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Tell us a little
about your background, the music you listened to and your early
heroes.
I was an ordinary working-class kid who grew up in a council house.
The earliest music I remember would have been awful stuff—the Mike
Samms Singers, or the Geoff Love Orchestra on something like “Family
Favourites”, which was probably on the radio on a Sunday afternoon.
I think that might have been so long ago that it would have been on
The Light Programme, back when the BBC had Home, Light and Third,
before Radios One, Two Three and Four were invented in the mid
1960s.
I remember listening to Radio One in the morning, before school. One
thing that made a great impression on me while I was still at
primary school was Georgie Fame’s (or was it Alan Price’s?) “Ballad
of Bonnie and Clyde”, particularly the end, in which the eponymous
duo are ambushed, complete with gun-shot sound effects. I used to
duck down behind the sofa and shoot with my fingers … I think I
aligned myself with the rebellious underdogs, and was shooting back
rather than taking part in the turkey shoot. That record, together
with a trip to Madame Tussauds in Baker Street, where I saw a gas
chamber, which affected me deeply, was probably what made me realise
how immoral state sanctioned execution actually is and, therefore,
how corrupt the state must be.
I must have fiddled with the radio dial quite a bit during the 1970s
because I remember listening to Radio One (on 247m MW), especially
Tom Browne’s Solid Gold Sixty on a Sunday, which was required
listening in the mid nineteen-seventies. I listened to Radio
Luxemburg (208m, I think) when I was in bed or in the bath, because
I knew that Luxemburg had been an important, formative influence on
music and radio, and I was think I must have been hoping to latch on
to something by listening to it and I think I recall at least once
incident when they went off air during a broadcast because they’d
been boarded by Customs and Excise. I listened to Radio London too
(was that 206?)—for the phone in shows, oddly enough; and, right
from when it launched, Capital Radio (194 MW).
The first record I ever bought was a single, “Johnny Reggae” by The
Piglets which, of course, is the irritating Jonathan King. It‘s an
awful record, but my excuse is that I was very young and
disoriented—I’d gone to Battersea with a couple of mates and when we
got there, the fair was closed. It was a hell of a journey from
North London and obviously we had to do something when we got there,
so we went into a record shop and I blew my five bob on that
legendary slab of vinyl!
There was a boy who lived near me who I knew through someone else
and he had some interesting stuff, which included an air pistol, a
glossy Colour Climax magazine, and a New York Doll’s album. I don’t
think I really understood the Dolls then, but I was desperate to get
a Bowie album and I remember going to buy Aladdin Sane when it was
released; unfortunately the shop, Loppy Lugs, had sold out of that
and Ziggy Stardust. I was determined to get something so I ended up
with Hunky Dory. On cassette.
From about 1972-1973 there was something was happening musically and
stylistically. Bowie had just done his Ziggy thing and was making
waves inasmuch as he seemed to be disturbing to parents and he made
a great noise. He also seemed to provide a focus for identification
and there was a group of kids at school that seemed to align
themselves in some way to this emerging phenomenon. If I had to
identify one person, or band or influence from that period it would
have to be Bowie. I’m not sure what kind of influence Bowie had on
me personally, but there was definitely a zeitgeist and Bowie seemed
to personify it and be at the centre of it.
How did you become aware of punk rock and what made you become
drawn to it.
I didn’t get to see Bowie at the Kilburn Gaumont in 1973; instead I
had to wait until the Station to Station tour a few years later, and
he played for a week at what was then The Empire Pool, Wembley. I
suppose the anticipation really built it up, not to mention the
albums released during the intervening period: Diamond Dogs, David
Live, Young Americans. I was listening to other things as well: I
had discovered Iggy and the Stooges and, I think, was the first kid
in my school to get a “real” Stooges album—Fun House—which I must
have picked up in about 1975. It was so heavy, and so different from
the other stuff I was listening to that I was blown away by it. I
was also listening to Lou Reed and, after Transformer, Berlin and
Rock and Roll Animal, worked back to The Velvet Underground. Around
that time I was getting anything I could lay my hands on by Bowie,
Lou Reed, The Velvet Underground or Iggy Pop, By the time Bowie
actually played that series of Wembley dates, I think I’d built up a
very specific musical taste with the aforementioned at the core. All
the peripheral stuff, the soft glam of T. Rex, Mud, Sweet, Roxy
Music, Mott the Hoople, Alice Cooper, etc., didn’t quite cut it.
