At that moment, everything should have been perfect, but privately we were screwed and in turmoil. When we came offstage in Philadelphia there were no congratulatory hugs or friendly smiles. It was like we were completely foreing to each other, and it would be the last time we played together for almost two decades. Unbeknownst to the rest of the world we had quietly (in our ever-so-English way) been falling apart at the seams for many months prior to Live Aid.In truth, we could barely stand to be in the same room. Frustrated by the constant bickering and hostility within Duran Duran, John and I had formed the Power Station with Tony Thompson and Robert Palmer, which had been hugely successful. Simon and Nick had formed their own spin-off group, Arcadia.
The rehearsal in Philadelphia had been an absolute nightmare. The air was acrid with tension. Nick and I barely exchanged a single word, save sorting out the set list, which probably suited us both fine. Roger looked like Death warmed up, almost as if he wasn't there, and you could see the strain of our spirit-sapping lifestyle etched across his face. I was lucid, but only on a level that would confound most scientists. Even Simon was getting ragged around the edges and looking decidedly “sailor faced” – still forever the optimist, but of late preferring to go sailing on his yatch than be with the band.
John and I were in a dark place. We might have looked lean and hungry from constant touring with Duran and the Power Station, but we were dying inside. We were tired of twenty-four-hour attention, tired of drinking and taking drugs, haggard from the lifestyle we had once aspired to.
Live Aid was the first time all five members of Duran Duran had been together for months, and we had just one day to try and make ourselves sound half-decent before going onstage. Not surprisingly, the rehearsals were a disaster and I ended up ordering everyone who wasn't in the band or essential crew to leave – where had all these people come from ? “Bloody rubbernecks” was Roger's affectionate term for them. Two people who were not present at this point were the Berrows, my nowformer managers...
I spent the morning of the show in my hotel suite watching Status Quo live from the UK – they opened up the day's proceedings across the Atlantic in London. But not even the Quo and a huge American breakfast could brighten up our day and things continued to get darker during the to JFK Stadium. At least there was no sound check. We were being hailed by the press as the Fab Five, the most successful British band since the Beatles, but instead of celebrating any of this, we just got on the bus and sat in silence.
We'd reached rock bottom and we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. We drove to the venue through streets packed with excited rock fans, but inside the bus the atmosphere was as if we were on our way to a funeral (little did we realize that we WERE on the way to a funeral – it was OURS).
The rehearsal in Philadelphia had been an absolute nightmare. The air was acrid with tension. Nick and I barely exchanged a single word, save sorting out the set list, which probably suited us both fine. Roger looked like Death warmed up, almost as if he wasn't there, and you could see the strain of our spirit-sapping lifestyle etched across his face. I was lucid, but only on a level that would confound most scientists. Even Simon was getting ragged around the edges and looking decidedly “sailor faced” – still forever the optimist, but of late preferring to go sailing on his yatch than be with the band.
John and I were in a dark place. We might have looked lean and hungry from constant touring with Duran and the Power Station, but we were dying inside. We were tired of twenty-four-hour attention, tired of drinking and taking drugs, haggard from the lifestyle we had once aspired to.
Live Aid was the first time all five members of Duran Duran had been together for months, and we had just one day to try and make ourselves sound half-decent before going onstage. Not surprisingly, the rehearsals were a disaster and I ended up ordering everyone who wasn't in the band or essential crew to leave – where had all these people come from ? “Bloody rubbernecks” was Roger's affectionate term for them. Two people who were not present at this point were the Berrows, my nowformer managers...
I spent the morning of the show in my hotel suite watching Status Quo live from the UK – they opened up the day's proceedings across the Atlantic in London. But not even the Quo and a huge American breakfast could brighten up our day and things continued to get darker during the to JFK Stadium. At least there was no sound check. We were being hailed by the press as the Fab Five, the most successful British band since the Beatles, but instead of celebrating any of this, we just got on the bus and sat in silence.
We'd reached rock bottom and we had absolutely nothing to say to each other. We drove to the venue through streets packed with excited rock fans, but inside the bus the atmosphere was as if we were on our way to a funeral (little did we realize that we WERE on the way to a funeral – it was OURS).
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