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Sign up to our free weekly newsletter for exclusive competitions, offers and theatre ticket deals. I would like to be emailed about offers, event and updates from Evening Standard. Read our privacy notice. In the Eighties they were the biggest-selling band in the UK and America - but an explosive new book by Duran Duran's Andy Taylor reveals the terrible toll success took on the group. In the second part of our exclusive serialisation he recalls a wild encounter with Keith Richards My private suite, with its walls of padded silk, is at the top of the exclusive Plaza Athenee Hotel in Paris. I am in a deep sleep but about to be rudely awakened with some very bad news. One of Duran Duran's personal assistants is hammering on my door. There's been a story published in London. You need to read it. I grab a bathrobe and open the door. I'm passed a tabloid newspaper and feel a sick twinge in my stomach as I read the headline: 'Coke crazy Duran Duran. As I read the story, and look at the pictures, I feel a mixture of disbelief and dread. My mind is racing. This time, I tell myself, we're in real trouble. And we were. This was a scandal that would affect everyone close to us and change the public's perception of Duran Duran for ever. The paper had photographs of my band-mates Simon Le Bon, John Taylor, Nick Rhodes and me on the front page, and it didn't mince its words. Andy Taylor laid out huge lines of coke on the kitchen sink unit. They are hooked on the stuff, says ex-minder. They need it to perform, they need it to have a good time, they need it to cope with the pressures of stardom. Inside, across the centre pages, next to another big photograph of us, was the piece de resistance, a lurid account of our drug use headlined: 'I saw Duran Duran go crazy on coke. I cast my mind back to that cold Christmas four years before, when I'd snorted cocaine for the first time in a camper van outside the club. Al's bouncers had watched me go out to buy drugs that night. Al knew everything, and I mean everything. It was the first real act of public betrayal that we'd encountered as a band. Beard made allegations about all of us except Roger Taylor, our drummer, who the paper was careful to point out did not take drugs. But I was singled out as the worst offender. I was staggered. John Taylor and I had not tried to hide our drug use from our inner circle, but until now it had remained a secret from the wider world. Our record label had promoted us as the squeaky-clean darlings of the teenage pop world, who wouldn't even take an aspirin. It was about to become open season on us in the media, and the publicity had the potential to be hugely damaging. But what really scared me was that I knew the Press would approach our families. Our staff had woken me because they realised my dad, back home in England, would have seen the story before me. I'd always been very close to Dad after my mother walked out on us when my brother and I were little kids. I knew how hard this would hit him. When I get nervous I often want to eat, so the first thing I did was order some food. They served the most amazing scrambled eggs at the Plaza Athenee, really creamy and perfect. Of course, when they arrived I was too agitated to swallow more than a mouthful. I managed to pull myself together enough to call Dad. How are you? I knew he walked to the newsagent's in Cullercoats, the little fishing village where I was brought up in the North-East of England, every day. He often said he encountered different attitudes depending on what was happening to me in the news. Just as long as you're all reet, yah know? It was typical Dad; pretending everything was OK when he was hurting like hell inside because he wanted to protect me. He wouldn't tell me how he really felt, but I found out later that he was petrified. He didn't understand why we took coke and he was terrified of what we were doing to ourselves. When the reporters came calling, he hated it and slammed the door on them, disgusted and fearful of what the neighbours might think. It must have been just as soul-destroying for the other lads' parents. From this point onwards the association with cocaine never left us. It was a stain our families had no control over - and none of them had ever said or done anything to deserve it. I was ashamed. The headline read: 'Here are the girls you ordered, said posh porter. According to the article, he had regularly arranged for girls to be delivered to us in hotels via room service. Again he singled me out as the chief culprit. I remember driving around Birmingham with him once when we spotted a beautiful blonde on the pavement. She was a model. Within minutes of climbing into the back of the car with Andy she had all her clothes off. I couldn't recall that, and lots of the other detail was based on half-truths from long ago. But Al was right about the drug culture during our early days in Birmingham. There were often copious amounts of cocaine at the Rum Runner for those who wanted to find it. There were two big stainless-steel sinks in the kitchen, which is where lines of drugs would be secretly chopped up. In the early Eighties, drugs were beginning to permeate society on a previously unseen scale. It was a period of immense change: Thatcherism, corporate branding and the birth of yuppie culture all came along in one big wave. Cocaine arrived on the scene along with that wave of wealth, and by the streets were covered with the stuff. There was a naive acceptance in certain circles that it was OK because it was a young, 'safe' drug. Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm not going to be a hypocrite and start moralising about drugs, but there's no doubt that as a society we are still paying the price today for the cocaine explosion of the Eighties. We're never going to solve the problem until we accept a brutal fact: people take drugs because it makes them feel good. It's a form of self-medication, and by John Taylor and I were self-medicating in a major way. When you first start using them, the drugs work. Besides seeming to fill you with confidence, there's a time when cocaine overcomes tiredness and gives you energy to help you through the day. I didn't take it every day to begin with, but I'd have the odd line in the recording studio during the late afternoon and early evening. And let's face it, being in a studio is not like operating a chainsaw, so you can get away with it. I'd even taken speed on the day we'd shot the video for our single Girls On Film, and my drug use slowly became more regular. I don't think half the band knew, but when we recorded the Rio album my drug use accelerated. Our record company, EMI, expected us to get up early in the morning after a heavy night to do promotional