Dear fellow traveller on the information highway I have sad tidings to convey. Last night I went to a club and the DJ had Duran Duran on CD. But he didn't play it. Even though I tried all my best persuasive techniques. I used hyperbole. I used emotive language. I used fact and opinion. Heck, I probably even threw in a list of three. But he didn't play Duran Duran. Stone Roses, yes. Oasis, numerous times. Pigeon Detectives, heck yeah. The Smiths, yes sirree. But no Duran Duran.
This was clearly an epic failure because the dancefloor was all but empty and everyone knows what happens when the clickety-click camera bit of 'Girls on Film' starts. Yes, I scream. But after that the dancefloor fills. And some of the dancers are even people who I didn't propel there.
You see, the poor man was deluded into believing Duran Duran aren't indie. However, without Duran indie wouldn't even exist. Actually, if you're me you think that the entirety of western culture devolves from Nick Rhodes' fringe. But I recognise that I'm crackers.
So why should he have played Duran Duran? Because it would have followed these lyrics from one song he played serendipitously:
Your name isn't Rio, but I don't care for sand
And lighting the fuse might result in a bang, b-b-bang, go!
I bet that you look good on the dancefloor
I don't know if you're looking for romance or
I don't know what you're looking for
I said, I bet that you look good on the dancefloor
Dancing to electro-pop like a robot from 1984
From 1984!
Good god. What a missed opportunity.
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