The Power Station - Some Like it Hot

Not me. Not anymore. And F*#king Covid.

The Power Station / The Power Station - Burn bright, then burn out

Love/Hate, Hot/Cold

I have a love-hate relationship with the summer season.

What I love are the long days, BBQ'ing, being able to wear T-shirts and shorts, watching my vegetable garden grow…and…I’m drawing a blank after that.

Sure, vacations are nice, but those can occur year-round, so I don’t correlate them with summer.

I know saying “I hate summer” is the rough equivalent of saying “I hate puppies.” And we all know I love puppies. Perhaps hate is an overzealous word choice to describe the opposite feeling of love (tolerate might be more accurate). But I’ll stick with it for the sake of argument.

My temperament is more aligned with cooler weather. When it’s hot, I become irritable, lethargic, and sleepy. Actually falling asleep at bedtime turns into a high-wire act. Open windows and a ceiling fan turned to max do little to cool the bedroom — and there are only so many layers of clothes you can take off.

If you choose to expose your skin during daylight hours, it must be slathered with chemicals and potions to best repel the evil sun rays. And don’t get me started on hats. Bald is beautiful — but like the eagle, it takes discipline and fortitude to protect our majestic, hairless domes.

“But Steve,” Summer proclaims, “Mine is the season of doing! Of accomplishing! Of finishing that book/film/album/home renovation project! Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy!”

I work much better in colder weather, I assert. My body and brain crave movement, both physically and creatively. With a chill in the air, I tap into an inner clarity that becomes elusive for me in the summer.

“But you live in Oakland, California,” Summer says. “You don’t even need air-conditioning 360 days of the year!”

Maybe Summer is right.

Perhaps I am a fuddy-duddy. Perhaps the warmer weather and longer days simply provide more time for me to yell out the window, “Get off my lawn!” to the neighbor kids. Though in my yard, it would be more like, “Stop stealing my cherry tomatoes!”

children stealing tomatoes from my lawn, as imagined by AI

This is a relatively recent phenomenon—my preference for fall and winter. I used to be a fun-in-the-sun dude most of my life. I used to live more like Jeff Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High than The Grinch who stole summer.

I grew up in Southern California, a 20-minute drive from Malibu Beach. Our summers regularly reached triple digits (37-40 Celsius), and you would still find me playing tennis with my buddies or throwing a frisbee at the park.

I thrived in the heat. Being soaked in sweat was a sign that I was alive. My taut body was thin and lithe, and I didn’t worry about skin cancer. Laying out by the pool, smoking a joint, eating Cool Ranch Doritos? That was the fucking life.

The summer before I started college, I worked at a job installing and repairing industrial-grade roll-up doors for businesses. If you’ve read my piece on Randy Newman and his song “Short People,” you’d know that I don’t have the sort of physical build designed to carry and then hold up 150-pound metal doors at the top of ladders.

This would be especially true when stoned, which, back in my early 20s, was most of the time. My partner at the gig, Sid, was a head taller than me and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. I relied on Sid to shoulder (literally) the weight of the door when we’d install them.

I want to say I lasted two months at that job. Was I fired? My memory is fuzzy, but I want to say that they reassigned me to maintenance gigs, which essentially meant squirting WD40 into the joints of the door frame (or something like that).

Thankfully, I was days away from going off to college, where my Bachelor of Arts in Film Degree would soon guarantee that I would never have to work a physical labor day job again! Ha! Somewhat true, but not really.

I wish there was a video of me installing one of those doors. We did drop one about six feet onto the concrete floor, but somehow, we still managed to mount it before we left. I can only imagine the client had to call to get it rehung within a week.

This video below shows how to do the job that I had back in 1986 the right way.

The Other Side of Summer

What does any of this have to do with my less-than-enamored feelings for the summer?

The following statement best illustrates my current displeasure with the season of heat.

On Thursday, June 20, mere hours into the summer solstice (in the northern hemisphere), I tested positive for COVID-19 for the first time.

Yep. I’d made it more than four years without feeling ill, without getting the dreaded ‘Rona, despite being around dozens of other people who’d tested positive.

I’d already chosen this piece’s earworm song a couple of days before my throat would begin to itch, before a cough would form, before I’d develop of fever of 101.7.

I was prepared to rant (gently) against the false promises of the summer — I certainly didn’t need to acquire a virus to add an exclamation point to the matter.

Perhaps writing about Donnie Iris’ “Ah! Leah!" and its double exclamations last week was tempting fate.

The irony, or maybe the on-the-noseness, of catching COVID on the summer solstice brings to mind a favorite anti-summer song from the bard of snarl, Mr. Elvis Costello.

