Tracey Thorn is a musician and writer, best known as one half of Everything but the Girl. She writes the fortnightly “Off the Record” column for the New Statesman. Her latest book is Naked at the Albert Hall.
As the KGB man tries to flee through a Moscow station, he is thwarted by crowds on their way to a pop concert, and thus I was almost responsible for the end of the world. Possibly.
On the street a woman passes me wearing a badge that reads, “I believe you Christine Blasey Ford.”
No one wants to become a slave to a past self. And there comes a point when glossy black hair is at odds with the increasing lines and wrinkles.
There is sand and pebbles and shells, but also the detritus of hundreds of years, stuff that has been chucked carelessly over the river wall.
My beginnings were as independent as you can get: if you sent a postal order to my home address, my parents’ home address in fact, I’d post you a cassette.
My youngest, aged 17, breezed off to catch the train to the Fringe, relaxed and insouciant, “It’ll be fine, Mum”.
From Joshua Gamson’s The Fabulous Sylvester, I learnt of the birth of the San Francisco gay scene and the counterculture of the late 1960s.
I know protesting doesn’t change anyone’s mind, but it’s about sending a message.
This current spell of weather has locked me into a full-on revival of that glorious year of pop.
No music ever sounds as good as in the back of a cab speeding across the Thames in the dark, lights blurred and rushing towards you.
