Return Of The Super Smoothies

Rip It Up, Issue 161, 1 December 1990, Page 16

Return Of The Super Smoothies

RogerTaylorbecamea gentleman farmer in Gloucestershire, Andy Taylor left for LA, Warhol groupie Nick Rhodes married an American and published a book of polaroid photographs while Simon Le Bon — using Vogue as a dating agency—married super model Yasmin. Which doesn't make an interview with Mr Le Bon right here in this Regent Hotel suite one Sunday afternoon any less of an event. After all, the words Simon Le Bon and "pop star" are interchangeable, he is essence of Smash Hits cover, a real live world famous person at large in Auckland forthe weekend. I'm standing beside a console table in the world famous person's Regent Hotel suite. On it stands two tiny speakers attached to a portable compact disc player. Lined up in front are dozens of compact discs in little • plastic wallets like credit cards: Happy Mondays, Iggy Pop, Prince, a boxed set of Lennon... such is the hand luggage of the wealthy pop star. On the floor I step over a pair, of Nike high tops and a pair of black Levis, in fact pairs of high tops and Levis seem to be distributed . - >

throughout the suite. Then Mr Le Bon strolls through from the bedroom, not smiling, toll, tanned and terrific looking in a hot pink lycra Nike singlet, tight black cycling shorts and socks. Simon sits on the sofa, polite, reserved and speaking precise middle class English. We're joined by ’ the new Duran Duran guitarist, Warren Cuccurullo. Warren, who is American, used to play in Frank Zappa's band. Clad in the international rock star uniform of torso baring leather jacket, jeans and not-yet-worn-outdoors biker boots, Warren has the perfect skin and biceps of the American male health nut. Inevitably, my attention strays back to Simon. How is the new Duran Duran different to the old? "More funky, more happy, more music," says Simon, "The musical climate of the world is warming up, nobody could write 'Girls On Film' now, nobody's writing perfect pop at the moment, it's not in vogue." Simon thinks America is where it's at now too. He listens to Faith No More and Jane's Addiction but he treats the funk-metal hybrid craze with caution. 'We've already been a music fashion. We've got our own identity and audience now." The interview ebbs and flows. Warren informs me he listens to Prince, David Bowie, Led Zeppelin, Brazilian music,Talking Headsand Iggy. You can't help wondering why they're bothering to stage a comeback, although Simon argues that Duran Duran have never been away. I guess once basked in, it's hard to give up the limelight, your place in the front row of the rich and - famous. Simon says it's more a matter of power. "We're not interested in rewriting old history. We wantto play the occasional 100,000 sports stadium 1 but we also want to play clubs. We wantto have that power over the public consciousness that you get when you're in a group. The power to affect people's lives. That's the real cherry. It's not the adulation, it's megalomania, it's the power." It can't be money. Simon must be a millionare.

Simon looks at Warren. "Am I a millionaire? Yeah, I guess I'm a millioniare. In some currency. In lire." The interview is growing languid. Simon and Warren have been out on a boat all afternoon so perhaps they're suffering from heat exhaustion. Then Warren actually gets up and leaves without saying an official goodbye. Now that we're alone (!) I take the opportunity to tell Simon he looks obscenely healthy. He reveals that he gave up drinking and lost 15 kilos. Then, throwing intellectual credibility to the wind, I ask him what star sign he is. "Scorpio," he replies, looking up at me with his big blue eyes, "why... do you fancy me?" I don't particularly, but I ask him if he'll show me his clothes (seeing as how he's a bit of a fashion plate) and at this he gets quite animated, leaping up from the sofa and beckoning me to follow him into the bedroom. I perch on the edge of the bed while he pulls various thousand dollar garments out of the wardrobe. One pair of slim, richly embroidered black pants by Jean Paul Gaultier ("a very clever boy"), one pair of tight white bermuda shorts which make Simon "stick out in all the right places." Then he asks me if I'd like to see photographs of his baby daughter, and out comes the poloroid snapshots of one year old Amber Rose in the bath and one of wife Yasmin sitting up in bed in their flat in London. As I leave, we start talking about hair and I compliment thirty-two year old Simon on the fact that his is holding its own. With no receding hairline in sight his continued pop career is assured. He agrees, and tells me he likes to keep it short. "Feel this," he says, bending his head. I do as I'm told. Very nice. "Imagine what it feels like between your legs," says the pop star, everthe lad and then—• - realising too late the indiscretion—- " Don't print that!" * I assure him I will. Simon scratches his head, looking peeved. "I never learn," he mutters as he closes the door behind me.

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