GIG 0022: Alien Sex Fiend @ Manchester International

Myself and Wayne have so far sold nearly a hundred copies of Crud at 25p a throw, and got reviewed in the local paper (North Wales Weekly News) and on BBC Radio Lancashire’s ‘On the Wire’ programme where the reviewer Fenny, described it as ‘a little pearly.’

Wayne, Edi, Myself and Uncle Bowler got on the train went to see Alien Sex Fiend play a Valentine Day gig at The International in Manchester this evening after being convinced by Dae Goth that it would be a worthwhile trip.

It certainly was because I sold all the remaining issues of Crud at the gig and met Jill The Ripper who became a great mate and a great help with the making of Crud 2.

The gig itself was quite an experience, the support act was a solo rapper whose name I have long forgotten. He was awful, coming out with rubbish like, “I’m a sex machine.” Being punk rockers from Wales and let off the leash we stood right at the front and showed him our displeasure at having to be aurally tortured in such a way. The punk way to show gratitude or disgust to a band is the same in both cases; we gob at them! And we gobbed at this rapper and made all the various gestures that go with it. I was so pissed off listening to this rubbish that I climbed over the barrier onto the stage and walked past the rapper and towards the back. I was soon accosted by a bouncer and guided back from whence I came. The Crud Crew, as we became known, soon got known around the punk/goth circles in Manchester and it wasn’t too long after this gig that a rumour was being spread around about me being a racist. I eventually tracked down the source of this to an alternative clothes shop and confronted him, his name was Seb, a goth who said he was half Pakistani. He told me that I was spitting and swearing at a black rapper during a gig. I told him that was correct, but why does that make me a racist? Because he was black, came the reply. Now hold on a minute! My actions were justified by the fact that this was a rapper spurting his bullshit at a punk concert, it didn’t make a jot of difference whether he was black, white, pink or blue, he would have got the same treatment. In fact, I would have been a racist if I declined to gob and swear at him on account of his colour. Racism is for narrow minded bigots and school playgrounds where the kids don’t know any better.

Seb agreed and apologised to me and his gothic clothes shop became a regular stockist of the forthcoming issues of Crud.

Alien Sex Fiend were incredible - Nik Fiend most definitely being a larger than death character - he slid on stage with his appalling makeup and donned in a skeleton apron! They had a cool guitarist and Nik's beautiful wife, Mrs Fiend on keyboards. It was a pivotal performance for me, one that sticks in the mind and right up there among my favourites.

After the gig we had a 6½ hour wait for the train the following morning, Bowler tried to set fire to a pile of bin sacks in the road for a laugh when a police van screeched to a halt & a load of pigs jumped out & started pushing us around. One of them grabbed Bowler took his lighter off him & tried to set fire to his scarf while he was wearing it! The pigs jumped back in their van & sped off to mash some other punks.

We stopped at a chippy and a girl overheard our prospect of freezing on a platform all night and offered to put the four of us up for the night! The offer was very kind but we declined on the grounds that any one female willing to accommodate a group of marauding punks she didn’t know must be mentally insane and probably planned to chop us up in our sleep! We found the station & found a mobile temporary-waiting room full of down & outs keeping warm on this freezing night & we tried to get some sleep.

GIG 0021: That Voodoo at Speakeasy, Llandudno

 

High on last night's successful Anhrefn gig in Colwyn Bay, we got the bus to Llandudno to The Speakeasy to watch That Voodoo play, being pretty impressed with them last month in Rhyl. 

With alternative gigs / bands few and far between in the area we have to make the most of what’s given to us. The band set up in the corner on the dancefloor next to the DJ booth, they had a lot of local friends and family there to support, although I felt a bit more detached from the performance this time.

The Speakeasy was a pub hours night club underneath the Imperial Hotel in Llandudno on a Monday night and had become a regular jaunt, although filled with punks and goths, they would occasionally play the March Violets or Bauhaus to keep us marginally happy, but as Wayne said, ‘The DJ was such a tosser and we ended up being banned when Edi got into a fight with James Baguley [who played in Sleepless Dream] and glasses were smashed.’

GIG 0020: Anhrefn at The Imperial, Colwyn Bay

 

So I arranged for Anhrefn to play The Imp in Colwyn Bay in February 1987. The Imperial Hotel was at the bottom of Station Road and hosted regular heavy rock band nights, such was the glut of those awful bands. I made posters and flyers using Letraset transfers and my newly acquired second hand typewriter and with a bucket and brush, pasted them all over Colwyn Bay, Llandudno and Rhyl.