It was surprising because it was such a huge event, and it went on
for about five days. Because I lived quite close to Wembley—it was
just a bus ride away—I went almost every night and managed to get in
to three or four shows, with a legitimate ticket, a ticket from a
tout, or just jumping the barriers and running into the crowd. Part
of the spectacle was the audience: I remember someone pointing out
John Conteh to me, who was in the crowd milling around outside, and
I think I remember a gangly Bob Geldof being very tall and very
scruffy inside the arena, and there was another bunch of people …
very strange looking people. I remember them because I ran into them
again a couple of months later at The 100 Club in Oxford Street.
All this was happening as my school career was coming to an end.
Bowie played Wembley in May 1976, the summer holidays were just
weeks away and I could leave school, get a job and probably do other
stuff too, although at that stage I didn‘t really know what any of
that other stuff might be.
What was London like at the time music wise
This was before The Roxy or The Music Machine had started up, and I
was young—I’d just left school, so I was just starting to get my
bearings and find out what was going on. I’d seen both Gary Glitter
and The Sweet at The Rainbow, and I’d seen a few bands at The
Roundhouse. I remember The Roundhouse as a strange place … it was
round because it used to be for locomotives to turn around in—they
would literally rotate—so it was an odd circular building. I
remember there would be stoned hippies sitting against the wall, and
the smell of dope in the air. I think I recall little stalls selling
hippy trinkets too and, depending on who was on, there would be
varying amounts of leather-jacketed rocker-types milling around as
well. Whatever band was playing though, the DJ always seemed to be
Andy Dunkley–The Living Juke Box, and there was always a dancing
hippy, known as Jesus, dancing away on his own. There was also The
Roundhouse Downstairs, where they would put on hippy plays and other
strange things that were not for the likes of me. I remember seeing
Eddie and The Hot Rods at The Roundhouse, and I also recall seeing a
band called The 101’ers. The guitarist had a strange Chuck
Berry-like move that he pulled, a kind of backwards shuffle-bouncer;
that was Joe Strummer. It must have been one of The 101’ers last
gigs. I also saw the reformed Spiders From Mars there in 1976,
(well, Bolder and Woodmansey), in what must have been one of their
last gigs before they finally called it a day.
I’m not sure who or what led me to The 100 Club for the so-called
“Punk Rock Festival”—I think this must have been July or August, but
I went with people who I knew from school most of whom, like me, had
just left. There was a buzz going round about a band called The Sex
Pistols that someone had picked up on, and I suppose I just went
along because I was keen to see what the fuss was about. One of our
number was wearing a hat which, I suspect, had been acquired
specially for the
 Bowie concerts a few weeks before (it was a Homberg, just like the hat Bowie had worn in The Man Who Fell To
Earth). There was a queue stretching along Oxford Street from the
door of the club. The club itself was downstairs and it was really
just a large room; the stage was set against one wall and to the
left was the bar. Somehow we all managed to make our way to the
front and position ourselves in front of the stage. I used to like
finding pictures of myself in the audience in all those books that
used to be around with pictures of this gig. Anyway some people came
on and made an awful racket. The bird singing—although there is
probably a better term than “singing” to use—was one of the strange
looking bunch that I’d spotted at the Bowie gigs at Wembley!
Apparently this makeshift performance was the debut appearance of
Siouxsie and the Banshees. There was a fair bit of jostling and the
place was packed solid. It was hot and sweaty too, as pictures of
the sweat-drenched audience crammed in at the front of the stage
will show. I think another band came on after Siouxsie and the
Banshees—maybe the Clash—and then The Sex Pistols came on and did
their thing which was pretty unique. I remember Rotten’s stage
presence was quite striking. I think it was a combination of the way
he hung from the microphone stand and the snarling, shouting vocals.
I’m not sure if I liked it, but it was certainly memorable. Being
packed in at the front, we jumped around as best we could, given the
limitations of space (this is how the pogo started: the only way to
move was to jump up on down on the spot, like a pogo stick). Anyway,
this hat was passed around as we took it in turns to wear it. At
some point, it was grabbed by someone else who wasn’t with us, and
it was grabbed back and re-grabbed and grabbing turned into pushing
and some punches were thrown. I’m not sure if the Pistols had
finished when this was going on, or if they were still playing.
Anyway, the bloke who’d grabbed the hat, or one of his mates, ended
up on the floor against the wall and boots were going in. As a
result, the space around the front of the stage opened up and there
was suddenly a bit more room. We all moved fairly quickly and dashed
out a door—possibly a fire exit—and found ourselves back in the
street. I don’t know if we managed to bring the hat out in one
piece, but that was my introduction to punk rock.
