GALLANTLY withstood the mind-numbing
traumas induced by the fifteen-day,
five-miles-per-mile all the way, British
Rail express service to the
gleaming city of Sheffield, the pics
person and myself trekked, with full
survival kit strapped to our backs, up
last dusty concrete steps to a city
drinking establishment called Marples.
Doors yet to
open, we engage in a lucid exchange of
conversation with a number of
punkily-regaled floor-sitters. The gist
of this confabulation enlightened us to
the fact that the night's attraction,
Flux Of Pink lndians, have yet to arrive
and furthermore had failed to show
completely for two previous engagements
in this fair town.
attempts to establish a telephone linkage
with the Fluxed ones for the past week
had proved futile. Now, in short, they
weren't expecting us and we were
expecting them not to show. Fearing the
worst, we retired to the most modest of
billets for a prolonged and painful
session of lip biting.
to the hostelry was happily more
fruitful. A doorman gleefully informs us
of the artistes arrival. Minutes
later my grubby palm is shaking the
twanging hand of Flux bass Person Derek.
I humbly beg for an interview. The man
hesitates, then utters:
don't want an interview like the usual
ones in Sounds. None of this 'Derek
said', 'Colin said' stuff. Wed like
to sit and chat and then you can go away
and do what you want to do. By that time
you should have an inkling of an idea of
what we're about... or at least be fairly
I'm easy and always open to confusion.
What follows is a collection of
unattributed quotes although Derek and
Colin (the singer) did most of the
talking, two inter-group arguments were
candidly captured without guidance by my
cunning cassette machine, plus some of my
usual stunning insights into the chaotic
minds of youthful popsters. Hold tight...
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