Talking To Girls About Duran Duran Part 2

THE HUMAN LEAGUE.

"Love Action"

1982.

Around ninth grade, my trusty clock radio began playing something weird. First, it went clink-clank clink-clank. Then it went bloop-bloop bloop-bloop. After the wrrrp-wrrrp wrrrp-wrrrp kicked in, there came a blizzard of kicked in, there came a blizzard of squisha-squisha-squisha squisha-squisha-squisha noises. It sounded like a Morse code transmission from another planet, a world of l.u.s.t and danger and nonstop erotic cabaret. What noises. It sounded like a Morse code transmission from another planet, a world of l.u.s.t and danger and nonstop erotic cabaret. What was was this? It was the twitchy, spastic, brand-new beat of synth-pop. For those of us who were "Kids in America" at the time, it was a totally divisive sound. You either loved it or hated it. My friends and I argued for hours over whether it even counted as rock and roll. I remember hearing a DJ explain that the Human League didn't have any instruments. No way-not even a drummer? Not even a this? It was the twitchy, spastic, brand-new beat of synth-pop. For those of us who were "Kids in America" at the time, it was a totally divisive sound. You either loved it or hated it. My friends and I argued for hours over whether it even counted as rock and roll. I remember hearing a DJ explain that the Human League didn't have any instruments. No way-not even a drummer? Not even a guitarist guitarist? I was shocked.

I rode my bike to the public library and checked out the Human League's Dare. Dare. This alb.u.m was a brave new world. The sleeve showed close-ups of their mascara eyes and lipstick mouths on a frigid white background. n.o.body was smiling. All summer long, I worked mowing lawns, listening to that tape over and over, taking it on the subway ride to driver's ed. I spent countless hours trying to fathom Phil Oakey's philosophy of life. This alb.u.m was a brave new world. The sleeve showed close-ups of their mascara eyes and lipstick mouths on a frigid white background. n.o.body was smiling. All summer long, I worked mowing lawns, listening to that tape over and over, taking it on the subway ride to driver's ed. I spent countless hours trying to fathom Phil Oakey's philosophy of life.

I was moved by "The Sound of the Crowd," where Phil urged me to "get around town," to explore the forbidden places "where the people are good, where the music is loud." I had never been to a place remotely like this. It sounded awesome. The lyrics were a bit obscure, what with all the arcane cosmetics references ("The lines on a compact guide / A hat with alignment worn inside"-huh?), yet I devoured them. If I cracked his code well, I too would grow up to be a Phil Oakey, getting around the world on an existential quest for love action.

There were more where the League came from: Depeche Mode, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, Heaven 17, Duran Duran, Kim Wilde, my beloved Haysi Fantayzee. We got all the U.K. synth-poppers a year or so after the Brits were through with them, but we were glad to have them. Any arty Brit-twerp with a magenta wedge and octagonal drum pads was a go.

They were to the early '80s what girl groups like the Ronettes, the Shangri-Las, and the Chiffons were to the early '60s: queen pimps of teen bathos, pumping up the drums and the mascara to cosmic levels. All these n.o.bodies teased up their hair to fire-hazard levels and dolled themselves up into glitter-encrusted s.e.x cookies. At the touch of a synth b.u.t.ton, they turned into the things that dreams were made of.

The concept was New Romantic, which was a slippery term, since n.o.body ever admitted to being one. Even Duran Duran, who called themselves "New Romantics" in the first verse of their first single, didn't want to get stuck with a label this silly. New Romantic songs are questing through the world or elsewhere in search of pleasure and danger and beauty. No New Romantic songs were about sitting in your room and staring at the wallpaper, even though (as far as I could tell) that's probably how most New Romantic followers spent their time.

The New Romantics were a lot like the Old Romantics, the poets I was crazy about in high school-Sh.e.l.ley and Keats, Wordsworth and Blake-and none of those dead guys ever called themselves "Romantics" either. (Romanticism, like rockabilly or film noir, was a genre that only got its name after it was over.) John Keats declared, "What shocks the virtuous philosopher delights the camelion poet." Boy George sang about a "karma chameleon." Boy George and John Keats would have had a lot to say to each other-they were both poor London boys who dreamed up an extravagant mythology of transforming the world by transforming yourself. It was a sect where you had to commit to constant personal self-reinvention. That oldest of Romantics, William Blake, declared, "The tygers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction." And the New Romantics were most certainly tygers of wrath. They also obviously had a lot more fun than the Romantic poets, whose favorite recreational pastimes seemed to consist of catching tuberculosis, groping leech-gatherers and planting a deceased lover's head in a pot of basil.

The Human League were the ultimate New Romantics, at least in terms of how we heard them in America, and they won everyone over, crossing over to the pop charts in that incredibly pivotal year of 1982, the year of Thriller Thriller and and 1999 1999 and "Super Freak" and "I Love Rock N' Roll" and "I'm So Excited" and "s.e.xual Healing." Kiss-108, the disco station, was playing Yaz and the Human League; WCBN, the rock station, was playing Grandmaster Flash and Michael Jackson. The Human League fit right in to a world where the most exciting and adventurous music on the planet seemed to be exactly what was exploding on Top 40 radio. Yet they didn't lose their New Romantic cred by crossing over-quite the contrary. Their success validated the whole New Romantic credo. and "Super Freak" and "I Love Rock N' Roll" and "I'm So Excited" and "s.e.xual Healing." Kiss-108, the disco station, was playing Yaz and the Human League; WCBN, the rock station, was playing Grandmaster Flash and Michael Jackson. The Human League fit right in to a world where the most exciting and adventurous music on the planet seemed to be exactly what was exploding on Top 40 radio. Yet they didn't lose their New Romantic cred by crossing over-quite the contrary. Their success validated the whole New Romantic credo.

The New Romantic anthem I studied most intently was "Love Action," where Phil sings, "This is Phil talking! I want to tell you what I've found out to be true!" I have to admit, I have loved the Human League pa.s.sionately for years, and I have never totally figured out what Phil Oakey has found out to be true. But I've never stopped delving into the mystery.