Anhrefn’s Welsh punk rock ignited the need within me to learn Welsh and break free from the mental abuse I endured in that oppressive village school of my childhood. The Anhrefn way was to promote Welsh culture by opening the doors to outsiders; to open up the closed mentality in Wales. It wasn’t the Wales For The Welsh and Fuck The English kind of jingoistic nazism we see all over Twitter today, it was about changing people’s attitudes toward the Welsh language. To stop non-Welsh speakers feeling like outsiders, to change the way people think. Welsh people were forever being called sheep shaggers, and rather than get all snowflakey and upset about it, Anhrefn would say;

‘Yes, we may shag sheep, but you eat them!’

This self-deprecating humour and punk ideal was catalyst in opening the psychological borders within the Welsh and English mentality and helped spawn Cool Cymru. We are all human! The fact you were born in Welsh Saltney or just over the border in English Chester doesn’t make you a different person; you are still human! Yes, it’s great to have a culture, a history, a cause, but is it really necessary to hate someone simply because they weren’t born in the same country as you?

The fretting, the panic, the worrying (a gig on a Sunday night!), the chewed fingernails, the financing; it all paid off. It was a good gig (I still have a recording on cassette), a good turnout and Anhrefn played well and they got paid £50. They brought a contingent of punks from Bangor, with whom I am still friends with today. And at the tender age of twenty I began to get a feel for local bands, and the need to create a local music scene.

Bands and local gigs were few and far between, there were rumours of ‘legendary’ punk or goth bands like The Dark, Foreign Legion, The Scargills, Sleepless Dream, Open Defiance but I had never seen or heard them. I caught a band called That Voodoo (from Llandudno) a couple of times who were a little like New Order meets the Wedding Present.

Also the ridiculously named Heroes On A Beach from Colwyn Bay who were nice guys but played fucking awful music, we dubbed them Hemoglobins In The Sand or Herpes On A Bitch. Aside from these, there was the poodle hair spandex pants high pitched screaming heavy metal brigade, whom we avoided at all costs.

GIG 0019: Heroes On A Beach @ The Metropole, Colwyn Bay

 

Saw Heroes on A Beach play their debut gig at The Metropole in the Bay. A great place for a venue (sadly under used for such purposes) as the bands set up on the dancefloor, which had a slightly raised balcony partly circumnavigating it - a bit like the Roundhouse in Camden.

It’s a difficult one this as they’re fronted by Steve Jones who kindly trims my mohican at the Lox Box; we talk about music and he has a bit of history once fronting the almost famous Harvest Moon (who released a single on the Charisma label and recorded a John Peel session).

So I tried to like them (HoAB), and played the tape back a couple of times to familiarise myself with their songs, but it’s like telling yourself you like your mate’s band, or telling your mate you like his band, but really you think they’re shit. 

Sorry Steve, I loved you guys but hated your music.

[Steve aka Pablo, eventually moved to Caernarfon and formed Profiad, and also hired out PAs. He's also a great painter and sells his creations at the art shop he runs]

[The Met, as it was locally known as, catered more for the trendy elements of the town, before giving way to the elderly twats and becoming another fucking care home].

GIG 0018: That Voodoo at The Bee Hotel, Rhyl

 

Saw That Voodoo play at The Bee Hotel in Rhyl, a bit of a dive of a place just by the train station, (we jumped the train from the Bay). 

Took my little tape recorder to bootleg the gig cos if I’m gonna take being a fanzine editor seriously then I need to support local bands and cover them in the next issue of Crud. 

The band came from Llandudno and formed last year after MCM split and they featured Andre Valero (bass,voc), Matt Davies (gtr,voc), Simon (drms), Julie (keys,voc), Sally (b.voc). 

Also featured at some point Shaun Davies who later joined the marines (not doubt after watching Full Metal Jacket, which hit the big screens later this year). 

That Voodoo had a delay pedal rigged up to the microphone that made some cool effects. They were definitely influenced by B.A.D. and Spear of Destiny, two bands I didn’t at the time particularly rank highly, apart from SOD’s Liberator, which we slam danced ourselves into bruised oblivion on the Bistro dancefloor. 

Matt later formed Charlex Dexter Ward Experiment, and sadly died in 2002.

GIG 0017: Anhrefn / Model Citizens at Colwyn Bay Leisure Centre

 

Model Citizens

Having seen Anhrefn for the first time a couple of months ago and establishing connections with the Bangor punk fraternity, we got wind that they were returning to our town. 

The Norwest Holst Room is a lifeless square function room at the Leisure Centre in Colwyn Bay - it could probably hold about 500 people. No chance of that tonight but still, a smattering of we 'punks' and a pile of Model Citizen's school mates did our best to fill the empty void.