Having to travel through London to get to the Roxy club and of
course get back what was the public’s reaction to you and other
punks?
I don’t really remember any particularly strong reactions. I think I
wore a black leather jacket, over a t-shirt with black jeans and
brothel creepers most of the time, although I do also remember
having this overall—a wrap-around coat type thing—which I put badges
and safety pins on. I don’t think I wore it for very long as it was
a fairly ridiculous garment. The only “bad reaction” I can really
remember was an incident that happened somewhere near The Red Cow in
Hammersmith—a few of us were walking from The Red Cow to the tube
station and were charged by Teds. I think I was kicked or poked in
the back with something; it was a bit unsettling, but I think I’m
over it now.
When did you start to get disillusioned with punk and why?
Hmmm … that’s a tricky one really. It might have been the day I got
home from school in time to see The Sex Pistols, Siouxsie, et al, on
The Today Programme with Bill Grundy. You wouldn’t believe the
language. It was a disgrace. I threw the telly out of the window…
Seriously though, I think the “official” decline was supposed to
have been when The Clash signed with CBS. Perhaps the
disillusionment came as part of the whole Sid and Nancy debacle, as
it played out on television news reports. I remember noticing a
change in the atmosphere when The Roxy changed hands. I also
remember a little place that opened up for a while—a tiny place, in
an alley between Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. I’ve no
idea what it was called, or even if it was called anything at all!
It was close to a tiny record shop—more of a doorway, really—that I
was surprised to find Shane McGowan working in. Anyway, I remember
sitting in this tiny club, on the floor, in the early hours of the
morning, with a bunch of strangers, people I didn’t know, listening
to crap music. It was an unpleasant atmosphere and I think I
realised then that it was over ... that the moment had passed.
Another moment was at a club in Camden—I don’t remember where—and I
can’t really remember who was on the bill, but I do remember the
atmosphere. It was terrible; like an eruption waiting to happen. The
skinhead revival thing had started by this time, and there were
outbreaks of violence when bands like Bad Manners played.
| Deborah
Harry: We also did an interview with Sniffin Glue, which
was the big underground mimeograph mag of its day, and
that's when we first met Eddie Dugan. He was a little kid
who was very polite and pleasant. We thought he was going to
be rude but it turned out the professional journalists wee
the ones who came in and snarled, "You're punks, aren't
you?" Eddie came in and said, "Ooh, look, it's you."
Making Tracks: The
Rise Of Blondie
>>> Right Eddie & friend by
Chris Stein |
 |
I'm trying not to seethe with
jealousy - Ed with Deborah Harry. Photo - Eddie Duggan
The
heyday for me was the period between 1977-1979 or so, when there was
always something going on at The Roxy, or in Camden Town at
Dingwalls or The Music Machine, or, in Wardour Street at The Marquee
or The Vortex. As well as the bands, there was the never-ending
social whirl of hanging out—the joyous life of the flaneur: to see
and to be seen. I was taking pictures of bands, some of which I got
into The NME, Record Mirror, or Sounds, as well as blagging and
ligging, copping free albums and beers whenever I could, along with
anything else that seemed like it might be fun too.
I remember getting invited to a photo-shoot for the cover of a
compilation album. I can’t really remember what it was called
now—probably something imaginative like The Punk Rock Album—but I do
recall that it had a red cover. During the shoot a bunch of us had
been asked to get on a wall and, while I was posing at the front,
some shoving started at the back which resulted in me falling off
the wall and hitting my head on the concrete path several feet
below.
I remember going to hospital that afternoon and having a sore
head. I also remember I was at a gig later that night; I can’t
recall who I saw though, so perhaps the bump had some effect after
all. My picture was one of the ones on the back; I was clad in black
and I might have had a chain hanging from one of the belt loops on
my jeans as well.
Above: the New Wave album that
featured a number of punks and punkettes on the back. Right: Our Ed
in pose pre hospitalisation.
The Roxy
 How important was The Roxy to punk ie the bands the audience?
I think it was incredibly important, especially in the early days:
the scouse-pop scene in the early sixties has The Cavern, jazz had
Ronnie Scott’s, the renaissance in popular music that started in
London in the mid-1970s will always be associated with The Roxy.
When did you first become aware of The Roxy?