I would have loved to have gone to the clubs that Phil was singing about, but I was in Milton, Ma.s.sachusetts, and the only fan here was me. (Were there other Human League fans in town? How would I know? We weren't an outgoing bunch.) I mean, it's one thing to decide you're Phil Oakey if you are Phil Oakey and you have that slide of hair down the side and the eyeliner. But it's pretty silly deciding you're a New Romantic when you're stranded in the suburbs mowing lawns, playing video games, translating Virgil and just in general being a miserable little teenage f.u.c.k. At a thrift store in Saugus, I paid six dollars for a jacket that I hoped looked like the one Phil Oakey wears in the "Love Action" video, but when I got it home, it looked suspiciously like a shoulder-pad maitre d' jacket left in the Dumpster behind Mr. Tux. I'm sure the collar was real velvet, though. (Pretty sure. Velvet's fuzzy, right?) Wearing this jacket to play Asteroids at the South Sh.o.r.e Plaza did not make me feel like a glamorous man of the world. It made me feel somewhat of a tool. But then, Phil had warned me that suffering was part of this path. And I knew ridicule is nothing to be scared of.

My sisters took me shopping and I came home with pants with pleats, which ended badly. (I blame a certain Scritti Politti video. What can I say? I was more into fas.h.i.+on theory than practice.) Although I wors.h.i.+pped Bowie, Roxy and the das.h.i.+ng New Romantics they left behind in their wake like so many droplets of champagne-flavored sweat, and studied their sartorial elegance, I was doomed to dress more like the harmonica player for the J. Geils Band. But I had the devotion, which was much more important than a genuine wedge haircut.

If I had had wanted a wedge haircut, I have no idea how I'd have gotten one. Like everyone else in town, I went to the only barber around, Singin' Jack in East Milton Square. Jack gave everyone the same haircut, while singing along with the radio's Continuous Lite Favorites. He was particularly into Jim Croce, and you were lucky to show up for your haircut on a Croce day, because you would get to hear him sing "I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song" as he snipped. (Kenny Rogers days were unlucky, and if Jack was singing "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town," it was best to sneak out before you ended up with a whiffle.) Since Jack was erratic at best, it would be foolhardy to ask him to try anything sideways, or to bring in a wanted a wedge haircut, I have no idea how I'd have gotten one. Like everyone else in town, I went to the only barber around, Singin' Jack in East Milton Square. Jack gave everyone the same haircut, while singing along with the radio's Continuous Lite Favorites. He was particularly into Jim Croce, and you were lucky to show up for your haircut on a Croce day, because you would get to hear him sing "I'll Have to Say I Love You in a Song" as he snipped. (Kenny Rogers days were unlucky, and if Jack was singing "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town," it was best to sneak out before you ended up with a whiffle.) Since Jack was erratic at best, it would be foolhardy to ask him to try anything sideways, or to bring in a Dare Dare tape for inspiration. tape for inspiration.

It didn't matter. New wave wasn't really about the right look; it was a state of mind. Still, shame about those pleats.

Something about this style of pop lent itself to devotion from shut-ins, losers, social twitchers like me. The electro bleeps were whispers from the wider world outside, beckoning us out, like the lights flickering from the stereo. I would watch the red vertical flickers of the EQ and imagine they were skysc.r.a.pers of a city just outside my window, a city full of the kind of clubs where the clubsters were getting around town in the sort of clubs Phil Oakey would sing about, and occasionally recruit girl singers from, and dance freely without worrying about startling the nice old lady next door. It was a club you could join just by believing it existed.

In any new-wave fan mag, you could find the lonely-hearts pen-pal section. From the Smash Hits Smash Hits from February 1983, which I've always kept because it had Kajagoogoo on the cover: from February 1983, which I've always kept because it had Kajagoogoo on the cover: "I'm a 15-year-old girl looking for any Boy George Lookalikes or anyone else interested in Culture Club. If you're 15+ and dress weird write to Girl George, Ess.e.x." "Mad, blonde Swedish girl, 17, wants strange friends from London into Bowie, Toyah, Adam til 81, punks and pretty boys. Milla, Sweden." "Mad, blonde Swedish girl, 17, wants strange friends from London into Bowie, Toyah, Adam til 81, punks and pretty boys. Milla, Sweden.""I'm lonely. My name's Warren, I'm 15 and desperate to hear from any females into Coronation St, Blancmange and Motorhead. My CB handle is Pigpen."

Still using CB radio in 1983? Poor guy. But these were the fans that flocked to the League. These were my people.

With new wave for inspiration, I took to the stage, playing Duncan in the tenth grade production of Macbeth Macbeth. (If you're not familiar with the play, Macbeth kills Duncan to possess his donuts. He ends up having to kill Banquo for a coffee.) The kid who played Macbeth was the son of Franklin Cover, the late great TV actor who played Tom Willis on The Jeffersons The Jeffersons, so I can look back on my acting career secure in the knowledge that Tom Willis has seen my Duncan.

"Don't You Want Me" was the huge hit, a song that brought in the rock crowd, the gold-chained disco crowd, the Top 40 stations, everybody. It was ma.s.sively influential on the club music that went on to dominate the decade. (Madonna's first hit, "Burning Up," nicked the drum track from the League's "The Sound of the Crowd.") Afrika Bambaataa once said, "I remember when we all heard 'Don't You Want Me Baby' and people would say, 'That's all synthesizers, that's a drum machine,' and we'd say, 'It can't be, those sound like real drums.' "

They'd started out as all-male arty techno introverts from the northern steeltown Sheffield, which was full of great (and mostly incredibly solemn) synth groups, as chronicled in the fantastic doc.u.mentary Made in Sheffield Made in Sheffield. They began their climb with "Being Boiled," an art-twaddle track that began with the lines "Listen to the voice of Buddha / Saying stop your sericulture," and then proceeded to get silly. (In case you're wondering, "sericulture" means farming silk from worms and has nothing to do with Buddha.) But the silliness was lovable-they were all too human, this League.