That aside, we had a great time. Everyone piled to the front and made a 'gig' of it. Model Citizens were not long out of their 'practicing in the bedroom' phase, playing rudimentary punk rock, but were good fun. Fuelled by Kestrel lager and spurred on by my mates, I got up and sang Anti-Nowhere League's Woman with them, which was a giggle*.

Anhrefn by now had been proper bigged up as a decent live band by myself and I was eager to share my enthusiasm with my friends, and after their 45 minute set of punk rock, those friends agreed. They played the songs we knew, having recorded their John Peel session, including the excellent Defaid and Action Man. 

I loved the band's humour, notsomuch in the songs, but as people; particularly Sion and Dewi, who seemed up for a laugh, drummer Hefin too. Bassist Rhys was more the organiser, keeping it all together and we spoke at length about creating a scene across the North Wales coast, bringing together like minded people to spread the punk manifesto.

*[I'm pretty sure I sang 'Woman' with Model Citizens on more than just this occasion, which means I've obviously seen them before or after this gig - probably in Colwyn Bay - but sadly I don't have any record of it]

GIG 0016 - Anhrefn / Paraletics at Rydal School, Colwyn Bay (The Birth of Crud)

It was the 30th of August, 1986, and I was in my flat on Ellesmere Road, Colwyn Bay. I remember it well — one of those warm days when you’ve got the rickety shash windows open and the world just drifts in. That afternoon, I started hearing the thud of drums and raw guitars echoing across from beyond the main road. It sounded good. Really good. Curious, I followed the noise.

The music was coming from the Rydal School playing fields — an open-air punk gig / summer fete happening right in the middle of Colwyn Bay. Rydal was a private school, and not exactly unfamiliar territory. Being teenagers, we’d often skulk around there, full of adolescent hormones and the daft idea that we might catch a glimpse into the girls' showers.

On stage was a Welsh punk band called Anhrefn, delivering a fierce, rebellious set. I’d actually heard them just the week before, doing a session on John Peel’s show on Radio One. Seeing them live was something else — wild, Welsh, loud, and absolutely vital.

Sharing the bill were another band from Bangor called The Paraletics, just as raucous, just as raw. Their guitarist, Jez, ended up getting told off mid-set by — of all things — an angry clown, furious about his swearing. You couldn’t make it up.

As the bands played, I was appraoched by a guy selling fanzines. One stood out immediately — ROX, thrown together by John Robb of The Membranes, a maniacal noise outfit from Blackpool. I’d flicked through countless 'zines over the years, but this one had a real charge to it. It was anarchic, urgent, buzzing with DIY spirit.

I’d been keeping a scrapbook since leaving school three years earlier, full of oddball newspaper cuttings, satirical bits, and funny headlines. As I thumbed through ROX, I thought, Why not do something with all that? Maybe put together a fanzine of my own.

When I mentioned it to Edi, he took the idea a step further.

"Why don’t we do a ragmag-type magazine for the Bay?" he said.

I paused. "Yeah. But what the hell would we call it?"

Edi didn’t even flinch. "Well," he said, with a perfectly timed pause, "Crud."

And that was it. That was the moment it began — on a late summer day in Colwyn Bay, fuelled by punk noise, DIY attitude, and a clown with a grudge.

GIG 0015: The Damned 10th Anniversary at Finsbury Park, London

 

Me looking pretty fucked after travelling to London

There was no live music scene to write home about in Colwyn Bay during those times unless you liked boring bland blues bands and that awful new wave of spandex metal rubbish. So entertainment was garnered from further afield. We went to Finsbury Park in London to see The Damned celebrate their tenth anniversary. Our quest to get there started around midnight on the day of July 26th 1986 when the National Coach driver refused to let us on because we were punks; even though we’d booked tickets. This is how the story unfolded…

My sister Emma, Ade Brunskill, Helen The Hair, Wayne The Bastard, Edi Filmstar and myself stood there, open beer cans in our hands, in our punk attire as the coach pulled up, the doors swung open and the driver took one look at us and flatly refused to let us on the coach!

’But we’ve got tickets!’ – he wouldn’t be budged, we weren’t getting on his coach and that was final. They call it judging a book by its cover, and we were the pages he didn’t want to read. There wasn’t much we could do, violence would’ve proved this bigot’s presumption right and landed us in the cells and not in London, so we sloped back to the flat and regrouped.

