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.
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