The inspiring thing about Dare Dare was the emotional journey behind it, the fact that they got there after starting out with "Being Boiled." They began as an art band for boys, and then became a pop group for girls. If these guys could go from being dour, introspective twits who not only met girls but had girls was the emotional journey behind it, the fact that they got there after starting out with "Being Boiled." They began as an art band for boys, and then became a pop group for girls. If these guys could go from being dour, introspective twits who not only met girls but had girls in the group in the group, well, there was hope for all of us, right?

Why did they let the girls sing in the first place? When I interviewed Phil Oakey a few years ago, he told me, "We'd made two LPs as a male-only group. But two of the guys left and we had to do a tour, so we went out and recruited a couple of women. And then we had to give them something to do, really." After the other guys in the group left to form Heaven 17, Phil was out at a local club, the excellently named Crazy Daisy Disco, and picked up a couple of girls. They crossed the line from fans to starlets. As one of those girls, Suzanne, put it in 1981, "He wanted a tall black singer and he got two short white girls who couldn't sing."

But they had personality, the totally ordinary charm that put the human in the league. Together they b.u.mbled into pop stardom, without paying any dues. In the U.K., the band was thoughtful enough to release their singles with color codes on the label; the red ones were for "poseurs" and the blue ones for "ABBA fans," but anyone who liked the League could be both a poseur and an ABBA fan.

I guess the League fascinated me because they truly embodied the anyone-can-do-it spirit of this music-in fact, the hardly-anyone- can't can't-do-it spirit. Phil cheerfully admitted to the fan mags that he only started singing in the first place because he failed at playing the synthesizer. At a time when guitar bands complained that keyboard geeks were too lazy to learn a real instrument, Phil Oakey had the gall to announce he found synths just too hard to play. too hard to play.

Oh, how I pondered the Phil Oakey perspective on life. The hours I spent poring over the lyrics, wondering how he did what he did. He seemed to have provocative ideas about love and religion. "The Things That Dreams Are Made Of " articulated his worldview: "Everybody needs love and adventure / Everybody needs two or three friends."

From the sounds of this alb.u.m, Phil Oakey spent most of his evenings in glitzy clubs arguing with girls about philosophy. Life was a battle of Good Times versus Hard Times, every man for himself, G.o.d against all. He sang like a Sinatra-style c.o.c.ktail crooner, sharing some of the hard truths he'd learned along the way, alluding to broken marriages and dashed dreams. "I've lain awake and cried at night over what love made me do," he sang, and I couldn't help but be jealous, less for the love part than the glamour of having tragic love affairs to look back upon with rue.

I yearned to cultivate decadence, without the hard work of actually doing anything decadent. The seductivosity of this music went without saying. Phil Oakey was a sensuous man, and took his stand as such. Indeed, he came on like an even more pretentious Barry White (his next project after Dare Dare was a remix alb.u.m under the name of the League Unlimited Orchestra) and, supposedly, putting on "Open Your Heart" in the right bedroom would lead to existential crises with s.e.xual resolutions. In the "Love Action" video, Phil gets taken hostage by agents who strap him to a chair and interrogate him. They apparently represent the pro-hate faction. But Phil defiantly tells them, "No matter what you put me through, I'll still believe in love," a very Morrissey thing to say, although not even Morrissey would have the gall to put it this way. And like Morrissey, Phil specialized in feeding me ludicrously unusable advice about how to conduct an adult emotional life. For him, being a New Romantic was more than a fas.h.i.+on fad-it was a code of honor, an ethic. was a remix alb.u.m under the name of the League Unlimited Orchestra) and, supposedly, putting on "Open Your Heart" in the right bedroom would lead to existential crises with s.e.xual resolutions. In the "Love Action" video, Phil gets taken hostage by agents who strap him to a chair and interrogate him. They apparently represent the pro-hate faction. But Phil defiantly tells them, "No matter what you put me through, I'll still believe in love," a very Morrissey thing to say, although not even Morrissey would have the gall to put it this way. And like Morrissey, Phil specialized in feeding me ludicrously unusable advice about how to conduct an adult emotional life. For him, being a New Romantic was more than a fas.h.i.+on fad-it was a code of honor, an ethic.

My fantasy life, warped completely by the Human League, began to resemble a Human League song. I would judge everything by whether it was new wave or not. I related to Johnny Slash on the show Square Pegs Square Pegs; any time one of the other kids would call him punk, Johnny would pull his shades down and say, "Not punk, new wave. Totally different head, man! Totally different head!" Or as John Keats would say, "I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspir'd."

ORCHESTRAL MANOEUVRES IN THE DARK.

"Enola Gay"

1982.

Spain was where I learned to dance with girls. Not dance with a girl, but in a gang of girls. This was a discovery that shook my foundations. I was used to school dances, where the boys stood on one side, the girls on the other, and you awkwardly asked a girl to dance. Maybe. But just going out on the floor with a bunch of girls and dancing? You could do this? It was like I'd discovered some secret crack in the fabric of the universe, something not just new but previously unthinkable. It was like I found the Shroud of Turin in my sock drawer.

I spent the summer of '82 in a student exchange program at Colegio Estudio, a school in Madrid. The Spanish girls were all groovy. They all listened to Simon & Garfunkel, who they called "See-MOAN y Gar-FOON-kel." They all listened to "techno-pop," music that in my country only weirdos liked. They wore minifaldas minifaldas on hot days. They had very strong feelings about the evils of the Catholic Church, unless they actually had Catholic mothers, in which case I wasn't allowed near them in the first place. I fell in love with every single one of them. on hot days. They had very strong feelings about the evils of the Catholic Church, unless they actually had Catholic mothers, in which case I wasn't allowed near them in the first place. I fell in love with every single one of them.

