by Wolf Orff
Gary Geistler knew he was probably sane. But who in their right mind would turn out for a poetry gig in Mortlake on a bitter Thursday evening in late January? He’d been promised a third of the door money. He’d be lucky if it stretched to a large glass of Chardonnay. [read more…]
by James Hunt
In one hundred and four days I will be forty years old. Tonight, I am standing in a hall in north London with my arm around someone, pretending to be happy. Meanwhile, across town in Kilburn… is the one I really want to be with, again.
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It is very early on a Sunday morning in June and today promises to be every bit as scorching as yesterday. The street is deserted. Your ears ring, your eyes sting, your mouth tastes like a small bat has curled up and died in it. You’re wearing black leather, PVC, crushed velvet and heavy, oily make-up. You’re going home. [read more…]
by Sean Longden
One night they took me out. Up to Camden: couple of beers, round to visit some bloke from Scritti Politti at his squat, then to Dingwalls to see The Smiths. Walking there, I was amazed to hear the words “Oh – didn’t I mention it? We’re on the guest list.” It was getting better by the minute. I could just see myself back at school telling all this to the handful of people who would actually be impressed. [read more…]
Walking Round You Sometimes Hear The Sunshine Beating Down In Time With The Rhythm Of Your Shoes by Lucy Munro
Wide-eyed and precocious, we come blinking out of the station, trying not to look at the A-Z. It’s noisy, grubby, and there are smells we know we’re too young to recognise. We’ve seen Camden Town in Madness videos: the boys skanking down Kentish Town Road to Holt’s in search of DMs; Chrissy-Boy standing on the traffic island wearing nothing but a tan mac and a cardboard sign. [read more…]
by Mark Sadler
I had been blasted into a low orbit by a potent combination of top-notch E and copious brandy shots which had seemed like a good idea when I began ordering them. Staggering back to the dining room, I took a wrong turn and found myself standing in one of several doorways to the huge kitchen. Lying on the aluminium counter, a few inches from a pair of gently simmering saucepans, was a Kalashnikov assault rifle. [read more…]
by Alice Slater
In the bathroom, I jab more kohl around my eyes, panda my sockets with black glittery powder. The sinks are filled with crumpled plastic cups, sodden tissues, vomit, cigarette stubs, ash. A girl with pink nostrils and armfuls of rubber shag bands asks if she can borrow my eyeliner. I hand it to her and watch her transform her small bloodshot eyes into artwork, thickly lined like Cleopatra. [read more…]
by Jane Woodham
We were a typical twosome: Tracey with her big red hair and matching mouth, and me, the sidekick, the quiet blonde one who encouraged from the sideline. We were mates because we liked the same band; it was all we had in common, but it was enough. [read more…]
The heartbreaking tale of how going to see the 14 Iced Bears one night in 1985 left one woman completely unable to use public toilets for five years. [read more…]
A regular at UFO in 1967 tells us how the legendary Tottenham Court Road venue where Pink Floyd had their first residency was like an elephant with a really long neck, and smelt of purple. [read more…]