Thankfully, Helen had a credit card and she forked out for train tickets; we would successfully fight National Express for our money back later, but first we had a gig to get to. I think it was only Helen who managed to get any sleep on the journey down, the rest of us were pretty much cream crackered by the time we emerged into the London sunshine. Today was all about The Damned, a band I loved so much, enough to have their name tattooed onto my wrist next to a flaming love heart! [I’ve since had it lasered off, but my love has not diminished; although it has been tested with the latest album!]. The Damned were all things to me through my teenage years, my mates were not into them in school, preferring Sham 69, or Crass, or the Oi! Scene – I too went along with all that, but it was Vanian/Sensible/Scabies/Ward who always topped my charts. Dave Vanian’s guile, Captain Sensible’s exquisite guitar playing, Rat Scabies is still the best drummer I’ve ever seen, and Algy Ward is the best of a long succession of bassists the band has been through since.

This Finsbury Park gig was over two days and rumours were rife that the two years departed Captain Sensible would be making a guest appearance. He did, but we got the wrong day, and despite the hopes of 20,000 people chanting the old chestnut, ‘Sensible’s a wanker’ he didn’t show up on our day. We were however treated to a superb opening, Plan 9 Channel 7 was orchestrated before blasting into the full song and we all went bananas! Lot’s of ‘newer’ stuff was played, Eloise, Street Of Dreams, Is It A Dream, plus new tracks off the forthcoming disappointing ‘Anything’ album. I remember Limit Club (love that song), Stranger On The Town, then the finale of LA Woman, Smash It Up (the whole tent erupted) and Love Song. The encore, I think, was Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde, followed by New Rose and ending with Lust For Life.

The opening band were Electric Bluebirds, I don’t recall much of these, although The Proclaimers seem to spring to mind, followed by the rockabilly Restless. Wayne’s interest in psychobilly bands would drag us to many gigs and to many albums, with the likes of King Kurt and Guana Batz being favourites, but Restless were pretty mediocre.

Dr And The Medics however, were far from mediocre. The drummer got up on stage and started with a great beat, soon followed by the guitarist and bassist as they formed an ace riff, then The Anadin Brothers (two girls) alighted the stage with their unique dance moves, before The Doctor himself (or Clive Jackson as he was called in school) appeared and had everyone in the audience in the palm of his hand. The attention he commanded was immense, the perfect MC, the ultimate band leader, the conductor, The Doctor!

We had their Happy But Twisted EP in our collection and would soon be buying their Laughing At The Pieces debut album, from which most of their set was made up. I do recall a rubbish version of Paranoid, and then an apology for making it to No.1 with Spirit in The Sky – The Doctor then announced that

‘This is the way it should’ve been played’ and they launched into a much better sped up version that kept the majority of punks happy in pogoville. Hard to imagine at the time that forty years from now The Damned would still be in existence and celebrating their 50th anniversary.

GIG 0014 - The Cramps / Stingrays at Royal Court, Liverpool

 

I was going out with a girl from Colwyn Bay. Helen’s leaning was very much toward the Goth end of the punk spectrum, and we shared a deep love of all things Bauhaus (her love of the band probably extended into the sexual aspect of their lead singer too!). I will also be eternally grateful to her for dragging me kicking and screaming to the Royal Court in Liverpool.

‘There’s no way I’m going to see the fucking Cramps.’ I protested. It was 20th March 1986, and at nineteen years old I was still a bit set in my pure punk rock ways; or at least had a reputation to uphold. We sat on the balcony, that very steep balcony at the Royal Court. The Cramps were incredible. You don’t realise at the time of seeing these bands that they will someday be iconic. They had just been on The Tube on TV and released the album ‘A Date With Elvis’ and played just about all of it before heading into crowd favourites like Goo Goo Muck, Human Fly and Surfin’ Bird, during which Lux Interior scaled the PA speakers with the microphone in his mouth, grunting throughout. A great spectacle. He was pretty oiled, necking red wine straight from the bottle and launching one at the over-zealous bouncers who kept beating up crowd surfers.

A couple of years later I bought a bootleg tape of this gig from Aladdin's Cave in Rhyl. I have no recollection of The Stingrays.

GIG 0013 - The Damned / Third Light at Manchester International

 

There’s something special about seeing a band at the height of their powers in a venue that feels like it’s barely holding them in. Following the polished grandeur of the Apollo back in June, The Damned’s return to Manchester at the International 1 felt less like a tour stop and more like a victory lap with old friends. Although tbh, they were probably fulfilling contractual obligations having booked this gig in advance of their new found stardom!

The night was a masterclass in the band’s mid-80s evolution. As the opening chords of "Street of Dreams" filled the room, it was clear that the transition into a more atmospheric, gothic rock sound hadn't cost them any of their edge. Dave Vanian was every bit the spectral frontman, commanding the stage with a theatricality that felt perfectly suited to the intimate, smoky confines of the club.

