WEST BROMHICH: 

A night club, early 70’s, small stage, a few lights, 
acoustic tiles on a low ceiling. The man behind the bar
says, “You wont need all them boxes boys”. Clusters of 
table & chairs fill the room, a small dance floor close 
to the stage for tiny moves covered in the marks left 
behind by the passage of feet escaping the week, marking 
time. A door at the back of the stage leads to a tiny room, 
no windows, a few old chairs, a table, a mirror, a fluorescent 
light, a plug socket & a door with the sign FIRE EXIT.
We push it open, it’s not alarmed, craving fresh air 
& calm before the perfumed night oozes in off the street.
Theres a tiny strip of dirt, broken glass, discarded things
blown in by the wind & four feet away a wire fence
to stop us leaving, giving it the feel of a prison yard 
in miniature. 
We hang onto the fence, looking out across a carpark to a 
waste ground, push our fingers through the holes like 
they’re children we’re helping escape. You stare through the 
wire taking a drag on your cigarette,
“What a hole, who booked this?” you spit with familiar disdain 
through bitter lips, we turn & take the stage. 
The MAN is sat two rows back, flanked by respectful girls,
short dresses, pendulous earings & lashes, jacket draped around 
his shoulders, silver hair. 
“That’s him then?” you whisper, raising a concealed eyebrow
as we start, trying to act the part. One song in, the word comes 
back ‘the MAN says it’s too loud’. We dutifully notch it down, 
we’re on his turf, we lay it back, thin it out, radio 2 it. 
The Man nods in recognition, everyone relaxes, 
he controls the night again.

(K)