I’m not really sure. For some reason, my memory of those years is a
little patchy (it must have been that bang on the head). I saw—or
rather heard—lots of bands there that became established names on
the scene: Buzzcocks, Chelsea, Eater, Generation X, The Models,
Slaughter and the Dogs, X-Ray Spex, By the time the so called
“American Invasion” happened—the package that brought over Cherry
Vanilla, Wayne County, and some of the other bands on the New York
scene, The Roxy was well established as a venue and had been the
focus of the London scene for some months.
Cherry Vanilla
at the Roxy with some unknown bassist.
Photos - Eddie Duggan
The club has kinda grown to mythological proportions. I don’t
think it gets the recognition it deserves. When you run through the
list of bands that played there it basically is a dictionary of punk
and new wave Do you think it deserves its reputation?
Absolutely. There wasn’t really a single venue like it before it
opened, and after it closed, changed hands, went into decline, or
whatever it was that happened, The Vortex opened at the Oxford
Street end of Wardour Street—that was a great club too—and The Music
Machine and Dingwalls in Camden Town had also become venues of note,
but while they might have been better venues, The Roxy is the
spiritual home and the most significant.
Who were the faces on the scene apart from the usual suspects?
Well, there were certainly plenty of familiar faces, people that
would always be around. There was usually a bunch of birds from
Bristol, with stencilled shirts, the old stockings-without-skirts
look, and lots of eye make-up; there was also a strange woman who
was always on her own that I used to erm, chat with, sometimes, whom
I used to refer to as “Bianca Jagger” although I suppose on both
legal and moral grounds, I should point out that I only referred to
this woman as “Bianca Jagger” with very prominent inverted commas,
and that she was not and nor do I mean to imply that she was ever in
any way “Bianca Jagger” without inverted commas. Sometimes people
would gesture across the small crowded upstairs room to point out
Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons, but I despised both of them long
before it became trendy to do so; even now I toy with the idea that
in response to some of Parsons’ assertions on The Late Show Tom
Paulin or Germaine Greer might lay into him, a la Sid Vicious who,
by all accounts was a tosser of such magnitude, he could hardly find
his way into a paper bag, much less punch his way out of one, but he
beat up Tony Parsons though. While there’s no great prospect that my
particular Late Show fantasy will ever be realised, I can at least
take comfort in the fact that that irritating Burchill woman no
longer sullies my Saturday Guardian.
There was a clear divide between the originators of the punk
movement and the followers. Was the Roxy very cliquey? You read of
Burchill and Parsons sitting upstairs on their own or Siouxsie
ignoring The Damned?
I suppose it was kind of cliquey, but I think there were cliques
within cliques. I was never really close enough to any inner
circles. I’m still mildly narked that, despite several phone calls
to Glitterbest, which was Malcom McLaren’s set-up in Dryden
Chambers, the miserable bastards wouldn’t tell me what was happening
with the boat-trip, so I ended up missing it because, although I
knew something was happening, I didn’t know where. This after I went
around Oxford Street at Malcolm’s behest, posting “God Save The
Queen” fliers on anything they’s stick to. As far as the Roxy goes,
some bands were more hip than other (the term then was “cred”, which
one either “had” or “lacked”). The Clash had it. Siouxsie and the
Banshees had it, or were perceived to have it, while The Damned
didn’t, nor did The Vibrators, nor The Stranglers.
Can you describe a typical night there, the atmosphere, bands
and audience?
The night would probably start with the walk from Covent Garden
tube, as there’d usually be someone else heading toward The Roxy.
Neal Street is quite different these days to what it was like in the
first half of 1977. Now, it’s vibrant and bustling, all bright and
crowded; full of restaurants and coffee bars and gift shops full of
overpriced tat for tourists. Then, it wasn’t much more than a
poorly-lit alley. I think there may have been a pub on the right, at
the end nearest the station, The Roxy was about half way up on the
left and, besides a few bags of rubbish, there wasn’t much else—not
open at eight or nine in the evening, anyway—until you came out at
the Shaftesbury Avenue end.
Getting past the door would require having one’s name on the
guest-list, simply slipping in if it was crowded enough at the
doorway to get past the little kiosk-window or, alternatively,
handing over some money. However one got in, the atmosphere inside
was usually one of upbeat anticipation. People would be milling
about upstairs—perhaps some foreign journalists would be snapping
portraits of the more spectacularly dressed clubbers—and a stream of
bodies would be travelling in both directions up and down the narrow
staircase. On the lower level was the larger room where bands played
on a makeshift stage (beer crates and boards) there was a DJ booth
to one side, and a small bar in front of the tiny dressing room to
the other, which were separated from the stage by the path of the
human traffic spilling in from the stairs.