But the true magic of the International has always been the lack of a barrier between the stage and the street. Once the feedback faded, the band didn't vanish into a dressing room. Instead, they did something few bands of their status would dream of: they walked right back out into the crowd. Well, all but the elusively shy Mr Vanian.

The scene at the bar reminded me of when I first saw them some four years ago in Colwyn Bay; Rat Scabies, was stood next to me with a "Come on, will someone get me a fucking pint!"

Nearby, the late, great Bryn Merrick was showing exactly why he was the heart of that lineup. Amidst a sea of fans asking for signatures, I decided to turn the tables, leaning in to autograph Bryn’s own arm instead of the other way around. It was a moment that could have gone sideways, but Bryn took it with a massive grin and a laugh—a testament to the genuine, ego-free person he was.

Third Light were from Chester I think and were just starting out - they played kind of post-punk melodic indie stuff. Didn't hear much of them since; or remember anymore from the gig.

Love & Rockets: Seventh Dream of Teenage Heaven

 

My introduction to Love & Rockets was completely unexpected, arriving via a budget-friendly Cherry Red Records sampler LP—a purchase necessitated by bedsit living and cheap price. On it was the track "Haunted When The Minutes Drag," which instantly grabbed hold of me. Even now, the song remains utterly captivating, and I still yearn for the track's sprawling, eight-minute duration to stretch out even longer.

Of course, I was aware that three-fourths of Love & Rockets were the remnants of the legendary Bauhaus (Daniel Ash, David J, and Kevin Haskins). While I had the requisite copy of "Bela Lugosi's Dead" and had seen their iconic Top of the Pops performance of "Ziggy Stardust," I consciously viewed this new group as a distinct entity—and they truly were.

Seventh Dream of Teenage Heaven is the definitive statement that this band was not just "Bauhaus minus Peter Murphy." It established their new direction, moving away from gothic rock and embracing a sound rooted in neo-psychedelia and expansive alternative rock.

The album, however, is not without its transitional quirks. It showcases the trio's interest in the electronic textures that Daniel Ash and Kevin Haskins had explored in Tones on Tail. This is evident in the liberal use of what sounds like Haskins' new electronic drum kit, giving the record a distinct mid-80s flavor and a slightly raw, experimental quality.

While this electronic-heavy production is a defining characteristic of the album, "Haunted When The Minutes Drag" still rises above the rest. It is the undeniable highlight, utilizing those electronic and psychedelic elements to create a genuinely hypnotic and timeless piece of music that continues to haunt and reward repeat listens.

GIG 0012 - The Damned / Fuzztones @ Northgate Arena, Chester

 

I saw that The Damned were playing at the Northgate Arena in Chester, I didn’t have any money so I took my beloved ghetto blaster to a pawn shop. The owner could see I really didn’t want to part with it so he gave me £35 and said he’d hold it back for a fortnight and I could buy it back at the same price. It’s July 6th 1985. I got on a train to Chester and met up with other punks who were milling around outside the venue on this sunny afternoon. I hooked up with a girl called Seraphina who I knew from Denbigh. She was like the rebel at the all-girl private school in the town, all dressed in black and fishnets and back-combed hair. We and others drank cider and discussed Rudimentary Peni lyrics on account of my ‘Stone the crows and fuck the pigs’ t-shirt. Seraphina then squirted hairspray down my ear ‘for a laugh’ - I didn’t see the funny side and lost her in the crowd.

The Fuzztones opened the show, they reminded me of The Cramps and I had heard their single Bad News Travels Fast on Peel’s show. My sister Jane tapped me on the shoulder, she was there with her mate Ali Craig, I’d not seen her for a while. The Damned were making a real go of the charts with their new gothic image and Shadow Of Love was in the Top 30 and the album Phantasmagoria was imminent, so it was surprising this venue was only about three quarters full. They opened with the epic Curtain Call and I made sure I was right down the front. It was a good gig, lots of new stuff and they encored with Lust For Life and did a second encore with Rat Scabies on guitar playing Pretty Vacant.

