1Oth OF MAY 1978:
Ross picked me up from the rat & flea flat by the Taff in his old
Avenger & we drove North leaving the city behind, heading for the
hills, clean air & the sweet grass of Crickhowell.
It was dark by the time we reached the cottage. The drummer opened
the door, suspicious as ever, bursting into a beam, but seeing
through us with stoner eyes.
“Hey Men, come in – kettle’s on”
I don’t remember why we were there, maybe Ross was troubled by the
way the band still ‘wasn’t’ sounding right, maybe he just wanted to
get us away from the pressure & decay for a few hours of road bonding
& music. We sat around the drummer’s open fire burning our knees but
unwilling to flinch, feeling un-invited, like we’d caught the world
with it’s trousers (you wont catch me with me trousers!) everything
a little out of place & out of sync, unprepared for our rude arrival
on a weekday.
“It’s really weird to see you here guys”
The kettle whistled on a loop, tea without milk was drunk revealing
archeological stains as we let our clothes & hair soak up the rich
soporific aroma of wood smoke & something primevally good. Somewhere
along the road we’d stopped & bought booze so I could get loose & let
the city fall away.
“It’s Karleeto’s Birthday!” Ross announced, breaking the ice.
“21!”
“Wow, 21!” the drummer sounding normal as he said it, a genuine
human smile lighting up a face, shiny eyes framed by hair in all
directions.
“I haven’t got you anything Man, I’m sorry, if I’d known…..”
He trailed off
“Wait a minute…”
Disappearing into a disused store out back he retuned with
an LP in his hand, grinning.
“Haven’t heard this in years, used to love it, played it all
the time, I was going out with this girl… No idea if it even plays.”
He slipped the vinyl out & handed me the iconic sleeve – a lo-rez
crotch shot of a pair of jeans with a real working zipper!
Holding it for the first time, feeling the thrill, the fizz, the
electricity, it’s dark lineage jumping up my fingers felt good,
whispered to me – the call of the dark-side, cool sleaze & crossed lines,
everything magically dirty & alive.
We probably stayed all night, crashing under blankets as usual & left in
the morning to get Ross to work on time & me to college, both crumpled &
a little stained. I remember hitting that sweet spot though, blissed out
on something bottled with that song going round & round & a deep
identification with something sad & broken, that I would one day learn to
shake off, but for now…pass me that bottle…
“White White Horse Couldn’t drag me away…”
(K)
Karl Hyde 
was that “white white horse” pure?