“The Other Side of Summer,” from his 1991 Mighty Like A Rose album, at first, seems a breezy, earworm-riddled, melodious tune, perfect for sipping lemonade by the poolside. Though, if you look closer, the cheery sonic exterior hides some of Costello’s most cutting lyrics.

Was it a millionaire who said "Imagine no possessions"?
A poor little schoolboy who said "We don't need no lessons"?
The rabid rebel dogs ransack the shampoo shop
The pop princess is downtown shooting up

From the foaming breakers of the poisonous surf
The other side of summer
To the burning forests in the hills of Astroturf
The other side of summer

And I thought I was a party pooper! Playing this song again after a many-year break has truly elevated my mood. Without darkness there is no light and all that.

Also, my fever has broken, and I’m confident that when I test myself again in a couple of days, I’ll be negative and can reenter summer society, sweaty and sticky like a proper adult.

Taylor, Taylor, Thompson & Palmer - Law Firm or Supergroup?

When The Power Station rose from the (temporary) ashes of Duran Duran in early 1985, I was unsure what to make of it.

As a massive Durannie, I worried that the band’s hiatus would end up becoming a permanent vacation. Sure, their third album, Seven and the Ragged Tiger, had two giant hits (“The Reflex,” “Union of the Snake”), but as a musical cornerstone, it paled in comparison to the majesty of their self-titled debut and Rio. Perhaps taking a break from rock stardom was exactly what the Fab 5 needed.

While Simon Lebon, Nick Rhodes, and Roger Taylor split off to form the more atmospheric Arcadia, bassist John and guitarist Andy Taylor sought a heavier, funkier sound, recruiting Chic drummer Tony Thompson for their new musical project. After first seeking to include a variety of lead vocalists for their ‘70s rock-influenced, glammed-up tracks, the trio eventually settled on Robert Palmer when it became clear they’d found the person who could ably do the work of a dozen.

At this point in Palmer’s career, he was most noted for his 1980 radio single, “Bad Case of Loving You (Doctor Doctor).” Adding him into the supergroup mix wasn’t the no-brainer it would seem a few months later, when Palmer would release his multi-platinum-selling Riptide, just eight months after The Power Station’s debut album. If you hear a sonic similarity between Riptide and Power Station, it’s likely due to the inclusion of both Thompson’s iconic percussion and Andy Taylor’s earworm-worthy guitar lines.

The Power Station was an immediate hit. The album quickly shot up to #6 on the U.S. Billboard chart and #12 in the UK. Their first single, “Some Like It Hot,” reached the top 20 worldwide and was on regular rotation on MTV for many weeks. Their second single, a cover of the T. Rex hit, “Bang a Gong (Get It On)” would continue on their success. Though to be “different,” The Power Station named their version “Get It On (Bang a Gong).”

The unexpected success of Robert Palmer’s Riptide album put the kibosh on The Power Station's plan to tour to support their debut. Palmer, deciding to focus on his own solo career, quit the supergroup, thus leaving The Power Station without a vocalist and a headlining tour due to start within weeks.

So John, Andy, and Tony hired Michael Des Barres (formerly of Silverhead, Chequered Past, and Detective) to replace Palmer for the live shows. Was Des Barres able to fill Palmer’s shoes? You decide.

After the tour, the two Taylors returned to Duran Duran, where Simon, Roger, and Nick were waiting with open arms, fresh from their far less successful stint as Arcadia.

If you know anything about the history of Duran Duran, you know my summary is a bit pat, as neither Roger nor Andy would record new music with the band (outside of the Bond theme, “A View To a Kill”) for many years, but this is outside the scope of an already too long essay.

The Power Station’s original quartet would reunite a decade later, but John Taylor, who was going through both a divorce and drug rehab, left the band in the middle of recording their second (and final) album, Living in Fear. Chic bassist Bernard Edwards filled in for John.

I have to say that I’ve never listened to this one. As it did not chart or produce a single of any renown, I can confidently assume that not many others did either.

You might say The Power Station ran out of juice.

Maybe Duran Duran, still going strong today, is the real Power Station — solar power — a more sustainable energy source.

Or perhaps the band simply followed its prescribed course, illustrated in the lyrics of their biggest hit.

Some like it hot, and some sweat when the heat is on
Some feel the heat and decide that they can't go on
Some like it hot, but you can't tell how hot 'till you try
Some like it hot, so let's turn up the heat 'till we fry

• Does anyone else feel less than thrilled about the summer?

• What other great anti-summer songs are there? “The Other Side of Summer” came to me, but I’m sure there are some others to add to a playlist.

• I invite you summer lovers to leave comments telling me why it is you “like it hot.”

• And FU Coronavirus! You can’t stop me from writing my newsletter! Suck it!