Link2wales gig review

GIG 11: Bad Manners / Meteors @ Scooter Rally, Castle Donington

There was a Scooter Rally being held in Castle Donington and Jon invited me, it was 8th June, 1985. Old school mate Andy was driving and I was hanging out with Psycho Sandra at the time and I asked her if she wanted to come along. She was called Psycho Sandra for very good reasons! This was a person who was high on life with a punk rock attitude and she lived up to her name. The four of us (including the driver) thought it would be a great idea to drop acid before heading on the three hour journey, and by the time we got there I began to be a bit edgy to say the least. Here I was, the only punk rocker in a huge field full of mods, and being off my box only added to my paranoia as people would mutter ‘Punk’s dead mate’ at me. So imagine my nerve endings, when we entered the main arena and the support band (some mod shite) The Gents were stopped mid-set and a panicky voice is announcing over the PA; he’s pleading with the crowd at the front of the stage to clear the way for an ambulance to get through as someone had just been glassed in the throat and was losing a lot of blood. Shiiit…

It was getting from bad to worse, I kind of fancied Sandra, even though she scared the shit out of me, and she kind of fancied me, but she disappeared for what seemed like hours only to return with a psychobilly lad she had copped off with. While she was away, we watched The Meteors, who were pretty good and I had last year been introduced to their fantastic debut album ‘In Heaven’ (still such a good record), so at least I had something positive to focus on while being surrounded by thousands of fishtail jackets and the smell of shit scooter engines.

By dark Bad Manners were on stage and it was raining. We were still in the throes of the Pink Panther or the Microdot tabs we had taken, so it felt like we were protected from the damp. Sleep wasn’t going to happen, the come-down was fucking awful, five of us crammed into this Vauxhall Cavalier; Andy, Jon and myself trying to sleep, dying to sleep but unable to, twitching uncontrollably in a lysergic loop as Sandra and her psychobilly boyfriend had noisy and violent sex next to us, well, virtually on top of us.

GIG 0010 - Edwin Starr at Poppies, Bodelwyddan

Out of town in Bodelwyddan was Poppies nightclub, which had two dance floors. On a Thursday it was happy hour and we would all descend there to bop to watered down alternative music like Baby I Love You (Ramones), Too Much Too Young (Specials), What Difference Does It Make (The Smiths), Love Cats (Cure) - that kind of stuff. It was quite a good night, Edwin Starr used to appear there on the other dancefloor and I remember watching one of his performances and feeling zero emotion. Normally we seldom strayed from our darkened area. I do remember there being this complete twat dressed like Michael Jackson (Thriller era), kitted out in a suit, trilby hat, hair-beads and one white glove. He had all the moves down to a tee and the DJ would play loads of Jacko-shit as this idiot danced on his own. I ended up some fifteen years later inadvertently employing him… Although not as a Michael Jackson impersonator!

My Thursday nights at Poppies became very regular, often with both my sisters in tow, and with the beer being so cheap (£1 a pint) and Thursday being payday, I soon began skipping work on Fridays due to a horrendous hangover. My boss quickly became wise to this and when I went to collect my wages she’d open my pay packet and take out a tenner and say, 

‘This for you to go out tonight, have a great time. You can have the rest when you come in tomorrow.’ Alcohol is ace though, you wake up the next day all fuzzed out with a banging head. Despite waking up with a face like a badly drawn cunt, a hangover was something I loved having as it was the result of a great night out. My Poppies days were numbered however after I began helping myself to the Guinness. The pump was right at the end of the busy bar and there’d only be one girl working, who was really stressed and stretched. I used to quickly reach over, stick my empty glass under the tap, leave it there until three quarters full and make off with my free drink. My nights became very cheap for a few weeks until I was caught and literally kicked and punched down the road by the bouncers.

Bath Street, Rhyl - The Corridor of Doors

 

He opened the book on his bare lap, fingers tracing the flavescent page, bent and creased from some forgotten moment of distraction. The story itself was about patricide — grim, unsettling, and yet he couldn’t look away. The words reached into him like an infection, twisting something already restless inside. It was a kind of perverted perversion, a fascination that felt alien and yet entirely his. Power radiated from those sentences: the power of imagination, of annihilation, of mutilation, amputation, and ultimately… of contemplation.

Closing the book, he rose and found himself walking down a corridor. At first it seemed ordinary — long, sterile, clinically clean, the sort of place where echoes linger long after footsteps fade. But something was wrong. Something shifted. At the far end loomed a door, heavy and waiting.

He paused, listening. Nothing. The air hummed faintly, as though alive. With a breath that caught in his throat, he turned the handle.

The world on the other side wasn’t right. The corridor continued, yes, but now its walls pulsed with a fuzzy purple light, static and liquid at once. The surfaces moved yet remained still, a contradiction that defied reason. He reached out, hand trembling, and the material resisted like gel, then rippled away into silence.

And then he saw it: the void. Where one wall should have been, there was only blackness — infinite, hungry, bottomless. The purple corridor clung to existence on the edge of that abyss, as though straining against being swallowed.

Along the single remaining wall stretched countless doors. Closed, identical, each one humming with unseen possibility.

A chill ran through him. Each door, he knew without being told, contained a future. Not a metaphorical choice, but a literal one. Only by opening a door and stepping through would he discover which life awaited him.