work, which you can manage for a few years even when you're caning it. But eventually the drugs stop helping - in fact, the effects go into reverse. Suddenly they make you ill and irrational. Your temper starts to fray and you become unpredictable. When our drug problems were exposed, it had an immediate effect. The police pulled in our road crew and questioned all our top boys. They didn't touch the band because we were out of the country a lot, but from now on every time we returned to the UK we would be turned over by Customs. Simon Le Bon and I had suffered a taste of this even before the scandal broke, when we'd been stripsearched at Heathrow a few weeks earlier. That was all because we'd forgotten to declare a guitar we'd been given during our tour of the States. Maybe the Customs men thought one of us had its amplifier hidden up our backside. It was a horrible experience. I was made to strip naked and bend over, although thankfully they spared me a full internal search. In Birmingham, the Rum Runner club also became a target. The police obviously wanted to close it down. Eventually they found some coke hidden behind a brick in a wall at the club. An associate of the band, who'd been on the road with us, was arrested and made the fall guy. Meanwhile, the building had a compulsory purchase order served on it. It was bulldozed to the ground and a Hyatt hotel built on the site. Not surprisingly, the project didn't make us much cash. Nor did it stop us from being self-destructive. Virtually every major politician or senior dignitary stayed there, including the Reagans. Our suites were enormous and whenever we decided to change them we would leave a little surprise for the next guest. I uncurled one of the suite's posh toilet rolls, drew a giant pair of breasts on it and scrawled a rude message before carefully rolling it up again, aware that the next guest to read it would probably be a head of state. The other thing we would do was dismantle the toilet cistern so it no longer flushed. We laughed hysterically at the idea of a world leader having to ask maintenance to come and assist them in what would be undignified circumstances. I'm afraid it is rather noisy and there is an aroma that's disturbing the other guests. He was referring to the pungent smell of marijuana that would often seep out from our suites. We hadn't given up our bad habits and had a man who would come to visit us with a toolbox filled with every pill or substance you could imagine. Our presence in New York attracted a lot of attention and at one point a camera crew turned up with a woman and a baby, claiming the child was John's. Her story was soon proved to be false. A similar thing happened to me not long afterwards, when I received a phone call telling me that an under-age girl had alleged that I'd taken her back to my suite. Fortunately the hotel logs and my travel records proved she was lying. We always knew that the Power Station project had the potential to disrupt Duran Duran, and when John and I told Simon and Nick about it they'd been a bit prickly. They then responded by doing an album together called So Red The Rose, and formed a band called Arcadia. Two camps had now emerged and tensions were rising. Not long afterwards, John got talking at a party to Cubby Broccoli, who produced the James Bond films. John asked him. It was a brash question - John was probably coked up to his eyeballs - but they got talking and the next day we were told that Duran Duran would be doing the title track for the next Bond movie, A View To A Kill. The video for the song was shot on the Eiffel Tower. My intention was to go alone, but on the night a little posse of us went along, including John Taylor. Then Ronnie's fellow Stone Keith Richards turned up - in a foul mood. Well, get it out then,' he snarled. I'm going to have to give him a line and I'll make it a right big one, I thought. Keith, it's all right,' intervened Ronnie. I chopped out a line of cocaine for Keith and it seemed to pacify him. I'd known what to expect because he'd been obnoxious to Simon when we'd all met previously, and had felt so bad about it afterwards that he wrote Simon an apology. The Stones' studio was perfect, from the well-stocked bar to the instrument cages that contained all their beautiful old guitars. Bassist Bill Wyman wasn't there, but they just swopped instruments around and all got on with each other. I just wanted to sit in the corner and enjoy it, but John was all over the place, swaying around and going 'woo. He was making a total spectacle of himself. I don't know if one of the Stones said something to upset him but he then got very emotional and ended up crying his eyes out on the shoulder of Jo Wood, Ronnie's wife. Jo was used to dealing with mad rock stars, but I was mortified. Back at the Plaza Athenee, there was bedlam. Nick's wife Julie Anne had locked him out of their suite and was screaming at the top of her voice out on the balcony. People thought she was going to fall off. The fire brigade were called and the whole thing descended into a farce, with Nick charging up and down the corridors, until they managed to calm Julie Anne down. I felt embarrassed at the memory of John staggering around at the Stones session, and exhausted by the nastiness of the commotion at the hotel. The booze, the drugs and the carnage that surrounded my life in Duran Duran were all too much. I knew I was heading for a nervous breakdown if I didn't change my lifestyle. That's when I made up my mind that I'd just do the Bond video and get the hell out of there. I put on my dark sunglasses and went to the shoot. Then I left the Plaza Athenee and I've never been back since. Looking back, I can see that Duran Duran had already split up months ago. We just didn't know it. Create a FREE account to continue reading. Join our community where you can: comment on stories; sign up to newsletters; enter competitions and access content on our app. Must be at least 6 characters, include an upper and lower case character and a number. Already have an account? By clicking Create Account you confirm that your data has been entered correctly and you have read and agree to our Terms of use , Cookie policy and Privacy policy. Please refresh the page or navigate to another page on the site to be automatically logged in. Sign up to our free weekly newsletter for exclusive competitions, offers and theatre ticket deals Sign up. Back together again: The band in I would like to be emailed about offers, events and updates from Evening Standard. Thank you for registering Please refresh the page or navigate to another page on the site to be automatically logged in. Neo Glam.

'How cocaine destroyed our dream,' by Duran Duran's Andy Taylor

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