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…

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,…