Nowhere Girl

When I Thought I was British

There’s no denying I live for that chapter of my life shaped by synth-pop and the British bands that defined it. Let’s be honest—the early ’80s were my heyday. I think everyone has one.

I have fond memories of the ’70s (minus middle school and high school). I escaped my childhood, fled to the West Coast in 1976, found the beginnings of independence in Arizona, and spent a summer of both nothing and everything in Ocean Beach, San Diego, in 1979. But the real adventure began in June of 1980, when I moved to Los Angeles.

Originally released in November 1980, B-Movie’s “Nowhere Girl” was described as a tale of alienation. It resurfaced in 1982 as a moderate hit in Europe, then again in 1985 with broader chart success. In the United States, it remained more of a cult new wave track—played in underground clubs and on stations like KROQ (“ROQ of the ’80s”) in Los Angeles. This was the era when clubs like Revolver were opening, blending mainstream hits with the rising tide of synth-pop and the second British invasion.

For anyone who knew me in the early ’80s, it was my Anglophile phase. I was moving out of my TGI Fridays years—fueled by cocaine and vodka before, during, and after work—and into nightlife. I landed a job at Revolver as a VJ with absolutely no experience. Running a booth with 8–10 VHS decks required precision, but somehow I picked it up quickly. I found myself working alongside a group of guys who became co-conspirators in a kind of unregulated stardom.

I had done some DJing in the late ’70s (and would again later in the ’80s with modest success), but early in the decade, being a VJ had its own kind of prestige. MTV had just launched in 1981, and video was taking over. I was all in. I loved being in that booth—watching the crowd without being seen. Today, DJs and VJs are front and center. Back then, there was anonymity. Given the constant party I was living in, that anonymity probably worked in my favor.

This was my small brush with stardom. I had come to Los Angeles to be an actor. I wanted to win an Academy Award—that was the dream. But I didn’t arrive in any condition to pursue something that required discipline and presence. Auditions were brutal. I was either high or coming down, never fully there. It’s easy to blame the drugs and alcohol—and they played a part—but so did a kind of Peter Pan syndrome. I didn’t want responsibility. I didn’t want daytime. I wanted to play. So I followed the pull of nightlife, music, and clubs—and answered it completely.

Music has always been my refuge. From my earliest memories in the 1960s, it has been the thing that regulated me, relaxed me, and brought me back into my body. My best look has always been headphones on, disappearing into sound—detached from whatever the world was throwing at me. In the clubs, I didn’t need a partner. I could spend entire nights and early mornings alone on the dance floor, drifting through a world of my own, each song carrying me somewhere new.

Nowhere was this more alive than in the early ’80s, with the explosion of British bands and the rise of new wave and synth-pop. Even now, those sounds transport me. They take me back to a time when I sometimes feel I was better suited. That’s not to diminish the beauty and growth that came later—I’ve thrived without drugs and alcohol—but I haven’t forgotten the feeling of dancing with just the right buzz, completely immersed.

“Nowhere Girl” is an ethereal piece of synth-pop. It was never a massive hit, and many people today might not recognize it the way they would more mainstream songs (yes, we’re looking at you, Starbucks and Trader Joe’s). But for me, it represents peace and happiness. It still makes me feel safe and warm, just as it did back then. It’s a slice of my Anglophile dream—the years when I might have even convinced myself I was British.

And more than anything, it reminds me of how much fun it all was.

Nowhere girl, you’re living in a dream

Nowhere girl, you stay behind the scenes

Nowhere girl, you never go outside

Nowhere girl, ‘cause you prefer to hide

Every day, every night

In that old familiar light

You hung up when I called you at home

And I try to get through

And I try to talk to you

But there’s something stopping me

From getting through