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What are you reading at the moment? he asked me. Vanity of Duluoz by Jack Kerouac, I said (I fluffed it). Bullshit, he said. Don’t tell me, he said. Charles Bukowski. William fucking Burroughs. Patti fucking Smith. Jim fucking Thompson. Hermann fucking Hesse (Bullshit von fucking Bullshit). Try thi…

[...] I would be coming home depressed and of course even these kinds of issues were anathema to Mary, she was one of those people who would just create without a second thought. At this point I had a flat in town. A bedsit with a bed built up on legs and underneath it a workspace where I would pai…

I would say that Mary was in about fifty per cent of the best groups to come out of Airdrie in the middle 1980s. She was certainly in demand. At first some people speculated that she was a lesbian. But it was more that she was just aloof. How did I meet her? Well, I am glad you asked that question …

[...] But it ended up where I was going to these … clubs … these … bunkers … really these fallout shelters … because that’s what it felt like … I’d be sitting in the dark watching this punk group … going through the motions … acting gobby … playing three chords … staggering through a bunch of songs…

We cottoned on early that there were certain bars that the musicians liked to hang out in and certain cafes too but most of them are long gone so it would be pointless to tell you about them and heartbreaking too, the booths with the torn leather seats, the shakers stopped up with damp clusters of …