The mighty
Adverts - Gaye, Tim, Howard and Laurie. Photos - Eddie Duggan
There were always familiar faces in the audience—people you’d
recognise from the audience at other gigs, either at The Roxy or
from other venues, or people from bands. There’d be a smattering of
outsiders as well—“straights” just in for a look, or A&R people from
record companies. The notable thing about the Roxy crowd though was
that it was quite democratic—there was no VIP area or any of the
bollocks that goes on in clubs these days, with differential queues
or special bars or areas.
When a band was due to play, they’d come out from the dressing room
behind the bar, walk the six-foot or so distance to the stage
(across the traffic flow to and from the stairs) step up onto the
beer-crate stage, count to four and they were off. The audience were
inches away from the band and, if there was a lurch in the crowd—and
often there was—the people at the front would end up rolling around
on the stage, bumping into band members. Sometimes pogo-ers would
get a bit enthusiastic, perhaps shaking each other or slamming into
each other as they bounced around. I’d try to stay out of the way of
the jostling, and try to concentrate on watching the band, taking
pictures, drinking, smoking, or doing all of them at the same time.
An audience at The Roxy would often comprise of members of
current and future bands. Do you think this contributed to its
appeal?
Absolutely. If it didn’t seem to do so at the time, but it certainly
did by the time people were going to The Vortex and The Music
Machine.
What nights stood out for you and why?
Well, there was one night when I was a little the worse for wear
(perhaps I had inadvertently mixed my drinks) and I think I may have
tried to set fire to Wayne County while he was playing. After the
set, we engaged in a slanging match in the dressing room. If I
didn’t apologise for the attempted arson at the time, I hope I did
subsequently. Another night I somehow ended up working behind the
bar. I’ve no idea how this situation came about but, while I was
handing over cans of beer, I did put some money in the till, even if
I was handing out plenty of freebies to people I knew. As far as
performances go, I remember The Police used to play two sets a
night. Back then they were Sting, Stuart and Henri. They’d play as
The Police and then Sting and Stu would come back and play a second
set with Cherry Vanilla. I think I also remember the Heartbreakers
playing there too, possibly as part of the same themed “American
Invasion” when several bands from the New York scene came over. I
used to have the Roxy handbills, along with old copies of Sniffin’
Glue, but they’ve long since gone the way of old bits of paper that
have probably been kept, but have somehow managed to disappear.
Despite being
set on fire Wayne lived to be man enough to be a woman! Photos -
Eddie Duggan
Any bands that stood out there that should have made it but
didn’t
Probably not. In fact, the question might be recast as “was there
anyone who made it who shouldn’t’ve?” I reckon if we could turn back
the clock and revisit a few nights back in early 1977, we might be
surprised at how crap it all was at the time. There was plenty of
energy, and everyone was young and angry and had nothing left to
lose, but it might not have been that good really. There; that’s my
shocking statement. how about that for outrageousness?
The Roxy closed and the reopened? Any noticeable difference in
atmosphere?
Yes. A marked difference. When Andy Czezowski ran The Roxy it had a
great atmosphere, but when it changed hands things really changed. I
remember one night there were bottles being thrown in the street
outside; I think I blagged a lift most of the way home from someone
in Eater, (or from their mum!) that night, but it wasn’t pleasant.
Fortunately, however, The Vortex opened up soon after (I’m not sure
now, but it may even have called itself “The New Roxy” for a couple
of weeks), which was a good venue, but I think an episode had
certainly closed. I’m not sure why—I think the answer to that lays
in inner cliques and business arrangements, and who knows what else.
But when the club changed hands, that was the end. It may have been
something as simple as bookings and band loyalties, or there may
have been other factors at work. There were rumours too, toward the
end of the life of the original Roxy, about how things were about to
change for the worse, but I can’t recall any details now.
How important were drugs to punk rock?
Drugs? Do you mean illicit substances? I think it was only the
boring old hippies who made The Roundhouse smell funny that were
interested in such things. Actually, to be serious, little blue
pills were very popular back then, and I was told that three could
usually be secured for a pound from someone in a dark corner of a
club. Apparently, a powdered form of the active ingredient in the
blue pills was also popular, and was widely used by some people
around that time too. Quite a few smelly roll-ups were smoked as
well, and not just by the cheesecloth-shirt-sandals-and-a-beard
brigade. I think I remember reading somewhere that a piece of
toffee-like substance, allegedly weighing an eighth of an ounce, but
invariably a bit less, was about seven quid back then. Obviously,
the yellow peril and yuppie snuff were around, but the prevalence
and cheapness that would characterise these two particular
substances in the following decade hadn’t made them as widely
available or as affordable in the fag-end of the seventies as hash
and speed.
