The last Saturday of April 1972. I’m upstairs in my bedroom with a portable black and white TV, ready for England versus West Germany, live on BBC 1. Mum and Dad are downstairs, watching…

Concert poster courtesy of Steve Crocker. To the best of my admittedly limited knowledge, Miles Davis never ran the voodoo down Fargate, not even in a silent way. John Coltrane never rolled his cool ‘trane…

It’s a pilgrimage. A congregation of eight-hundred, mostly male devotees, packed like pilchards in this clammy West Street basement, are here to see our guitar hero Bill Nelson, Baron Be-Bop Deluxe, Mr. Red Noise.…

Sunday morning. The Free Jazz Express, bound for London Saint Pancras, flams and rolls over the points as it leaves Sheffield Midland Station. I’m on board with band-mate Charlie, Charlie’s pal and fellow…

Lost my virginity and my band. Some weekend. Both events had been foreshadowed for a while, but to have experienced the ecstasy and the agony within twenty-four hours has left me both delighted and disappointed,…

“Killing Joke? It’ll be like United away at Millwall, Adrian Street versus Giant Haystacks, Jesus at Golgotha, we’ll get crucified!” Following DVA’s decent away performance at Bauhaus’ coven in the caverns under…