If there is one person I would ever consider leaving my current life for, it would be for a drummer named Roger. It was 1984 when my sister showed me a video of five fab Brits performing on a stage with flashing lights and a fake waterfall pouring out of a giant screen onto their fans. From the moment I saw The Reflex I was entranced. Who are they? What is that all about? But most importantly. Who. Is. That?
|My sister had this poster in her bedroom. I used to stand in front of it staring directly into Roger’s eyes. I know… I know…|
My sister and her friends were of the Simon or John camps. That was fine. You can have them. I was alone in my Roger camp. But I knew, even then, that he was the finer choice, the one with longevity the one who would become more charming and more handsome. They’ll see, I thought to myself. They’ll see.
I liked that he didn’t talk much in group interviews. I liked that he didn’t wear makeup and that he was clean cut. I liked his smile. I liked that he seemed shy. I loved his English accent. I loved that he was and still is an amazing drummer. I liked reading that though he took his music really seriously, he also had other interests having nothing to do with Duran Duran. I liked reading that he decompressed during his down time by working out instead of partying all night. Years later, when he rejoined the band in the early 2000s, I loved that I could still recognize who I imagined him to be and that he seemed even better than ever. The same, just older. And still, well … sigh… very Roger.
So tonight on the very last few minutes of his birthday (4-26-60), a day in history that I have never forgotten since discovering Roger Taylor of Duran Duran years and years ago in New Jersey, I have to say, Happy Birthday, to you, and thanks for being one of my dots.