STILL love and adore The Police and would come running back NO QUESTIONS ASKED if they ever show the least bit of interest. Love you boys!