He hesitated. His hand hovered at the nearest knob, sweat beading at his temple. What if he chose wrong? What if the wrong door led only to deeper voids, to darker corridors? What if none of them led back?

The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. His heart raced. For a moment he almost turned back — but when he glanced over his shoulder, the clean corridor was gone. There was only purple static and the infinite dark.

No retreat. Only doors. Only futures.

His hand touched cold metal. He drew a breath, braced himself, and—

—suddenly, awareness hit him like a crash of light.

The corridor dissolved. The void melted. The doors vanished. He was back on the threadbare carpet of his first flat in Bath Street, Rhyl. The book was still in his lap. The walls were still nicotine-stained. The buzzing wasn’t cosmic energy — it was the fluorescent strip light.

It had been an acid trip. One of many in those days, when his experiments with LSD carved out strange journeys through his own mind. That night, 1984, he had wandered corridors of choice and stared into black voids of possibility. And though the drug had rattled him with visions of futures unknown, somewhere in that trip — and in the years that followed — he’d like to think he chose the right door.

GIG 0009 - Ocean Rane at Rhyl Bandstand

 

Summer 1984: I had relocated to Rhyl and upgraded my life to a truly luxurious bedsit at the ripe old age of 17. It had all the charm you’d expect — questionable smells, mysterious stains, and a décor best described as “landlord chipwood.” Still, I’d acquired a new gang of friends and a girlfriend, so obviously life was going brilliantly. We were a united front of punks and psychobillies, heroically keeping hairspray and cheap lager manufacturers in business.

Rhyl, culturally speaking, was not exactly bursting at the seams with gigs. Entertainment options were mostly limited to the arcades, the wind, and bad drugs. So when we stumbled across a band called Ocean Rane playing on the bandstand on the Prom, it felt like we’d discovered the local Glastonbury.

They looked impossibly young and painfully nervous — the kind of nervous that makes you want to clap before they’ve even started, just to be kind. Naturally, it later turned out they were actually older than me, which was both insulting and confusing. Their sound struck me as slightly moddish, which in our leather-clad, hairsprayed worldview was practically experimental jazz.

Still, for one glorious windswept afternoon, the Rhyl seafront had a soundtrack — and we had something to do that didn’t involve loitering with intent. A cultural high point, by local standards.

GIG 0008 - Desmond Decker at Colwyn Bay Pier

This was my third visit to a gig in Colwyn Bay, and a few years since that fatefu Black Flag riot! This time it was to attend a Scooter Rally on the Pier. Spike and Tony came with me and we joined up with some of the Colwyn crew. We were most certainly the punks in the corner speeding like a jet as the soul boys did their 360s on the dancefloor to the wall to wall Motown being pumped out. Desmond Decker was on the bill (oooh ohh my Israelites), and he kept referring to Tony and Jon (bloth black dudes) as his brothers.

There was a smattering of skinheads who showed their true colours when the DJ (naively) put on a Skrewdriver record and six or seven of these boneheaded boots ‘n’ braces had the dancefloor to themselves. I thought ‘fuck this’ and got up and danced like a chicken amongst them. I expected a good kicking from the National Front, but not one of them challenged me.

GIG 0007 - Terminal at The Crown Hotel, Denbigh

 

We’d gone to see the local-ish heroes Terminal play their jagged new-wave set at The Crown in Denbigh — a triumphant hometown moment for their very polished guitarist Nige Peters, while the rest of the band had apparently travelled the gruelling Wrexham-to-Denbigh tour circuit.

We’d only just escaped school after being politely encouraged not to darken the door of sixth form again — a decision we graciously accepted and travelled daily in the opposite direction of the band to college in Wrexham. Being spectacularly underage, we fortified ourselves with Thunderbird Wine that older, more morally flexible friends bought from the off-licence. By the time we staggered into the tiny upstairs room at The Crown, we were already operating at what could generously be described as “festival levels”.

I distinctly remember dancing to This Charming Man, which The Smiths had put out the week before. This proves two things: one, I was very drunk; and two, my musical judgement had become deeply questionable.

By the time Terminal actually hit the stage, I’d progressed from “enthusiastic audience member” to “collapsed furniture accessory,” lying on the floor under a cluster of chairs near the front. My final memory of the evening is of vomiting dangerously close to the bassist’s mic stand — a moment that, I like to think, really added to the ambience.

A legendary gig, by any standard. Just possibly not for the band.

