Suede

Newport, 22nd May, 1993. Today is the anniversary of me going to see Suede.

I’m not having the best of springs. I’ve been made homeless and failed my finals. This was a direct result of me being dumped and losing contact with my baby son. My response to this cataclysmic turn of events is to throw myself headlong into a new and exciting lifestyle of getting blind drunk and experimenting with drugs. My network of friends, being themselves young and foolish too, are only too happy to accommodate this descent into chaos.

When I’m not wallowing in hungover self-pity or crashing on park benches/in farm outbuildings/on sofas/floors, I’m glued to my Walkman and, in particular, Suede. Their tales of drug abuse, suicide and squalor are wrapped in a winning package of glam-stomp and retro-sleaze. In short, more escapism. Anything to take me away from my life.

Anyway, one of our little gang managed to sort out tickets for Suede in Newport. 80 miles east of here. The biggest band in the country in the week their debut album tops the charts. It’s got to be better than another Saturday night watching sexually frustrated farmers kicking shit out of each other in Carmarthen town centre.

The night before the gig, having unintentionally soaked up more of that Suede album’s DNA than is perhaps necessary, is a riot of cross-dressing, speed, acid and break-ins. Hungover, we watch Death Race 2000 and Withnail and I to soak up the day.

Eventually, a convoy of crappy cars takes us down the M4. To Newport, a city more gangrene than glam. Despite the unpromising surroundings, every broken-hearted young outcast, every androgynous waif and stray in Wales has made their way to this village of damned. I am surrounded by kohl-faced minors, glitter bugs, pantomime drowners and insatiable horse fiends. It’s brilliant. Between gulps of smuggled-in vodka we are punishing ourselves with more chemicals.

Brett and Bernard walk on. The Next Life is the calm before the storm. Mat and Simon get on stage. Moving provides the adrenaline rush I’ve waited my whole life for. The hits keep coming. Animal Nitrate, Metal Mickey, The Drowners. Around me kids of indeterminate gender and uncertain futures are lost in a sea of ecstatic fumbling. Teenage Valleys boys scream along to lyrics about gay love and suicide. This is what rock and roll should be. Exciting, subversive, inclusive.

The drugs don’t work, they don’t need to. I’m high on the possibilities of life. Pop music has saved my soul. I’m going to turn it around, going to be alright, I’m going to make it.