proposed project than he originally let on. Finally he swings the little car into a spot outside his palatial residence.
I cannot possibly overstress how different Alan and Liz’s place is to the sort of dwellings that Polly and I end up grumblingly sharing. Potter Heights, as only I call it, is a four-storey town house entirely owned and occupied by the Potter family and their Bulgarian nanny, who has her own flat on the top floor. It’s clean and immaculately decorated; carpet in rooms that require it, real varnished wooden floors in those that don’t. It’s always warm. Alan and Liz each have an office on the first floor. The lounge
cum
dining room, which can be one or two separate rooms depending on what mood you’re in, is bigger than our entire flat. The basement
is
the kitchen, where the fridge groans with produce from posh local delis and organic-mongers. There are five loos. It’s the sort of house even Alan’s parents describe as large. All of this from a bloke who only five years ago was living on 25p packets of noodles, sneaking cans of lager into the pub and buying albums on cassette in their first week of release.
We go inside and, emphasising that this is strictly a business mission rather than a social call, Alan leads me straight up to his office.
“Coffee?”
I can’t help giggling.
“Yeah. And a blueberry muffin.”
Alan laughlessly pads over to the corner of the room where he unlocks a large, battered and sticker-covered record box (some things thankfully never change) from which, with the greatest of care, he extracts the bulging, spiral-bound A5 notebook and solemnly places it on his desk in front of me. He looks at his watch and almost, I am convinced, says something like “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” but clearly thinks better of it and departs for the kitchen. Strange bastard.
But never mind all that. For the item now in my hot little hands makes everything worth it. Alan’s greatest labour of love (apart from his daughter, perhaps). A chronological record of every gig he attended between 1988 and 1995. A total of 284 separate events: where they were, who he was with, a list (where possible) of what songs were played, the ticket stubs, press cuttings, sometimes his own photos, even details of how he got home—all brought to the thin sheets in glorious Anal-Alancolor. It’s been almost half a decade since I held this masterpiece of indie-pop accountancy, so this afternoon’s rifling session is particularly satisfying. Aside from the first few pages (when I was probably sitting at home memorising French irregular verbs), I can open the book anywhere to be instantly assailed by the most vivid of memories: PJ Harvey at the White Horse in Hampstead, The House of Love at Cambridge Corn Exchange, EMF supporting Carter USM at ULU (“They were great, some cocks tried to attack the singer, though … Neil Tennant showed up”), Paris Angels at Manchester Hacienda (“I have seen the Paris Angels and I believe”), Power of Dreams at Camden Palace (“They’re amazing, why aren’t they massive?”), Loop at Our Price in Reading (“Without question the best thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life”),Madonna at Wembley Stadium (“Me and Clive were the only people wearing Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirts in the whole place, which kind of made it worthwhile”), Björk at Wembley Stadium, supporting U2 (“She was so good we decided to leave straight afterwards”), Nine Inch Nails at Wembley Stadium supporting Guns N’ Roses (“They were so good we decided to stay for Guns N Roses”), Jane’s Addiction supporting The Wonder Stuff at Brixton Academy (“I thought they were shit, Clive thought they were amazing—big row”). And of course, looming large throughout the volume, no less than eighty-six entries concerning the Thieving Magpies.
Although not the very first band Alan saw (that honour went to—oh, the shame of it!—The Blow Monkeys), the Magpies were certainly the
I cannot possibly overstress how different Alan and Liz’s place is to the sort of dwellings that Polly and I end up grumblingly sharing. Potter Heights, as only I call it, is a four-storey town house entirely owned and occupied by the Potter family and their Bulgarian nanny, who has her own flat on the top floor. It’s clean and immaculately decorated; carpet in rooms that require it, real varnished wooden floors in those that don’t. It’s always warm. Alan and Liz each have an office on the first floor. The lounge
cum
dining room, which can be one or two separate rooms depending on what mood you’re in, is bigger than our entire flat. The basement
is
the kitchen, where the fridge groans with produce from posh local delis and organic-mongers. There are five loos. It’s the sort of house even Alan’s parents describe as large. All of this from a bloke who only five years ago was living on 25p packets of noodles, sneaking cans of lager into the pub and buying albums on cassette in their first week of release.
We go inside and, emphasising that this is strictly a business mission rather than a social call, Alan leads me straight up to his office.
“Coffee?”
I can’t help giggling.
“Yeah. And a blueberry muffin.”
Alan laughlessly pads over to the corner of the room where he unlocks a large, battered and sticker-covered record box (some things thankfully never change) from which, with the greatest of care, he extracts the bulging, spiral-bound A5 notebook and solemnly places it on his desk in front of me. He looks at his watch and almost, I am convinced, says something like “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” but clearly thinks better of it and departs for the kitchen. Strange bastard.
But never mind all that. For the item now in my hot little hands makes everything worth it. Alan’s greatest labour of love (apart from his daughter, perhaps). A chronological record of every gig he attended between 1988 and 1995. A total of 284 separate events: where they were, who he was with, a list (where possible) of what songs were played, the ticket stubs, press cuttings, sometimes his own photos, even details of how he got home—all brought to the thin sheets in glorious Anal-Alancolor. It’s been almost half a decade since I held this masterpiece of indie-pop accountancy, so this afternoon’s rifling session is particularly satisfying. Aside from the first few pages (when I was probably sitting at home memorising French irregular verbs), I can open the book anywhere to be instantly assailed by the most vivid of memories: PJ Harvey at the White Horse in Hampstead, The House of Love at Cambridge Corn Exchange, EMF supporting Carter USM at ULU (“They were great, some cocks tried to attack the singer, though … Neil Tennant showed up”), Paris Angels at Manchester Hacienda (“I have seen the Paris Angels and I believe”), Power of Dreams at Camden Palace (“They’re amazing, why aren’t they massive?”), Loop at Our Price in Reading (“Without question the best thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life”),Madonna at Wembley Stadium (“Me and Clive were the only people wearing Ned’s Atomic Dustbin T-shirts in the whole place, which kind of made it worthwhile”), Björk at Wembley Stadium, supporting U2 (“She was so good we decided to leave straight afterwards”), Nine Inch Nails at Wembley Stadium supporting Guns N’ Roses (“They were so good we decided to stay for Guns N Roses”), Jane’s Addiction supporting The Wonder Stuff at Brixton Academy (“I thought they were shit, Clive thought they were amazing—big row”). And of course, looming large throughout the volume, no less than eighty-six entries concerning the Thieving Magpies.
Although not the very first band Alan saw (that honour went to—oh, the shame of it!—The Blow Monkeys), the Magpies were certainly the
Similar Books
