This was the last track we mixed in the hours just before dawn. First light was starting to illuminate the low, wispy mist that had settled on the fields beyond the windows of the control room. All hands on the faders, following Ken’s guidance, working together as a team.…

Sunday afternoon, a car crash, at the junction of Belgrave Road and Warwick Gardens. There are shouts, a crumpled thud as traffic island halts Ford, and a loud smack as I head-butt the windscreen.…

Sunday lunch-time. George Quail, sixty-five year-old, recently retired steel mill worker, is poring over an existential essay written by Genesis P-Orridge, thirty year-old musician, artist and disruptor-in-chief with…

“I’m So Hollow?” “Here”. “They Must Be Russians?” “Present”. “Vendino Pact?” “Yes, Miss”. A warm summer evening, and its registration time for Sheffield bands at the Lower Refectory on Western Bank. Vice Versa, DVA,…