I'm not sure how Angela and Nuria became my friends. My third or fourth day, I was sitting by myself at lunch. Angela and Nuria came up and said, You're eating with us. Con nosotras Con nosotras. I said okay. Angela had a mod bob and a high-pitched voice that chattered constantly. She gave me a book of poems by Antonio Machado, her favorite. Nuria didn't talk as much as Angela; in fact, she barely said a word all summer. I thought Angela looked a bit like a pigeon, which I meant as a compliment, but I knew better than to say it out loud, even though the Spanish word for "pigeon" is the same as "dove."

We spent the summer going to discotecas discotecas and dancing-two Spanish girls, two American girls we knew, and me. Angela, Nuria, Kate and Ligia would primp and change outfits and put on their makeup, then we'd ride the subway, sometimes with other Spanish girls like Cristina or Casilda. We all kissed one another on the cheek twice a night, h.e.l.lo and good-bye. l.u.s.t was in the air, all of it mine, but somehow these girls knew I was never going to make a move on them. I wish I know how they could tell. Yes, I was in another country, speaking another language, but I still had the Esperanto word for "non-a.s.s-grabber" written on my forehead. It was the most demanding social life I'd ever had; escorting these girls was constant work. My role was unclear to me, but it was obviously a good gig to have. and dancing-two Spanish girls, two American girls we knew, and me. Angela, Nuria, Kate and Ligia would primp and change outfits and put on their makeup, then we'd ride the subway, sometimes with other Spanish girls like Cristina or Casilda. We all kissed one another on the cheek twice a night, h.e.l.lo and good-bye. l.u.s.t was in the air, all of it mine, but somehow these girls knew I was never going to make a move on them. I wish I know how they could tell. Yes, I was in another country, speaking another language, but I still had the Esperanto word for "non-a.s.s-grabber" written on my forehead. It was the most demanding social life I'd ever had; escorting these girls was constant work. My role was unclear to me, but it was obviously a good gig to have.

One of them once made out with a guy while dancing, then claimed he was no good at all. That's the only time I ever saw any of them get romantic on the floor. They weren't here to mingle; they were here to dance and show off. As I got older, I learned that my role is usually served by hot gay dudes who don't know they're gay yet, rather than straight boys who are merely shy, so I don't know how I got so lucky. Weren't there any bona fide gay dudes around? Guess not.

The perks of being in this gang were ma.s.sive. It was my introduction to nightlife, to clubbing, the thrill of discoteca discoteca culture. I remember the flas.h.i.+ng lights of the Metro, as if we were already in the disco just by heading out there. The ecstatic tingle of antic.i.p.ation, almost unbearable, as each station pa.s.sed by. The girls all nervous in their culture. I remember the flas.h.i.+ng lights of the Metro, as if we were already in the disco just by heading out there. The ecstatic tingle of antic.i.p.ation, almost unbearable, as each station pa.s.sed by. The girls all nervous in their minifaldas minifaldas. The metallic glint of the elevator, riding up from the Metro stop, knowing what was up there waiting. The billboards on the block ("Martini: Te Invita a Vivir") ("Martini: Te Invita a Vivir") that served as signposts to remind us we were on our way. The boys outside on their Motovespa scooters. Walking up to the door, with that adrenaline rush of fear. Maybe something will go wrong? What if they won't let us in? A private party? That happens. But we always got in, maybe because we just had one boy and a gaggle of chicas. that served as signposts to remind us we were on our way. The boys outside on their Motovespa scooters. Walking up to the door, with that adrenaline rush of fear. Maybe something will go wrong? What if they won't let us in? A private party? That happens. But we always got in, maybe because we just had one boy and a gaggle of chicas.

Pacha, that was the place. We were all sixteen-that was the age to get in. It was one thousand pesetas, about ten bucks, on weekends, but only seven hundred on weeknights. One final split-second wave of fear as you paid the money at the window. The pale green ticket stub. Getting in. The air-conditioning hitting you like a full-body slam. Crowding on the floor, the girls using their stiletto elbows, working our way across the room, somewhere near the corner. Finding our spot. There There. We're in.

The girls started dancing, their skirts spinning away, and I followed along. The music was a barrage of insanely s.e.xy techno-pop songs I'd never heard before-Depeche Mode's "Just Can't Get Enough," Haircut 100's "Favourite s.h.i.+rts," Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark's "Enola Gay." And the Human League-dancing to that, with actual girls. Can't think, I'll pa.s.s out. Just keep going. What is this sound? Who knows? Up! Down! Turn around! Please don't let me hit the ground!

At school dances back home, I'd felt awkward and conspicuous, but here the lights were out and n.o.body could see me except my gang. The other dudes ogled my friends. They danced up to the girls' faces and spoke to the American girls in English, saying, "I am your boyf riend" or "I am fast, I am good." They danced up to the Spanish girls and sang the lyrics of whatever song was playing, usually in English. The girls would hold my hand and the boys would go away. Then they would let go of my hand. Most nights I was the only boy any of them would talk to. On the floor, I was one of the girls, twirling as one of the ladies of the night.

None of us ever drank, despite the fact that we were all of legal drinking age and there was a bar. This seems a bit remarkable in retrospect, but it was never even an issue. Why waste discoteca discoteca time? At some point during the night, Pacha always shut off the music for a half hour or so, so they could host an urban-cowboy contest on a mechanical leather bull. We stood around, stomping our shoes with impatience, watching the clientele hop on the bull and tumble off, while the sound system blasted country music. Then the techno-pop came on again. time? At some point during the night, Pacha always shut off the music for a half hour or so, so they could host an urban-cowboy contest on a mechanical leather bull. We stood around, stomping our shoes with impatience, watching the clientele hop on the bull and tumble off, while the sound system blasted country music. Then the techno-pop came on again.

Some nights, we stayed home to watch Dallas Dallas. They were two seasons behind the United States, so I ruined the show for them by revealing everything that was going to happen to Pam Ewing. I promised not to tell anyone else, so Angela could ruin it for the whole school.

