I’ve been meaning, for some time now, to write about the Northern Lights, and the open mic I ran there with Joe. It’s proven a difficult task. On the one hand, I’m acutely aware of how easily it could descend into over-sentimentality. On the other, the urge to try and capture, in writing, something of its essence, keeps coming back to me. So, where to begin? Let’s start with Kroll.
Kroll were not exactly the musical highlight of three years at the Lights, but they did represent something just as valuable, a certain type of crazy. Kroll were two kids that looked about seventeen, one had the house guitar, the other a set of bongos. Kroll were high as a kite. Kroll were so high that they could hardly balance on their seats, let alone play any music. The bongo players nose was running heavily, a river of snot dribbling into his mouth, but he seemed totally unaware. Kroll never got through a whole song that night, but instead joined the long list of people that were simply too fucked to play. In the end, I ushered them off stage and made a joke into the mic, they thanked me for the passive aggression.
The Lights drew out the crazy in folks. The deal for running open mic included free beer. We did our best to max it out, wondering when we would get told enough was enough, but all the manager ever said was, ‘we want you to take the piss’. Increasingly, we took to burning our wages on Salmiakki for the room, and Joe began randomly pouring shots into people’s mouths as they performed. Salmiakki, Fisu, and Terva, that unholy trinity of Finnish poisons, kept the crazy train rolling.
Shots at ten do not often lead to bedtime at twelve. Back then, they led to late-night lock-in after jams, while down at the bar they blasted out ‘We Built This City’, probably just to drown us out. Later, we ended up in casino’s, karaoke dives, stranger’s houses, hostels, bars, at beach fires, in Casablanca’s downing one-pound Tequila, on street corners playing guitars until someone shouted at us - anywhere we could find to keep hold of the party, that was where we went. It wasn’t a healthy, sensible life, especially on a Thursday night when we had day jobs and were’t twenty-one anymore, but it was fun.
The Sway formed, and tightened, attempting to provide some kind of soundtrack to the chaos. The name came from our ability to get trays of shots beyond last orders – as in, we had sway with the bar. Electric 5 formed, and taught us the value of skin coloured leotards and light up boobs. They did a song wearing masks of my face, and I still have the nightmares.
We watched from the mixing desk as bands like Scandomando, Cattle & Roll, Broken Ears, and Meriel’s Secret, found their sound and their confidence. We watched as solo performers did the same, transitioning from nervous beginners to accomplished entertainers. And, amongst the carnage and the curvature, there were moments of raw, solid beauty. I am, of course, mostly thinking of Lou Myhill playing Beeswing, or Down Where the Drunkards Roll.
Not everyone shared our love of the Lights. A few years before we quit, the police tried to shut the place down. Their evidence included a statement from an undercover officer who had witnessed the bar staff downing shots and yelling, ‘let’s get fucking wasted’. There was also the charge of ‘vertical drinking’. The Lights had a restaurant licence, so drinking at the bar was technically a no-no. The campaign to save the place went international, and for one reason or another, the council never took action. If I remember correctly, somewhere in the region of seven thousand people had signed the petition to save it within twenty-four hours.
Each week, we arrived at the venue never knowing quite what to expect. We walked in on screenings of the ice hockey world cup, where gangs of Finnish women would scream ‘fuck you Belarus’ at the TV. During Juhannus (summer solstice), we walked in to find a wasted guy wobbling at the bar. We were told he had been drinking there for forty-eight hours.
We brought our own characters to the fold too. Ruff John got asked to harass some Americans into leaving, shortly before he started importing cocaine into Brighton marina. These were the days when Pamela danced on the tables, and Paul Black sat at the back, summoning the undead, where feuds were settled with folk-offs, and friendships were cemented in black vodka and trips down Quadrophenia alley, to the all-important, late-night off-licence.
Eventually, of course, wild things meet their end. The Lights was losing money fast, the deal had changed, a few dodgy people started to get under people’s skin, the bar manager moved on, my drunken sarcasm was starting to irk some people, and Ruff John got arrested again, this time for breaking Lou Myhill’s leg. Joe had a baby on the way, and the energy down the place had shifted in some fundamental, if intangible, way. We talked, and decided to call it quits. Not long afterwards, the Northern Lights closed its doors for the final time. The scene fell apart, and people moved on. The Sway split, and my longest relationship came to an end. Joe’s baby was born, and Ruff John ended up in Hull prison. It was the end of an era.
These days, down at the Fortune of War on the seafront, I still run an open mic, and Joe still pops in on most weeks. We still hit the late-night bars from time to time, Lou Myhill still plays Beeswing, and Pamela is still the Queen of wherever we end up. There is still some of the madness, and plenty of beauty, but the Fortune is writing its own story - it’s a more relaxed and grounded one, and that's no bad thing. The Lights came at a very specific point in many peoples lives, points that are now gone. On a personal level, the last few years have been hard, like pretty hard, and I leave them a little older in body and mind. Not only is it not possible to return to those crazy days, but I wouldn’t really want to.
The Lights meant a lot to a lot of people, and I have written this short, ridiculous eulogy with that in mind. Hopefully I haven’t wondered too far into pretension, even if I am going to finish by quoting some Richard Thompson lyrics. Anyway, you can only try. See you out there folks.
