“Wilma, what’s this song called?” “Spanish Stroll.” “So why are you singing it in French?” “I don’t understand what he’s saying in Spanish, summat about rose eater, take care oh.” “What are…

9 Across. Frank Zappa’s got one (10). Above my head, ten thousand tiny mice tap-dance on the tin roof. It’s raining again. I’m in a four-berth caravan, hunched over the NME, trying…

There are two yellow balls in the sky. The first one is the sun, eternal, implacable, blazing down on this gorgeous July afternoon. The second sphere is small, soft and scuffed, earthbound on a parabolic…

Timbo’s Dad was a cop. Plain clothes, CID. Through his connections on Sheffield’s night-life scene he engineered a gig for our band, The Sounds, at a salubrious spot called Baileys, just a collar-feel…

In November 1974, I presented my sister-in-law, Susan with a short list of albums from which to select my Christmas present. This list comprised: 1. Paul McCartney & Wings – “Red Rose Speedway” (Apple) 2. Eno…

We are divided into tribes, cultural camps divided by hair length or flare width. Modelling a baggy mohair jumper, a neat Motown logo, or the wrong type of footwear can open up a sartorial chasm.…