The Flower Show

Vivienne Wilson

1985

Gavin arrived looking like he'd made an effort for the evening in a young Michael Stipe kind of way. The seventies panelling and orange plastic seating made him look out of place, but then we were used to that.

Katie arrived next wearing a totally inappropriate cocktail dress under a heavy winter coat like me. This was November 1985, when she still had her sun hat hair. Her hair was dark at the top and blonde at the bottom. She crimped and sprayed it so that it stuck out looking like an oversized hat. Sometimes, when she was feeling lazy, she would put on a straw hat that she had modified and pull bits of her hair through it.

Alan and Steve joined us. They were from the north and Alan often met old friends on nights out.

"Have you seen them before?" I asked.

I have said Alan. You'll like them. Theyve been on the radio. That guy who does the Friday night show on Piccadilly recorded some songs. I taped them, but the qualitys not very good.

Duncan, our driver arrived. Alan sat opposite me in the van - an old Ford transit with bare wooden bench seats on either side. There were no seat belts and we often crammed in as many people as we could fit on the benches. Travelling in the van was very much a social experience, because you were crushed between the people sitting either side of you and when it turned corners too sharply, you often found yourself sitting on the person opposite you. Sometimes the back door handle was broken and if you sat at the end, you had to hold the doors shut - the person sitting next to you had to hold on to you too going round corners, so you didn't fall out.

Throughout the journey, Alan made ridiculous statements about girls we could see out of the windows. One Piccadilly bus station was asking for it, because she was wearing a mini-skirt. Another had a face like the bottom of a baby's pram - all wee and broken biscuits.

We stopped at a phone box and our driver, Duncan, produced a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans. He called the number on it. The rest of us waited, shivering in the van. It was a freezing cold night. After about fifteen minutes, a bloke arrived to take us to the gig.

We drove round and round in circles for ages before pulling up outside a run-down red brick, Victorian warehouse on a dark deserted street. I could hear traffic in the distance, but it did not seem as if we were in the centre of a city any longer. The door was propped open by a temporary barrier. We paid our £2.00 to get in and were each given a piece of paper which said "This is Blackmail" and had a penny laminated onto it. In one corner, loads of cans of lager were stacked up.

The warehouse was lit by floodlighting and was actually quite bright inside. Alan led me over to some crates and we sat down. He spoke non-stop about Native American indigenous people. Up until this point I had really fancied him. He looked delectable in a post punk, slightly gothic way. Like a cross between Byron and Michael Hutchence dressed in East German army surplus clothing. I asked him if he wanted a drink and walked over to where the beers were without waiting for a response.

This proved to be slightly more complicated than it usually is at a gig. I had to buy raffle tickets and received the lagers as prizes in a tombola.

Walking back with the cans in my hands, Duncan grinned at me mischievously.

Are you going out with him?

No.

What are you listening to that rubbish for?

I handed him a can.

Cheers. I hate students.

The lights went out and an intro track began to play. People moved towards the front of the stage. The intro lasted for several minutes and dry ice was pumped towards the shivering scenesters. Suddenly, the band began to play. It was as if the whole warehouse had burst into flames. The songs were raw, but they had an energy that sliced right through me.

I felt paralysed. It was as if my ears and eyes were functioning, but the rest of me had been put on hold. The singer danced around the audience. He swaggered up to me and put his face right up to my face, before charging off again.

People around me were dancing, shouting and cheering. They clearly had a lot of friends in the audience.

Part way through a song, the sound distorted. In frustration, the drummer smashed a window with his elbow, then an amp blew up. The band left moodily.

We stood still, taking in what we had seen. The band was edgy and gave off an air of being disturbingly dangerous, so we weren't sure if they had finished.

Someone told us we had to leave. We weren't supposed to be there. The warehouse belonged to British Rail, who thought the band had been filming in there during the day. Apparently, British Transport Police were on their way.

We had some trouble getting into the van. Duncan's sister, was lying on the floor - semi-conscious. She looked about 12 years old and was ridiculously drunk. She was wearing the obligatory REM-style far too big for her coat and a beret, which had amazingly managed to stay on her head.

We got in and sat round her pulling our feet back, so that we weren't kicking her. She was far too drunk to sit up on a seat. She drifted in and out of consciousness throughout the journey home, but we did learn that she was looking after the band, who were called the Stone Roses.