They say her rose has faded
Rough weather and hard booze
Maybe that's the price you pay
For the chains that you refuse
She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
I miss her more than ever, words can say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
I wouldn't want her any other way
(from Beeswing)
Kroll were not exactly the musical highlight of three years at the Lights, but they did represent something just as valuable, a certain type of crazy. Kroll were two kids that looked about seventeen, one had the house guitar, the other a set of bongos. Kroll were high as a kite. Kroll were so high that they could hardly balance on their seats, let alone play any music. The bongo players nose was running heavily, a river of snot dribbling into his mouth, but he seemed totally unaware. Kroll never got through a whole song that night, but instead joined the long list of people that were simply too fucked to play. In the end, I ushered them off stage and made a joke into the mic, they thanked me for the passive aggression.
The Lights drew out the crazy in folks. The deal for running open mic included free beer. We did our best to max it out, wondering when we would get told enough was enough, but all the manager ever said was, ‘we want you to take the piss’. Increasingly, we took to burning our wages on Salmiakki for the room, and Joe began randomly pouring shots into people’s mouths as they performed. Salmiakki, Fisu, and Terva, that unholy trinity of Finnish poisons, kept the crazy train rolling.
Shots at ten do not often lead to bedtime at twelve. Back then, they led to late-night lock-in after jams, while down at the bar they blasted out ‘We Built This City’, probably just to drown us out. Later, we ended up in casino’s, karaoke dives, stranger’s houses, hostels, bars, at beach fires, in Casablanca’s downing one-pound Tequila, on street corners playing guitars until someone shouted at us - anywhere we could find to keep hold of the party, that was where we went. It wasn’t a healthy, sensible life, especially on a Thursday night when we had day jobs and were’t twenty-one anymore, but it was fun.
The Sway formed, and tightened, attempting to provide some kind of soundtrack to the chaos. The name came from our ability to get trays of shots beyond last orders – as in, we had sway with the bar. Electric 5 formed, and taught us the value of skin coloured leotards and light up boobs. They did a song wearing masks of my face, and I still have the nightmares.
We watched from the mixing desk as bands like Scandomando, Cattle & Roll, Broken Ears, and Meriel’s Secret, found their sound and their confidence. We watched as solo performers did the same, transitioning from nervous beginners to accomplished entertainers. And, amongst the carnage and the curvature, there were moments of raw, solid beauty. I am, of course, mostly thinking of Lou Myhill playing Beeswing, or Down Where the Drunkards Roll.
Not everyone shared our love of the Lights. A few years before we quit, the police tried to shut the place down. Their evidence included a statement from an undercover officer who had witnessed the bar staff downing shots and yelling, ‘let’s get fucking wasted’. There was also the charge of ‘vertical drinking’. The Lights had a restaurant licence, so drinking at the bar was technically a no-no. The campaign to save the place went international, and for one reason or another, the council never took action. If I remember correctly, somewhere in the region of seven thousand people had signed the petition to save it within twenty-four hours.
Each week, we arrived at the venue never knowing quite what to expect. We walked in on screenings of the ice hockey world cup, where gangs of Finnish women would scream ‘fuck you Belarus’ at the TV. During Juhannus (summer solstice), we walked in to find a wasted guy wobbling at the bar. We were told he had been drinking there for forty-eight hours.
We brought our own characters to the fold too. Ruff John got asked to harass some Americans into leaving, shortly before he started importing cocaine into Brighton marina. These were the days when Pamela danced on the tables, and Paul Black sat at the back, summoning the undead, where feuds were settled with folk-offs, and friendships were cemented in black vodka and trips down Quadrophenia alley, to the all-important, late-night off-licence.
Eventually, of course, wild things meet their end. The Lights was losing money fast, the deal had changed, a few dodgy people started to get under people’s skin, the bar manager moved on, my drunken sarcasm was starting to irk some people, and Ruff John got arrested again, this time for breaking Lou Myhill’s leg. Joe had a baby on the way, and the energy down the place had shifted in some fundamental, if intangible, way. We talked, and decided to call it quits. Not long afterwards, the Northern Lights closed its doors for the final time. The scene fell apart, and people moved on. The Sway split, and my longest relationship came to an end. Joe’s baby was born, and Ruff John ended up in Hull prison. It was the end of an era.
These days, down at the Fortune of War on the seafront, I still run an open mic, and Joe still pops in on most weeks. We still hit the late-night bars from time to time, Lou Myhill still plays Beeswing, and Pamela is still the Queen of wherever we end up. There is still some of the madness, and plenty of beauty, but the Fortune is writing its own story - it’s a more relaxed and grounded one, and that's no bad thing. The Lights came at a very specific point in many peoples lives, points that are now gone. On a personal level, the last few years have been hard, like pretty hard, and I leave them a little older in body and mind. Not only is it not possible to return to those crazy days, but I wouldn’t really want to.
The Lights meant a lot to a lot of people, and I have written this short, ridiculous eulogy with that in mind. Hopefully I haven’t wondered too far into pretension, even if I am going to finish by quoting some Richard Thompson lyrics. Anyway, you can only try. See you out there folks.
They say her rose has faded
Rough weather and hard booze
Maybe that's the price you pay
For the chains that you refuse
She was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing
I miss her more than ever, words can say
If I could just taste all of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
I wouldn't want her any other way
(from Beeswing)