Sometimes they trusted me to pick the evening's entertainment. I took them to see The Graduate The Graduate ( (El graduado), telling them it had lots of Simon & Garfunkel. But I squandered my credibility dragging them to Airplane! Airplane! ret.i.tled ret.i.tled Aterrizza como puedas Aterrizza como puedas, or "Land However You Can." I a.s.sured them that in America, this was universally recognized as the funniest movie ever made. How I laughed, the lone hyena in the theater, at all the badly dubbed Spanish versions of jokes I knew by heart. The girls failed to see the humor of " Yo hablo jive" " Yo hablo jive" or or "No me llamas s.h.i.+rley." "No me llamas s.h.i.+rley."

I tried explaining why it was funny. See, in ingles ingles, the word "seguramente" "seguramente" is "surely," which sounds like is "surely," which sounds like el nombre de una persona. el nombre de una persona. s.h.i.+rley! s.h.i.+rley! Divertido, no? Divertido, no?

I was never allowed to pick the movie again. To punish me, they took me to Midnight Express Midnight Express, about an American boy who gets thrown into a foreign jail because he tries to smuggle drugs. The movie was torture to watch, although it did introduce me to the concept of bras that unhook in the front.

These were the coolest girls I'd ever met. They called the Smurfs "Pitufos." "Pitufos." They argued over politics and corrected my grammar. They took me to juice bars, and whenever the radio would play Depeche Mode or Soft Cell, they'd yell They argued over politics and corrected my grammar. They took me to juice bars, and whenever the radio would play Depeche Mode or Soft Cell, they'd yell "Ponelo mas alto!" "Ponelo mas alto!" We gave one another profanity lessons in our native tongues. They took me shopping, where I learned the joys of spending warm summer days indoors, waiting for hours outside changing rooms and repeating "that one also looks very nice" in Spanish. They were teaching me a whole new language, in more ways than one. We gave one another profanity lessons in our native tongues. They took me shopping, where I learned the joys of spending warm summer days indoors, waiting for hours outside changing rooms and repeating "that one also looks very nice" in Spanish. They were teaching me a whole new language, in more ways than one.

Surely there were girls like this back home? Surely not. And no me llamas s.h.i.+rley no me llamas s.h.i.+rley!

Sometimes we listened to records. Yet even though they went out clubbing two or three nights a week, they did not own any techno-pop records. They collected the acoustic folkies like Bob Dylan and Victor Jara, who I'd heard of because the Clash liked him; he'd been killed by the fascists in Chile for singing songs about girls who were killed by the fascists in Spain. I liked listening to records with these girls so much, I even drove myself, by sheer force of will, to enjoy Simon & Garfunkel, and began relating to their sensitive little folk songs. "h.e.l.lo doucheness, my old friend. I've come to suck with you again."

They talked about the Spanish Civil War like it was yesterday, and everybody at school had very complex political opinions. The little brother of my Spanish host family spray-painted an A A in a circle on the wall of the garage, which (as he explained) meant he was an anarchist. If you wore a Spanish flag on the wristband of your watch, it meant you were a fascist. I had never met real-life fascists or anarchists or socialists. I was used to calling someone "fascist" when they borrowed my pencil without resharpening it, so I was shocked to hear people call themselves fascists. There had been an attempted military coup three months earlier, and everybody had fierce ideas about that. The school had a mural of Guernica up in the lobby, but it was covered with a gla.s.s panel to keep right-wing students from defacing it with graffiti. in a circle on the wall of the garage, which (as he explained) meant he was an anarchist. If you wore a Spanish flag on the wristband of your watch, it meant you were a fascist. I had never met real-life fascists or anarchists or socialists. I was used to calling someone "fascist" when they borrowed my pencil without resharpening it, so I was shocked to hear people call themselves fascists. There had been an attempted military coup three months earlier, and everybody had fierce ideas about that. The school had a mural of Guernica up in the lobby, but it was covered with a gla.s.s panel to keep right-wing students from defacing it with graffiti.

There were fascist discos and socialist discos. One of our Spanish cla.s.smates invited us to a party at a place called Aguacates. Kate, Ligia and I never refused a chance to go clubbing, but the Spanish girls wouldn't go, because they said it was the right-wing disco. I was like, who cares, it's just disco, right? At midnight the DJ played "Arriba Espana," "Arriba Espana," the perky theme song of the Fuerza Nueva Party, and everybody rushed to the floor to sing along and gave fascist salutes, even the very drunk girl in the fuchsia tube top whose cleavage I had spent the evening admiring. I remember you, Amanda, and even though I appreciated how the salute made your right breast stretch a little farther out of your top, I didn't care anymore. I even stopped wondering if your bra was the kind that unhooked in the front. the perky theme song of the Fuerza Nueva Party, and everybody rushed to the floor to sing along and gave fascist salutes, even the very drunk girl in the fuchsia tube top whose cleavage I had spent the evening admiring. I remember you, Amanda, and even though I appreciated how the salute made your right breast stretch a little farther out of your top, I didn't care anymore. I even stopped wondering if your bra was the kind that unhooked in the front.

We left Aguacates a little rattled. I understood why my friends wouldn't go there. It was like "The National Front Disco," one of my favorite Morrissey songs, about how there's a group of friends and one of them starts going to the fascist disco and everybody grieves because they've lost their boy. In general, political enemies did not party together.

All summer long, the songs were the only souvenir from the night I could hold on to the next day-remembering all those sensations was overwhelming in sunlight, so I would hum the tunes to myself. I had to learn them by heart, because I had no way of finding out who sang them or how to get a copy. I knew I'd never hear them again back home. Most of them didn't exist in the United States yet, and many wouldn't get any airplay until the 1990s, when they became staples of '80s-at-eight radio shows. Mecano were easily the most popular group in the discotecas discotecas-they were local heroes, a Madrid trio with two smoldering synth boys and a pretty girl in a pouffy dress. The boys played keyboards, or as they were called on the alb.u.m cover, "teclados," which meant "touched things" and therefore seemed s.e.xual by definition. The boys always frowned and looked mean in pictures; the girl singer, Ana Torroja, looked like she despised the boys. Hot!

