Chapter Two - 1994

Alien flicked up the collar of his coat in a futile attempt to fight against the rain. Brighton rain never falls straight down. The wind off the English Channel always finds its way through the mazey streets. Forcing the rain to fall diagonally. Alien smiled as he considered that he always seemed to be walking directly into it.

 

He turned on to Upper North Street which ran parallel to Western Road. Western road was one of the main shopping streets in Brighton. It was a long street that ran between Brighton and Hove. Leading a bemused shopper through Tie Rack, McDonalds, HMV and Virgin Record and down to Churchill Square. A huge grey concrete shopping centre built by a non descript architect of the drap seventies. Western Road was too gaudy and busy for Alien as he navigated another black Wednesday. The crushing low after the weekend’s soaring high.

 

Alien looked down and let the rain soak into his black and empty soul. He glanced over at the houses that lined the road. They were large three story houses. Kind of regency terracing, most in need of some repair. Like so many in Brighton most of these places had been converted into flats. Upper North Street had that kind of timeless feel though. Although apparently it had homed shops and businesses years ago it felt like it hadn’t changed in years.

 

On the corner of Clifton Place sat The Windmill pub. A favourite for Brightonians as it is sat away from the main thoroughfares and the promenade. Away from the greedy eyes of seagulls and tourists alike. Who am I kidding though? Ther is nowhere in Brighton that is away from fucking seagulls. They were everywhere around the town. Even to the point where Brighton’s hapless football team was nick names after them. Alien eyed The Windmill with temptation. Not open yes bit perhaps someone would have enough cash later on for a cheeky pint. Maybe someone would be collecting their dole this morning and be feeling a little flush.

 

He turned to climb the little hill that Clifton Place ascended. Happy to be turning away from the rain and into the pathetic protection of a Brighton side street. As he reached the end of Clifton PLace he glanced along Clifton Terrace. He had long dreamed of owning one of these immaculately whitewashed houses that look over the park and kind of lording it over this part of town. During the spring these houses seemed to sparkle against the grey and grime of their surrounding streets. Window boxes of exuding life and colour proudly chirping against the white canvas

 

As he headed north away from town the white houses became grubbier and the streets less loved. More of these delightful regency houses had been converted into flats and rented to students, and creative types around the fringes of society. The beautiful people as Moony had once described them to Alien. This was Brighton through and through. The respectability and opulence of Clifton Terrace and the grand houses of Dyke Road were the jewels of Brighton. This meant that these streets were the veins are arteries pumping the lifeblood of the city from its beating heart. Brighton was a town to party in and without the people making it happen you might as well be in a sterile seaside town like Eastbourne. Brighton always walked the line between seedy party town and elegant resort for the rich and famous. Montpellier road just to the east of Alien connected and dissected these two worlds as is cut through Western Road and down to the beach. Head away past Waitrose and the shopping icons and you were met with the noise of bands and DJs practising in the hope of glittering careers are the faces of a town ready to explode.

 

Glassy eyed youths fell out of squats and cheap rented rooms nestled in the majesty of yet more crumbling regency splendour. Brighton was and always has been a town in flux. Learching between a decadent and opulent holiday resort and a seedy underworld of crime, drugs and counterculture. As it dragged its residents from one to the other, both worlds echoed through each other, lurking and hiding in plain sight like layer upon layer of ghosts from different times in an ancient haunted mansion.

 

Alien turned into Powis Square and up the crumbling stairs to number 42. Alien and the others worked here five days a week. Most things in their lives were negotiable but this was not. Rain or shine (not that it mattered) and no matter what state they were in they turned up for band. Stoned, drunk, tripping or coming down (most often) they practised for at least a while.  Alien pushed the door open and nervously stepped over the post scattered haphazardly on the worn carpet by the door. This was a doorway that was well used, for bands, parties, art shows and a myriad of other social events. 

 

The walls were decorated with local gig posters, arranged in inexpensive frames with artistic flair they told some of the house’s story. It was an amazing hall of fame to walk down, a dog whistle to the vibrancy of the ever changing Brighton nightlife and an ever present reminder of where Alien wanted to get: Echo and the Bunnymen, 1984 at the Brighton Centre; The Wedding Prestent, 1986, The Escape; Pop Will Eat It’self, 1987, The Richmond. As Alien progressed through the years and down in sight of the kitchen he could hear the bustling of his band mates and the welcome sound of their laughter.

