In the Pleasure Groove: Love, Death, and Duran Duran by Taylor John

Author:Taylor, John [Taylor, John]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2012-10-16T00:00:00+00:00

40 Jacobean

A December British tour brought us back to Birmingham after a year away, living in hotels.

We booked into the Holiday Inn for the nights of the shows. After the last concert, and the traditional party at the club, it was time to go home.

I had to think twice about that. Home? Mom and Dad’s? Simon Road? I was still living at my parents’! How could that be?

I wasn’t still there because I couldn’t afford my own place; we were making real money now. I just hadn’t had the time to think about where I would live and to physically make the move.

Or was it more than that? There was an undeniable comfort in being able to go home, however infrequently, after all the traveling and the madness, to Mom’s cooking and the familiar sounds and smells of the house I had grown up in.

One of the innovations that I brought to Simon Road from my on-the-road experiences was a “Do Not Disturb” sign handmade out of cardboard. It even had “Please Clean Room” written on the other side. Mom got the message even if Dad didn’t.

Dad was good, though, when it came to handling my first exposure to a sexually transmitted disease. I contracted crabs in the United States and thought I had gotten rid of it. But in the shower at Mom and Dad’s I scratched away at some scabby thing on my chest and the little fucker went scuttling away down my leg. Dammit!

I knew this one was not for Mom.

Dad rose to the occasion admirably. There was no judgment, simply, “You better not let your mother know about this.”

He took off all my bedsheets and secretly put them into the washing machine, practically boiling them down to paper, then got me the necessary meds from the local pharmacy.

It was a good, if unusual, father-son bonding experience.

Almost proudly, he admitted, in an unusual show of candor, that “picking the lice off his pals’ skin and hair” was something he had learned in the prison camp.

“We all stood in line, each of us going through the hairs of the man in front.”

It was the first time that he had relayed to me any sense of the deprivations of prison-camp life.

But it was too late. I was not in the mood to hear about it now.

I just remember thinking, “How useful.”

But the buddy movie moment did not last, and I knew I could take no more of living at home when Dad came stomping up the stairs the following day and banged on my bedroom door, saying, “You’re not on bloody tour now, you know. Turn that music down!”

I had to find my own place, and fast.

I chose a two-bedroom first-floor flat on Jacoby Place, Edgbaston, ten minutes from the city center, and, in a mad flurry of credit card and checkbook purchases, filled it with European furnishings from the better local stores: Roche Bobois and Ligne Roset. Dad painted the flat and laid the carpet for me. The

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