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BEATS OF LOVE

38. Spike Island by IDEA books 

PART1

SPIKE ISLAND as a glossy photo-document is not quite as historically significant as it claims to be. Sure, lots of us were there, but lots more weren't. My mates in the main found weekly clubbing too expensive and hardly ever went to gigs. They'll swear blind they were there to this day, but I was on my own that Sunday with my strawberry tucked inside my wallet, waiting for the coach. 

It was a sunny day, and I was only ever so slightly groggy after winding up in one of Drake Street's more lively drag-clubs the night before. My mates were intent on making sure I had the mother of all hangovers because truth be told, they were regretting not buying a ticket themselves, but thankfully I drank at my own leisurely pace. 

I was very concentrated on the journey down because I feared that I had to navigate my way back to that same coach in a much more senseless state. I wasn't keen on the uniform look of flares that covered most people's footwear, or their predictable long sleeve tee-shirts either, so I sat in my own headspace. 

Not that I was troubling the photographers Dave Swindells, Patrick Harrison and Peter J Walsh and Juergen Teller, whose sterling work is compiled in this great documentary book. I wore the ripped 501's, converse all-stars, and the Spacemen 3 tee, that had served me well at many a gig. However, I also resurrected a patterned Next jacket bought in the mid-eighties especially for the occasion. I still wasn't troubling the photographers.

Coz there were still a lot of suspect looking people like me about, I didn't want to be pissed or too out of my head either. I just took half a trip and sat on the grass people watching. The sound-system was too far away to really feel any grooves. 

Mid-afternoon soon arrived, and I felt thirsty, so queued up for my one and only pint. It took a fucking age and was warm by the time I finally began sipping it. I still couldn't hear the music over the general banter. At gigs and in underground night-clubs I was used to being surrounded by music-obsessives and half-cut but at Spike Island a lot of people who generally wouldn't go to gigs or underground night-clubs were instead soberly excited to attend a large-scale cultural event on their own door-step. And buy a Reni hat.  

By the time the DJs were a bit more audible, it was all getting a bit too regional. 'Manchester nah, nah, nah'  and all that shite. Some of my footy mates would've loved it but I decided to move nearer the stage in preparation for my remaining trip. I was mindful of the coach, but didn't want to be set too far back, either. I was also still mindful of how a crowd that size had a propensity for petty crime. 

PART 2

A LOT of the house music I was hearing sounded unfamiliar, but I was happy watching folk who moved unselfconsciously to it. I'm guessing these photographers were, too. I finally sat down tripping when I gave up finding any familiar faces. This wasn't Blackpool, this was much bigger-scale. Being alone definitely kept me in check coz I'd been used to being a bit of a casualty in longer sessions. I was finally on my feet and swaying about. I'm assuming Dave Haslam was playing because it began to sound a bit more like The Boardwalk. I was still young enough to feel genuinely excited.

My good mate Stu had spent one day working in an abattoir and had not eaten meat since. Well, once or twice he had. I also noticed that being a veggie was a good line with students, so I pretended to be one myself on the odd occasion I was out on my own. However, completely wigging out to the Perfecto mix of Beef wasn't such a good idea at Spike Island.   

Then Weatherall's epic Soon remix kicked in and so I was still in seventh heaven at just the time the Roses were hitting the stage. The rest, as they say, is history. The critics may have brought it down to size afterwards, but the sensation they created was truly electrifying and exhilarating. It can't be over-stated enough that so many people singing along to Elizabeth My Dear felt truly revolutionary.  

The coach was found with ease and these people who all looked the same on the journey down suddenly became much more individual in their state of excitement. The banter was lively right up until the coach stopping and we all knew we'd witnessed something pretty fucking special. Book-worthy? Dead right. 

I then crossed the road and saw Dennis from work, the oldest teddy boy in town, crooning and swaying wildly, as he gave me a big wave. 'The past is yours but the future's mine' I foolishly thought.