*see below
It was a warm night. I remember the second the lights went out, John went hurdling over the chairs and magically Chris and I did the same and in some amazing way, we came to land in the front row. The adrenelin made me feel I was in the Olympics or something. It felt effortless.
It was strange that the previous Bowie concert we'd been too was rows and rows of people imitating Bowie wearing glittery stuff. We were there in our punk kit. I remember I was in my favourite pink mohair. The opening was a rush. I still love that song Heroes. I had a funny friend who must have taken three buses to post the vinyl single through my letter box when i was at work one day. I could do without the Brecht tho. And I wouldn't dare tell you that at the time.
* last line reads: Nothing changes. Or does it? "Got to keep searching and searching and what will I believe in?" Whatever that will be, there's a feeling that it won't include many more live performances, though certain hints of limits reached and masks exhausted. Quo vadis, David Jones?
Jon Savage went on to write a "punk" book called "England's Dreaming." Not my favourite book, but you might like it.
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