I managed to be an undergraduate between the years 1966 and 1969 without ever being offered, or in the same room as, drugs, but in 1970, as a first-year post-grad, I finally managed to fall into good company, in the form of some decidedly unstraight flatmates, one of whom was dealing. There was a party in the back room every day and night, and I took to hanging out there and not joining in. I had a real aversion to the thought of smoking, but in the summer I succumbed to the lure of speed, enjoyed the fuck out of it, and in December of that year had my first hit of acid, and then a couple more. It would still be a year or two before I would smoke hash for the first time, but a wonderful world was opening uip, and I was just starting to use my camera.
Everyone featured here is a blameless individualk, but I changed their names in case they wanted to hide
Jem at Harbledown, Kent. We had taken a tab each of orange sunshine as we waited for the bus to Faversham, in the sure knowledge that it wouldn't come on until we got there. Except the bus was late, very late, and just as the neurons began to dance, up the hill towards us (this was on the A2, connecting Dover with the M2) ground three huge articulated lorries, all emblazoned on the side in letters seemingly 40 feet high and etched in flame, BRAIN HAULAGE. Oh how we giggled insanely. This picture taken moments before or after. I can't remember whether we actually got to Faversham.
I lived in this 15th-century house for a total of 15 months in 1971 and
1972. The top picture is on the westward facing flat roof at the back. That's me on the right, modelling the odd-socks-with-holes-in
look, Jim Boone on the left, Caroline in the middle, and Conrad at the
back.
And below's the front of the house, same personnel, except Jim's not there – he probably took this one – and I'm wearing my work clothes (I was teaching English to police cadets at the time) and have got an armful of a gorgeous redhead, sailor Greg. Oh, and that's Dave in the window. Hi, Dave. Has a kind of early ’70s folk band first album cover shoot out-take vibe about it, doncha think?
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Not Dan Dare
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And talking of lost legends in music, I present the the only known picture of the
legendary pre-punk conceptual Art-Rock Band, Not Dan Dare, which split up due to
irreconcilable differences about the rider before their first gig, and,
for that matter, their first rehearsal. They are seen next to a random
van in the St Radigund's area of Canterbury. These men have variously
gone on to be a gentleman farmer in Devon, a straight-edge financial
advisor living in London, a respected academic, author and
lexicographer, and dead at 38 of a heart attack while working as a repo
man in Cleveland, OH. If I recall correctly.
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Just visiting
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Hawkmoth, Shaky and I made a sentimental journey back to Kent in the mid 1990s, 20 years or so after we left it. Hawk is standing outside the house at Abbey Street; he was one of the original five living there, along with me, Con, Jem and Rosel. The hjouse next door was owned by a jazz critic. His entire fron room was floor to ceiling shelves of albums (maybe 78s, didn't get a close look). He often complained about the noise
