The Right Decision
Vic Galloway
1985
We had a quandary. One was in Dundee and one in Edinburgh, but the choice between the two was tough. It was to be our first time and we wanted it to count; to be exciting; to be worthwhile and most importantly, to be cool! Which should we go for? We had to discuss it and pace about a lot. After much deliberation... our minds were made up! We hoped we'd made the right decision.
James and I were best friends, having known each other since the age of three when his large, catholic family of nine moved into the big house across the road from me in the village of Kingsbarns, in the East Neuk of Fife. We played with our toys together; we rode our bikes all around the countryside; we laughed a lot and occasionally we fought. But it was music that had really brought us together. It became our entire focus. The centre of our lives. Funnily enough... it still is.
This particular dilemma was about our first concert. Now it may seem trivial to you, but to us it was incredibly important - was it to be Adam Ant or The Damned?
We'd travelled on the bus to Dundee and had been browsing the front window of 'Grouchos', when we'd seen the tickets advertised. Right there... on a black pin-board with white, plastic lettering. It was almost too good to be true. Adam had been our first love but he was starting to look passé, even to our thirteen-year-old eyes! We thought of ourselves as 'Punk Rockers' now, and had even managed to get copies of the Sex Pistols' album past the ears of our dissenting parents. The Damned were near the top our list as favourites. What's more they were still going, and hadn't killed each other yet! The decision was made, but would it be the right one?
The day was Saturday 1st June 1985, and my dear, long-suffering mother crammed James Wright, Dick Petrie, John Cummins and I into the car, for what felt like an absolute mammoth journey, from Fife to Edinburgh. We cut our way across farmland and twisting roads; we crossed the big bridge, and were scared to look down, but did anyway; we approached Edinburgh with its enormous, overbearing, grey architecture, listening to the bus brakes squeak and squeal around us through the ominous streets. Soon we approached our destination and I felt my heart thump as never before, as the anticipation grew to an almost unbearable level.
The Edinburgh Playhouse stood in all its glory with hundreds of revellers outside, awaiting our arrival. I instructed my chauffeur mum to drop us '... around the corner, around the corner... ' to shield us from any embarrassment. We stepped out, head to foot in DM boots, skin-tight black jeans and cheap, stripy, mohair jumpers feeling like the bad-boys we thought we were. Our rendezvous time and place were arranged with mum and we strode off to the 'gig'... yeah, we knew that's what they were called!
As we turned the corner, both fear and intrigue grabbed me by the throat and almost choked me! Suddenly, we were lost in a sea of leather jackets, rainbow hair, safety pins, badges, tartan bondage-trousers, tattoos, ripped, rude t-shirts and gaudy, multicoloured make-up. REAL punks, and thousands of them, stood loud and proud outside the venue and wanted the world to take notice. We were by far the youngest there. Time to look hard, time to look cool... There was no chance! It was comical. Some of them even chuckled at the sight of us, but we had to soldier on as if we didn't care. We were absolutely terrified, but loving every minute of it!
Two extra tickets were secured for Dick and John, who'd only recently shown an interest in our now obsession. The box-office moved us all from the stalls to the circle, for our own safety apparently... and we were ready! We walked manfully into the glorious, decorative foyer, amazed at the grandeur of the building and the squalor of the punks. The place reeked of leather, patchouli oil, cheap cider and fags - what glamour! We eyed up the T-shirts, posters and badges that we would later squander our pocket money on and finally took our seats.
The stage was dressed like a graveyard, and the support band took to it moments after we'd arrived. Two bands for the price of one - ya beauty! Amongst the barrage of heckles and pint glasses hurled at them, The Fuzztones roared through their short set armed only with teardrop guitars, bone necklaces and bare-faced arrogance, looking every inch the rock'n'rollers they were! We were amazed.
Soon, the headliners took to a blacked-out stage with only the glow from the drummer's cigarette revealing his presence. Rat Scabies was, and still is, his name and he was a monster behind the kit. Dave Vanian then arrived, doing the splits mid-air; flanked by new recruits Roman Jugg and Bryn Merrick (hardly the dream line-up, now I think of it!) and off we went. From the opening salvo of 'Curtain Call' through 'Love Song', 'Smash it up' and 'New Rose', it was a blur but an incredible, exciting, mind-altering blur. The noise, the lights, the screaming audience and the whole beautiful, freakish nature of the event was overwhelming. It was clear - my life was changed forever!
We staggered out after the last encore, witnessing a punk-rock-riot started by two girls outside on the pavement, and simply wallowed in the glory of the night. Our chaffeur waited '... around the corner... ' as promised and we were ferried back home, with ringing in our ears and huge grins on our faces!
Since then, my mother has said she's never seen four happier, gob-smacked boys in all her life. Yup, we'd made the right decision alright.
Vic Galloway
