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.…

After band practice we adjourn for a few pints in The Beehive. Charlie is on flying form: "We're gonna be called The Box", he declares, his moustache flecked with creamy Guinness…

I hop off the London train at Midland station, say farewell to Charlie, and head home to Mum and Dad’s house at Sheffield Lane Top. I give them a brief summary of the weekend:…

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…