Ghosts Were Dancing Too
·
Five o'clock, and Brighton's cooking. Heat's wedged itself between the buildings like it's paying rent there. Tarmac gone soft and sticky, the whole place reeking of hot pavement, spilled lager and someone else's sun cream. Every street funnelling up towards Preston Park is rammed with people in black.
Gary Numan - Inside the Black Heart of the Machine
·
On England’s southern shore, the wind tastes of salt and prophecy. The queue curls outside the venue from early afternoon, heavy with the sense that what’s about to happen isn’t just a gig. The Numanoids are there, faithful as pilgrims of a shadowy cult: boots, eyeliner, black coats worn thin by too many nights and too many miles. Some carry the scars o…