(no subject)
Her mother had never really wanted us to go in the first place, but Helen convinced her that she was worrying needlessly. After all, it’s 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'd 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 she’d bought at a Dogs d’Amour concert, which she went to with her friend Jackie, who was unstable. I would rib her mercilessly about it. But one night, after I’d possibly ridden my luck a little too far, she stamped down her foot (which I thought was brilliant, 'cos it reminded me of Talulah Gosh) and said: "Listen, if I’m going to be an indie kid, then I’ll be independent in my choice of clothes, thank you very much."
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 (“For those who like their Trade Rough”). 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. “Oh no,” I shrieked, “real horror show!” (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! “Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends. It goes on for at least two hours because we’ve got a brand new Moog.”
I’ve died and gone to hell, and then I’ve fallen through a trapdoor and landed on the planet Prog Rock. And then the applauding Ents Sec introduces the next act. Jeez! (That’s journalese) …PFM! They didn’t 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 eff-off to the authorities. Fair enough, I thought, but perhaps no need for the language.
After the Identical Cocteau Twins, came the final act, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Focus. Following a commendable stab at "Sylvia", Helen shouted to the guitarist, "Are you knackered, man?" To which he replied, "No, I’m Jan Akkerman!"
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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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. He really doesn’t know the route, I thought, with increasing alarm. Better go downstairs and help him out.
Wait a minute. Bridge Street? The overhead railway Bridge Street? Oh my God... HELEN!!!!
Ten years on, and here I am on the bus we should have got. And yes, you guessed it: I’m the driver. Therapy, they call it. And every year, on the anniversary of that night, she floats on board, and takes the seat behind me. She doesn’t pay of course, but she is keen to make sure we don’t go down Bridge Street. She finally alights at the cemetery, and every year I follow until I reach her grave, where - as always - there’s no sign of Helen, but draped over the headstone…
...is a black tour jacket
satin black tour jacket
Helen’s black tour jacket
with detachable sleeves...
Although I'd 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 she’d bought at a Dogs d’Amour concert, which she went to with her friend Jackie, who was unstable. I would rib her mercilessly about it. But one night, after I’d possibly ridden my luck a little too far, she stamped down her foot (which I thought was brilliant, 'cos it reminded me of Talulah Gosh) and said: "Listen, if I’m going to be an indie kid, then I’ll be independent in my choice of clothes, thank you very much."
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 (“For those who like their Trade Rough”). 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. “Oh no,” I shrieked, “real horror show!” (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! “Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends. It goes on for at least two hours because we’ve got a brand new Moog.”
I’ve died and gone to hell, and then I’ve fallen through a trapdoor and landed on the planet Prog Rock. And then the applauding Ents Sec introduces the next act. Jeez! (That’s journalese) …PFM! They didn’t 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 eff-off to the authorities. Fair enough, I thought, but perhaps no need for the language.
After the Identical Cocteau Twins, came the final act, I Can’t Believe It’s Not Focus. Following a commendable stab at "Sylvia", Helen shouted to the guitarist, "Are you knackered, man?" To which he replied, "No, I’m Jan Akkerman!"
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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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 didn’t 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. He really doesn’t know the route, I thought, with increasing alarm. Better go downstairs and help him out.
Wait a minute. Bridge Street? The overhead railway Bridge Street? Oh my God... HELEN!!!!
Ten years on, and here I am on the bus we should have got. And yes, you guessed it: I’m the driver. Therapy, they call it. And every year, on the anniversary of that night, she floats on board, and takes the seat behind me. She doesn’t pay of course, but she is keen to make sure we don’t go down Bridge Street. She finally alights at the cemetery, and every year I follow until I reach her grave, where - as always - there’s no sign of Helen, but draped over the headstone…
...is a black tour jacket
satin black tour jacket
Helen’s black tour jacket
with detachable sleeves...