Whenever I looked at the picture, I imagined how great it would be to join this group. What was Ana Torroja really like? Was one of the boys in the group her boyfriend? Or were the boys a couple? All their songs were either about putting on makeup or going to parties. Their big hit, "Me Cole en una Fiesta," was about both-Ana crashes a party where she isn't invited, sees her boyfriend dance with another girl, and cries all the way home. I had already heard plenty of songs with this story, but this one I was actually dancing to, which made it all completely different.

The boy in my Spanish host family, Jorge Luis, was into metal and punk. The only male friends I made in Spain were his friends, so we sat in their rooms listening to Iron Maiden. They made me translate "The Number of the Beast" for them. ("Seis! Seis! Seis!") ("Seis! Seis! Seis!") They thought guys who went to They thought guys who went to discotecas discotecas were not so cool. The kids at school brought more records for me to translate-n.o.body in the United States even remembered Meat Loaf, but these kids loved all the Meat Loaf records and (incredibly) Jim Steinman's solo alb.u.m. In grat.i.tude, Jorge Luis presented me with an essay collection by Che Guevara, apparently because I still had a few unticked boxes on my Eighties Teen Cliche Bingo card. were not so cool. The kids at school brought more records for me to translate-n.o.body in the United States even remembered Meat Loaf, but these kids loved all the Meat Loaf records and (incredibly) Jim Steinman's solo alb.u.m. In grat.i.tude, Jorge Luis presented me with an essay collection by Che Guevara, apparently because I still had a few unticked boxes on my Eighties Teen Cliche Bingo card.

I could see why music was a serious business here. This was a place where every detail of your ident.i.ty-politics, religion, fas.h.i.+on-seemed to hang on your taste in pop. If you liked a certain kind of music, you dressed the part every day. The gap between Iron Maiden and Depeche Mode was as deep as the gap between anarchists and fascists. Unfortunately, the only Catholic kids I met were fascists, so I went to church by myself, where I seemed to be the only person under a hundred. I was afraid I'd crush someone's wrist in the sign of peace.

The city was full of subcultures I'd only read about in new-wave magazines. Casilda took me roller-skating with her boyfriend, who was a mod. A real-life mod! He had the long parka with the Jam's logo painted on back, and drainpipe trousers. We went to the park, where we sat on the gra.s.s so he could glare at the rockers, who sported leather jackets and rockabilly hair, just like in the movies. I could not believe I was watching actual mods and rockers; it was like I had died and gone to music boy heaven.

The weeks went by. Eventually, I was going home. I was never gonna dance again. Con nosotras Con nosotras-I was going to miss that. In America, I'd go right back to being who I was before, a fate so awful I could barely imagine it. I tried to start conversations with the girls about all the good times we were having-I hoped someone would take the hint to explain what it all meant, and how I could make it happen again back home. Where I was never going to get into a disco, or hear "Da Da Da," or eat gazpacho, even though I didn't even like gazpacho. I tried to make them nostalgic for our crazy summer before it was even over, slipping Airplane! Airplane! jokes into the conversation. jokes into the conversation.

"You've got to take me to the hospital."

"Que es?"

"Es un edificio lleno de infirmadades."

Like the airplane in the movie, I was going to have to come down sometime. The landing would be b.u.mpy. Aterriza como puedas Aterriza como puedas-land however you can.

The night before I left, we went to a house party where the hostess kept spinning "Enola Gay," a song about two kids wanting to make out so bad it's like a bomb about to go off. When their lips meet, it's a nuclear explosion that blows up the whole world, and nothing will ever be the same. It didn't sound like an exaggeration. I got sad kissing Angela and Nuria good-bye, which made me feel like an idiot, so I confessed that I felt embarazado embarazado. They giggled. I had just told them I was pregnant. I never saw them again.

I cradled my head in my hands the whole flight home. The next day, my mom took me and my little sister to the South Sh.o.r.e Plaza to see E.T E.T. It had been a huge hit for weeks, but Caroline had waited until I came home so she could see it with me. She must've been the only six-year-old in America who would make a sacrifice like that for her jet-lagged big brother. The Sat.u.r.day afternoon matinee was full of little kids, their parents and exactly one sixteen-year-old boy. It was basically a movie about a sad Muppet who thought he was David Bowie. Caroline broke down sometime during the opening credits. I put my arm around her and kept it there as she wept through the movie. The dialogue was all in English, yet drowned out by sobs, wails, chokes and snarfles. Everybody around me needed a tissue and n.o.body had one. Like E.T E.T., I was home.

CULTURE CLUB.

"I"ll Tumble 4 Ya"

1982.

MTV was, roughly speaking, the greatest thing ever. Everything changed when MTV came to town. All of a sudden, it was like "awesome" was a verb, and we were conjugating it all night long. I awesome, you awesome, he, she, it awesome! We awesome! They awesome! Okay, let's do the Spanish second-person plural familiar: Vosotros awesome! Vosotros awesome!

The first time I bit into the M-apple was at my buddy Flynn's house, where we trouped after school the day he got cable. The first video we caught was the Psychedelic Furs' "Pretty in Pink." Hey, there's a rock star walking across a checkerboard floor! Which gets reflected in his wraparound shades. And a mysterious yet alluring lady in a red miniskirt. If only we got to see a mirror shattering in slow motion, this would be the perfect cinematic experience of my young life. Sweet mother of Christ-the mirror! Perfect. I felt like Roddy McDowall at the end of Conquest of the Planet of the Apes Conquest of the Planet of the Apes, when he leads the ape revolution in L.A. and announces, "This is the beginning of the Planet of the Apes!" Clearly, the dawn of a new era.

Flynn's side of town got cable a few weeks before ours, but it wasn't too long before the fateful hookup on March 16, 1983. I got my driver's license two days later. Between MTV, wheels and the invention of the Walkman, I had more access to music than I had ever dreamed of. The day after I got my license, I cruised the '74 Chevy Nova into Boston to go drive around with my buddy Terry just so we could play the radio. Okay, it was just an AM radio, no winds.h.i.+eld wipers, no heater and a backseat floor that was completely rotted through. It was a car that had seen better days and crashed into most of them. My mom used to drive this car into the inner-city public school where she taught fourth grade. It still had little dings from all the rocks thrown at it. Her students were so appalled by Mrs. Sheffield's car, they offered to steal her a Lincoln (much easier to steal than a Mercedes) as this car reflected badly on them. Hey, who cared? At least the radio radio worked. worked.