Near the end of the hall way, it, like the rest of the country between the late eighties and early nineteens took a metaphorical sharp turn. It became overtaken by DJs and dancemusic bringing its self starkly up to date. The Shamen at the Zap in 1989 seemed to pave the way for a change into colages made up of fliers for raves and parties. In-ter-dance, Fantasia, Dance 90,91,92, Positive Sounds, Sterns, Boy’s Own. The list was long and comprehensive. These colourful works of art sat proudly dayglow among the more austier and serious black and white or swaril greys of thier indie poster cousins. Radiohead in 93 sat in bold black typeface in a white bubble floating in the black background just above the white text of the local support band Worldswirl. 

 

In a world turned technicolour by house music the indie scene seemed determined to cling to its grey, rainy raincoat roots. Some bands had of course followed New Order’s emergence as a colourful party butterfly emerged from the grey doom chrysalis of Joy Division so many years before. This was somewhat short-lived though and with shoegaze in the UK and grunge in the US alternative music had returned to its serious and joyless roots. 

 

As Alien slipped his coat from his back and smiled at the barrage of ‘hellos’ and ‘how are you?’s. Jo smiled and offered him warming and healing tea. She was an older face in the Brighton music scene, glamorous and otherworldly to Alien she was the creator of the hall of fame and her style seemed to take something from all its parts. Her black hair was piled roughly yet stylishly on her head. She smiled through elegant red lips. Alien smiled back and nodded his appreciation. He always felt a little intimidated by Jo as if her rich and cool history outweighed his own importance. She manoeuvred her tall and elegant frame past Mooney and kissed Alien warmly on her way to the kettle.

 

“So have you got anything for us?” Moony asked Alien, excitedly.

 

All eyes were on Alien and he bristeled with selfconscious nervous indignation. He felt like he was expected to walk in everyday with something new, every fucking day.

 

In response to the pressured question Alien mumbled something inaudible under his breath.

 

Moony laughed kindly and somewhat intrusively started to rifle through Alien’s bag. He knew very well that Alien was always cooking something up. The creativity flowed strong and lon in this one. Alien’s mum was steadily falling apart after the death of his dad and Alien himself was retreating into the hideout of his mind and it was working twenty four seven. Each visit yielded an array of ideas and suggestions for songs. The best of which usually found themselves here in his bag.

 

Jools sighs deeply as he recognised his cue to start setting up the gear. His eyes flare as they turn to Jon and he raises a hand in signal for them to go. This had long been the way of things. Alien and Moony threw around ideas while the ‘fucking drummer’ went and set up. Jools always laughed it off making typical drummer jokes . Too thick and too insensitive to do the intellectual arty songwriting but highly useful for lugging shit about. The resentment had been simmering under the surface for some time but now lately it had become more palpable, at least to Jools.

 

Jon obligingly jumped off the stool he was perched on against the kitchen bench. He was happy to go wth the flow. Not having been in the band for very long.

 

“Can you stay Jon? I want to show you something.”  Alien said quietly with out really looking up.

 

Jools stopped short. Anger rising through his guts and up his chest. He turned and went to speak but as he did he noticed that no-one was paying him the blindest bit of notice.He turned on his heel and walked purposefully towards the stairs down to the basement muttering to himself.

 

“Set up the fucking gear Jools. Hit things with bits of wood Jools. No need to try and use your brain Jools.”

 

He had been thinking of some ideas recently, why not follow what that Oasis band are trying, He knew his mates at football were into them. Maybe they could throw in some laddy attitude and some big choruses. It was similar to what they all sung on the terraces. Maybe it wasn’t new or fucking clever like the shit Alien writes but . . . 

 

Back upstairs Moony was looking carefully at two tapes he had taken out of Alien’s bag.

 

“How do we incorporate this kind of stuff into our tunes.” Alien earnestly enquired “I can hear these sounds in our songs . . . “

 

Moony flicked the tape boxes and smiled at his mate “Underworld and Orbital aren’t exactly our thing mate . . .  great albums these, but not really us!”

 

(Link to Part 2)