Forget drugs. Give me food! Photo - Eddie Duggan
However, it may have been the American scene that really ran on
drugs. The Ramones advocated the use of dry-cleaning fluid for uses
other than removing stains from clothing in “Carbona Not Glue” and
they also sang “Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue”. Meanwhile, Johnny
Thunders, Dee Dee Ramone and Richard Hell were co-credited for
“Chinese Rocks” while Lou Reed had famously serenaded the effects of
the drug in “Heroin”.
British bands, on the other hand, sang about more mundane things:
The Sex Pistols wrote about “Holidays in the Sun”; The Boomtown Rats
were moved enough by a casual glance to record “Someone’s Looking At
You”; Siouxsie and the Banshees were more interested in a Chinese
takeaway than in Chinese rocks, as demonstrated by “Hong Kong
Garden”; The Jam, inspired by a trip into town, penned “In The
City”, while Elvis Costello reported, albeit parenthetically, that
he didn’t want to go to Chelsea.
Drugs then, I would suggest, were entirely irrelevant to the British
music scene, and had been ever since The Beatles decided that they
had had enough of hallucinogenics and the old wacky baccy, and
declared that they would stick to tea but might indulge in the odd
glass of sherry with a bit of shortbread so long as it was after six
o’clock, but still before seven so as to avoid “a head” the
following morning.
The Live at the Roxy album? Was it a fair representation of a
night down at the club? What did you think of The farewell to The
Roxy album or had you moved on by then ?
I’m not sure that it is representative, really. As the saying goes,
I think that one would have had to have been there. To be honest,
it’s not something that I play, although I have just pulled it off
the shelf to have a look. On the back cover, in the top left-hand
corner is a shot of the dressing room, in which somebody in leather
trousers (Siouxsie?) is bending over. My initials, ED, scratched
into the wall, are clearly visible on the right of the picture.
Another thing I don’t play, that dates from around the same time is
the Max’s Kansas City compilation. I do have a much more playable
collection from that era in the form of the Live Stiffs album. But
when the thirtieth anniversary special edition remixed compact discs
with bonus material and colour booklets of these things are
released, I don’t think I’ll be queuing up at the counter of the
local record shop with the reissues in my hand. I’ll wait until
they’re remaindered.
Roxy graffiti -
bottom right is Ed's
How did outside events ( Sex Pistols negative publicity)
effect The Roxy ? I mean as punk got more publicity did the
atmosphere change? Tourists? Violence?
As I mentioned earlier, sometimes there were a couple of “outsiders”
who’d come in for a look around, but I don’t remember that happening
particularly often. The only real outbreak of violence that I
remember is the bottle-chucking incident that I referred to back in
question ten, although having said that, there may have been
incidents I didn’t see or that I just don’t recall. There were some
hairy moments around the Kings Road though, and of course Paul Cook
and Johnny Rotten were attacked, and Rotten was stabbed as a result
of the media hype after “God Save The Queen” was released.
What were some of the worst bands you saw there and why?
Oh, there were some crap bands. Perhaps it was the acoustics on
certain nights, or perhaps it was musicianship, or perhaps the songs
just weren’t catchy enough. Rather than rattle off names though, I
think I’d prefer to say that the quality was variable.
Any moments from attending the Roxy that stand out among
others as after dinner anecdotes ?
Well the night I “worked” as a bar steward was one, although I think
I’d need to get the details from others with clearer memories of
quite what a bar steward I was, and the incident with a lighter was
another, but there was also the time, just after the club had
changed hands, that I turned up at the door with a mate and I was
asked if I was the new disc jockey! Obviously, the answer was yes,
so we swanned in, sans vinyl, down the stairs and into the booth. I
can’t remember if we had actually worked out how to switch on
everything and had started playing records, or if we were still
flicking switches and tapping the stylus when the real disc jockey
arrived. As I recall, his name was Mick and he was from Gants Hill.
I can’t remember how the evening ended, but it must have been fairly
amicable, as we met up again some time later and I even lent him a
copy of Metallic KO, on Skydog, with a grey cover. I remember
because I never got it back. I never got my Bowie bootlegs back from
Wayne Barrett either, who “borrowed” them while we were round at The
Cuddly Toys’ house in Hendon, and took them off to Manchester, but
that’s another story.
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