But the combination of wheels and MTV exploded my musical universe. One Friday night, I drove to the dance in the high school gym, drove back home to watch the world premiere of Michael Jackson's "Beat It" video at ten, and then drove back to the dance so I could tell everyone how awesome it was and make my first pitiful attempts to copy that dance at the end.

On MTV, with the world watching, rock stars invented whole new ways to blow fortunes they didn't have on fire-hazard hair, spandex pants, octagonal synth-drums, keytars, supermodels humping the hoods of foreign cars, and other garishly bad ideas. It was a night town world of bossy girls and swirly boys, animated by computer dis...o...b..eeps and the whiff of hair dye and one another's pheromones. These babes had some battle scars, but they flaunted their scars and called them baubles. Boy George felt self-conscious about his wide hips, so he wore dresses that made it impossible not to notice them, and shook them back and forth, back and forth, turning them into an ornament for his inherent gorgeousness. They put on slap by the shovel-load and wore way too much face for any person's face to hold.

They knew pop glamour isn't something you earn by the rules, it's something you steal and cheat and lie for, so a star like Boy George didn't have to be conventionally handsome, or conventionally anything. They did evil deeds to get famous, did even more evil deeds to stay there, made their deals with the pop devils. No other genre would have wanted them, but new wave had to take them in because it was the island of misfit toys, with funny-looking people who decided to be gorgeous and boring-looking people who decided to be funny-looking. All these new-wave fas.h.i.+on tarts, all these radar lovers and data pimps and glitter-encrusted s.e.x cookies crept out of my radio and took over my world, breaking on through to the other peroxide and feasting on the virgin sacrifice of my body and soul.

It was all just teenage code for pretending to be somebody else, which is how I spent 99 percent of my waking hours, like any teenager. I would hear a Bananarama song and I would wish there were three of me so I could paint the letters W O W W O W on my three a.s.ses and then bend over and do the Bananarama dances all day. on my three a.s.ses and then bend over and do the Bananarama dances all day.

MTV had twenty-four hours a day to fill, and they didn't have enough normal music to play, so they were forced to pad it out with all sorts of abnormal music. So when you tuned in to MTV, you didn't just see normal music with pictures. Instead you saw there were lots of musicians out there who didn't buy into the '80s rock-radio consensus that rock was heavy metal and everything else was disco. You saw how they moved, how they posed, what they thought was cool. You found out what their names were, and what their latest alb.u.ms were called. Maybe you were hooked, maybe you weren't-there'd be another video on in a minute.

No doubt, MTV would have rather been playing normal rock, i.e., metal, all along. It certainly played the h.e.l.l out of Zebra, Triumph and every other dodgy metal act that could be coaxed in front of a camera. But with so much airtime to fill and so little product to plug in, it was forced to play these clowns. And along the way, MTV did something it never planned on doing and most likely never wanted to do-it created a whole new audience. Because lots of us saw these new-wave bands and thought they were the greatest thing we'd ever f.u.c.king heard.

Teenage boys love to argue about things. It doesn't even matter about what-we would argue about baseball, books, politics, whether Scarface Scarface was the greatest movie of all time or whether that honor belonged to was the greatest movie of all time or whether that honor belonged to Vice Squad Vice Squad. Without MTV to argue about, I'm sure we would have found some other topic to hash out over our meat loaf sandwiches. Who knows-maybe we even would have sat at a table where some girls were sitting. But with MTV exposing everyone to hours and hours of otherwise unavailable music, girls would just have to wait, because there was arguing to be done.

And since teenage boys love to argue about silly s.h.i.+t, my entire high school lunchroom became a daily debate over what was new wave and what wasn't. Were ZZ Top new wave? Was Billy Idol new wave? Were the Clash punk or new wave? Was Spandau Ballet rock or pop? Was there a case to be made for Duran Duran? Needless to say, Duran Duran inspired the most venomous arguments. But there was always new s.h.i.+t to fight over, because MTV was always blasting new s.h.i.+t.

And all these new rock stars were battling it out for my soul. Joe Strummer (my hero) urged me to fight war and intolerance. Prince (the Joe Strummer of o.r.g.a.s.ms) urged me to join his s.e.xual revolution. Men Without Hats warned me that friends who don't dance are no friends at all. Cyndi Lauper advised me to find a bunch of cool girls and follow them around and do whatever they told me to do, because girls just want to have fun and boys without girls are no fun at all. This was a lot of Weltanschauung for one little altar boy to take in.

It can be hard to tell if a song is new wave or not. The debate got pretty intense in certain rarefied circles, e.g., Flynn's mom's bas.e.m.e.nt. These debates still rage in the overstuffed and underoccupied crania of those who hold new wave dear. There are, however, a few telltale signs. If it's a song about shoes, pants or hair, it's new wave. If they have a funny name, it's new wave. If the singer is German, it's new wave, unless it's the Scorpions. If you think the singer is German, but he's really not, then that's an extraordinarily rarefied level of new wave, and probably means a kind of new-wave satori has been reached. For some reason I a.s.sumed Peter G.o.dwin was German because of "Images of Heaven." He sounded totally German, especially because he was pining over a girlfriend who didn't exist. (Songs about girls who don't exist? Very new wave.) I felt vaguely betrayed when I found out Peter G.o.dwin was English, but he also wrote one of my favorite songs on David Bowie's Let's Dance Let's Dance, "Criminal World." When you successfully fake being German, and Bowie sings one of your songs, you are probably one of the six or seven most new-wave people on the planet.

