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Her mother had never really wanted us to go in the first place, but Helen convinced her that she was worrying needlessly. After all, itâs not as if it was an actual nightclub we were going to, where the debauched minions of Baal and other basement idols would gyrate obscenely around us, apeing our innocence and howling their approval at our terrifying predicament. On the contrary, we were going to the Stipe Records Showcase at the local polytechnic, and we were going to have ourselves a beautiful evening.
Everything was in order, we timed the last bus, and it coincided superbly with the last band finishing their set, allowing for an estimated three-song encore. Although I turned Helen on to the alternative music scene some two years back, she still insisted on wearing a black satin tour jacket with detachable sleeves that sheâd bought at a Dogs dâAmour concert, which she went to with her friend Jackie, who was unstable. I would rib her mercilessly about it. But one night, after Iâd possibly ridden my luck a little too far, she stamped down her foot, which I thought was brilliant, because it reminded me of Talulah Gosh, and said: âListen, if Iâm going to be an indie kid, then Iâll be independent in my choice of clothes, thank you very much.â Wow, what a girl.
And so it was that we set off for the concert, both smelling of that short-lived yet much maligned unisex perfume, Travis, by Cartel (âfor those who like their trade roughâ). By the time we arrived, the hall was already quite full, so I hurried to the bar while Helen went off to find a good vantage point. Eight-fifteen, and with she drinking cider, and me there beside her, the first band came on. âOh noâ, I shrieked, âreal horror showâ. I was going through my Clockwork Orange phase. Surely not? It seemed that every band that was performing were one of those tribute bands, and first up was ELP. H-E-L-P more like. âWelcome back my friends, to the show that never ends. It goes on for at least two hours because weâve got a brand new Moog.â
Iâve died and gone to hell, and then Iâve fallen through a trapdoor and landed on the planet Progrock. And then the applauding Ents Sec introduces the next act. Jeez! (Thatâs journalese) â¦PFM! They didnât really play many songs, just got unnecessarily passionate about the Azzurri and how Rossi was framed, and how his subsequent hat-trick against the Brazilians was a big F-off to the authorities. âFair enoughâ, I thought, âbut perhaps no need for the language.â
After the Identical Cocteau Twins, came the final act, I Canât Believe Itâs Not Focus. Following a commendable stab at Sylvia, Helen shouted to the guitarist: âAre you knackered, man?â To which he replied: âNo, Iâm Jan Akkermanâ.
And so the stark lights of the hall came on, and we filtered out into the night, saying our goodbyes to the gang, who in turn went their separate ways, to waiting Dads in brown Audis, or some to the college minibus, driven by Bob, who didnât go our way. I then suddenly realised that because the Dutch clones only had two songs, the concert had finished a little early, and so we could get the 71, which was a lot quicker and didnât skirt the council estate. It also gave us time to get some chips. The bus approached, and I noticed that it was a double-decker. As we boarded, I immediately felt a little uneasy, as the driver didnât seem to know the required fare for our intended destination. As we made our way to the upper deck front seat, I felt the vehicle swing round to the left, as if to go along Bridge Street. âHe really doesnât know the routeâ, I thought, with increasing alarm. âBetter go downstairs and help him out. Wait a minute. Bridge Street? The overhead railway Bridge Street? Oh my God â HELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLENNNNNNNNNNâ¦â
Ten years on, and here I am on the bus we should have got. And yes, you guessed it, Iâm the driver. Therapy, they call it. And every year, on the anniversary of that night, she floats on board, takes the seat behind me. She doesnât pay of course, but she is keen to make sure we donât go down Bridge Street. She finally alights at the cemetery, and every year I follow until I reach her grave, where as always, thereâs no sign of Helen, but draped over the headstoneâ¦
is a black tour jacket
satin black tour jacket
Helenâs black tour jacket
with detachable sleeves
with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket) with detachable sleeves
(satin black tour jacket)
- Álbum:
- New Perspective
- Urge for Offal
- 90 Bisodol (Crimond)
- Cammell Laird Social Club
- Achtung Bono
- Trouble Over Bridgwater
- Back In The D.H.S.S.
- CSI:Ambleside
- McIntyre, Treadmore And Davitt
- Some Call It Godcore
- Four Lads Who Shook The Wirral
- Voyage To The Bottom Of The Road
- This Leaden Pall
- CSI: AMBLESIDE
- Acd
- Back In The D.H.S.S. / The Trumpton Riots E.P
- Back Again in the D.H.S.S. (Extra Tracks)
- Eno Collaboration E.P.
- The Peel Sessions: 1995-08-05
- The Peel Sessions: 1997-02-02