GIG 0006 - Terminal at Wedgewood Cinema, Denbigh

A year or so after my work as a teenage cleaner had ended at the cinema, I pitched a wild idea to the new owners. Picture this: bands playing live at the Wedgewood Cinema, decked out in white, with films projected over them during the set. Lewis, the owner—a decent bloke, easy to chat with—thought it was a cracking concept but reckoned it’d cost a bomb to build a stage up to the screen’s height. Not one to give up, I threw out another idea: what about a punk disco? Lewis gave it the nod, and for at least six months, the Wedgewood became Denbigh’s own punk rock mecca.

Every weekend, the town’s teenage punk crew—spiked hair, ripped jackets, and all—formed a gloriously chaotic queue outside, buzzing for the mayhem to kick off. We’d already be half-cut, our heads swimming in Bub’s lethal homebrew, toting bags stuffed with records for the DJ. This wasn’t some half-arsed Youth Club disco with a token punk track thrown in to shut us up. This was the real deal: wall-to-wall Discharge, Blitz, Peter and the Test Tube Babies, Dead Kennedys, Crass, The Ejected (belted out Have You Got 10p?—nah, not me!), UK Subs, Cockney Rejects, The Damned, Sex Pistols, Buzzcocks, Slaughter and the Dogs (You’re Ready Now was a banger), Plasmatics, and heaps more. 

Those nights were pure chaos, and I’ve got a scar on the back of my shaved head to prove it. During a particularly mental rendition of Dead Cities by The Exploited, I ended up at the bottom of a pile-on, face-down on the sticky floor, barely able to breathe under a heap of sweaty bodies. Some daft sod thought he’d leap over the lot, only to clip my head as he landed. Blood pissed out for the rest of the night, but I kept dancing, too caught up in the madness to care. Eventually, I dragged my blood-soaked self to the Infirmary for stitches. That scar’s still there, a jagged little memento of those great nights.

Denbigh wasn’t exactly a hotbed of musical talent back then, but we had one band that made some noise: Terminal, a new-wave-cum-pop outfit with a slick, radio-friendly sound. They were alright, I suppose, though a bit too polished for my raw punk tastes. Still, I couldn’t resist grabbing their single Am I Doing It Right—a cheeky tune about a lad losing his virginity that had just enough edge to make it worth a spin. They played a gig at the Wedgewood Cinema, and it was a proper spectacle. Picture this: a stage rigged up on scaffolding, level with the massive screen, with a film flickering over them as they performed. It was electric, a proper show that felt bigger than our little town.

Where did they get the idea to put it on there and have a film projected over them as they played?

 

GIG 0005 - Black Flag / Black Flag Roadcrew / Vicious Circle

My soon-to-be step-brother Chris Vandal (same age, same questionable life choices) and I travelled from Denbigh to the legendary Dixieland Showbar on Colwyn Bay Pier to see The Exploited. Punk pilgrimage complete. Or so we thought.

We arrived to be greeted by two bouncers and the crushing news that singer Wattie Buchan had sprained his ankle playing in the snow, so the band wouldn’t be appearing. But good news — we got a free poster. Because nothing heals teenage disappointment like a rectangle of paper.

Since Denbigh had approximately zero punk gigs, we decided we were staying anyway and would extract maximum value from the evening.

First up: Vicious Circle. My main memory is their singer wearing leather trousers and me throwing a full pint of water at them. In my defence, the Punk Rulebook clearly stated you had to throw liquids at bands. It was practically etiquette.

Next came a hastily assembled band made up of Black Flag’s road crew, including Minor Threat’s Ian MacKaye on bass. This was our accidental introduction to American hardcore, which was roughly 200% more aggressive than Colwyn Bay was emotionally prepared for.

Naturally, we responded with violence. Enter Black Flag and from the safety of the back of the pit, we began throwing coins and badges. Chris then removed his Sid Vicious padlock and chain necklace and launched it toward the stage like a medieval siege weapon. Had Henry Rollins not ducked mid-lyric, we might have accidentally assassinated him.

During the chaos, someone’s bullet belt exploded across the floor, gifting the crowd a handy pile of ammunition. An older punk with enormous blond spikes actively encouraged us to keep firing. One bullet eventually hit guitarist Greg Ginn on the head. He stopped mid-song, put down his guitar, picked up a folding chair and launched it into the crowd before storming off. The rest of the band followed. Honestly, fair enough.

Rollins returned to the stage looking even angrier than usual, holding the offending bullet and yelling:
“One of you fuckers threw this and spoiled it for everyone, good fucking night.”
Mic drop. Exit. End of Welsh debut.

After the gig, we mingled innocently with the band and crew and asked, “What happened?” A roadie shrugged and said some kids got over-excited. If only he knew.

Years later, Rollins immortalised the incident in his book Get in the Van and retold it on his spoken-word tours.

Some people get thanked in album liner notes. We nearly got thanked in a police report.