If you have a song about nuclear war, you are new wave. If you sing about gay s.e.x and nuclear war, you are Frankie Goes to Hollywood. If you are a hot German chick and you sing about nuclear war, you are Nena. If you sang about starting a nuclear war via making out, you are Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark. If you sing about nuclear war and and girlfriends who don't exist, you are scoring some serious new-wave points. (Why are you trying so hard, anyway? You must be Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark again!) If you start to sing the word "a.s.s" but change your mind and subst.i.tute a drum solo, you are Huey Lewis, which is as far from new wave as you can get. girlfriends who don't exist, you are scoring some serious new-wave points. (Why are you trying so hard, anyway? You must be Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark again!) If you start to sing the word "a.s.s" but change your mind and subst.i.tute a drum solo, you are Huey Lewis, which is as far from new wave as you can get.

Sure, all this new wave was pretty silly. Did we care? Nope. We liked it that way. "One cheap illusion could still be divine," Peter G.o.dwin sang in "Images of Heaven," and by that theological reasoning, new wave was truly the church of the poison mind.

The elements of a cool video were far more simple: first, you needed a cool song, because if you were Tom Petty, it did not matter how much money you spent on your video, you were always just going to be Tom Petty. A hot girl in the video helped as well. But locations were really important. Guitar heroes had always aimed to sound like they were playing their guitar solos on a mountaintop. Now, you actually could stand on a literal mountaintop, wind whipping in your hair, and play that solo, even if you were the guy from Tears for Fears.

Now that you could play on a mountaintop, or some other stupid place, you didn't really have an excuse not to, right? Echo & the Bunnymen did their guitar solo on top of a glacier. U2 played their guitars on a mountain in a blizzard. You could play on the beach in Sri Lanka (Duran Duran) or on a desert plain at sunset, like David Bowie in "Let's Dance," miming to a guitar solo that was actually played by Stevie Ray Vaughan. David Lee Roth climbed a mountain, but forgot to bring a guitar. Culture Club did "Karma Chameleon" on a Mississippi River steamboat. Their video had a plot. Plots were not very cool. But Boy George's fingerless gloves? Cool.

Laurie Anderson complained that MTV was all "boys playing guitar in the shower, boys playing guitar on the roof." But both of those ideas were fairly excellent. Dave Edmunds had a breakthrough with his "Information" video, playing his guitar solo while standing at the urinal. I guess someone had to try it. Bryan Adams was, I believe, the first to attempt rocking out in an empty swimming pool. Aaaaaaand the last.

There was an intense debate in our cafeteria over who would be the first rock star to make a video where he got crucified and sing his latest hit from up on the cross. Flynn thought it would be Ozzy. I argued for Billy Idol. We were both right: it was Def Leppard, in "Bringin' on the Heartbreak." (And Joe Elliott had the gall to get himself crucified on a boat, which Rick Allen seemed to be paddling down the River Styx. These dudes left nothing to chance, did they?) If I'm not mistaken, the all-time standard in the "location, location, location" wars was set by Journey in "Separate Ways," the one where they went to the lumberyard. Steve Perry sang about his broken heart while clambering over a stack of two-by-fours. Journey walked around the lumberyard feeling sad about their lady love, who (naturally) was right there in the lumberyard, strutting around in her leather miniskirt. How exactly did this girl end up there? Was she looking for her friends? Did they play a prank on her, calling to say, "Yo, Maureen, we'll all meet up after school at the mall . . . I mean, Curly's Lumberyard, over by the dock. No, rilly. Lumber's hot. Wear those cute earrings!"

But the absolute absurdity of the surroundings just made the song better, proving beyond doubt that Steve Perry has no shame as he wails the lines, "We're caught between confusion and pain! Paaaa-yeeeeen! PAIN!" Who knows, maybe Journey really just liked to go pace around the lumberyard when they needed to sort some s.h.i.+t out. I hope the carpentry community returned their love.

Thanks to MTV, the new-wave virus spread everywhere. Anybody could make a new-wave record, and everybody did when it looked like there was some money in it. I mean, Joe Walsh made a new-wave record. Herbie Hanc.o.c.k made a new-wave record. So did Van Halen, Phil Collins, the Bee Gees, the Who, the Stones, Donna Summer, Neil Young, the Grateful Dead, everybody. h.e.l.l, even Dean Martin gave it a go with "Since I Met You Baby." In 1982, when a whole year went by without a new Police alb.u.m, everybody tried making fake Police records, from Robert Plant to Rush.

As a new-wave aficionado, I thought that for most of these guys, their new-wave sellout record was the greatest thing they'd ever done. Gino Vannelli, a Vegas lounge singer, made the unbelievably great "Black Cars." Billy Joel had a number one hit with "It's Still Rock and Roll to Me," which inspired Weird Al Yankovic to make fun of him in "It's Still Billy Joel to Me": "Now everybody thinks new wave is super / Just ask Linda Ronstadt or even Alice Cooper." Linda Ronstadt's new-wave song, "How Do I Make You," was pretty lame. But Alice Cooper's "Clones (We're All)" was really great!

MTV dreams made their way into my head for keeps. When I imagine the afterlife, I picture it as the Eurythmics' video "Who's That Girl?" A tacky club, a red carpet, lots of half-famous people jostling around. You look and say, hey, there's somebody I remember. Boy George? Flas.h.!.+ Hey, isn't that Bananarama? Flas.h.!.+ Please, boys, no more photos. Flas.h.!.+ Kajagoogoo, right? I know that dude! Everybody's there. You make chitchat with random scenester faces, waiting your turn for the ones you really want to talk to. That's okay. No pressure. Because as soon as the song is over, there will be another one, and in an hour or two, MTV will play this video again. All the same people will be there, over and over, all night long to the break of dawn.

I used to wait for hours for MTV to show this video. MTV and insomnia naturally went together, maybe because so many of the songs and videos were inspired by the kind of insomnia induced by pills and powders. So it felt natural to watch till dawn, hoping to get just one more look, one more moment with those faces. But now it's always there on YouTube, like everything else from the vaults of music-video history. There's no special occasion, no ceremony, but I click replay anyway. It's always on.

HALL & OATES.