When I moved to Boston 20-odd years ago, being into Duran Duran was not the best way to make pals and get play. So I kept it hidden. On the street I was just like every other Def Leppard-lovin’ townie, but at home I was the guy who owned the “Union of the Snake Late Night Bar Version” 12-inch and had committed every lyric of the band’s early jams to memory. Sure, it was hard to be different. But even then I had a feeling that someday, somehow, my time as a closet Duranie would pay off. Boy, was I right!

It all came full circle Friday night when the boys took the stage in Central Park to peddle their new piece-of-shit album. I bided my time, gulping from a pint of Captain Morgan in anticipation for the onslaught of hits that I knew they’d bust out for the finale. By the time the opening strains of “The Reflex” echoed across the park, my shirt was long gone and I was struggling to get as many Asian girls as possible on my shoulders. Swear to God at one point I had four delirious chicks surrounding me, running their hands across my non-muscles. Thanks, Nick Rhodes! (And thank you, Janis, for not falling off and ending a magical night in tragedy.)

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