On the afternoon of 11 September, Pulp were rehearsing in a complex on Brewery Road, north London. We were preparing to play at a special concert organised to mark John Peel's 40th year in broadcasting. One of our road crew came into the room and mumbled something about some "plane business in New York" but we didn't take much notice. Then he came back in five minutes later carrying a small portable TV, and said: "I think you'd better look at this."
The room where we were rehearsing had a window all along one wall, giving a panoramic view of London's skyline. It was a beautiful, sunny day and, given what we saw on TV, it seemed only a matter of time before a jumbo jet ploughed into one of our buildings. Everything had changed. Aeroplanes were now weapons, rather than a means of transport. Landmark buildings could collapse in minutes. We had been waiting for the new century/millennium to define itself and now it had - and the outlook was not good. The outlook was heavy. We stopped rehearsing and went to the pub.