It was felt to be more ‘appropriate’ – in other words there were no punters. It was July. Baking hot. The streets were stinking and melting and full of crazies. Who in their right mind would want to go out? Or punish their ears in some sweltering basement club? Easier to stay home, in the shower, except the waterbugs were waiting. Detroit It was straight into action without the usual soundcheck foreplay. We hadn’t even seen the hired equipment yet. Bags set up the harmonium – that was the first useful thing we’d seen him do. The dormant instrument had a compact simplicity, like a deckchair – but one that would unfold into a logistical riddle in the hands of the uninitiated. With his backside mooning the already assembled audience of teeth-grinding speed-freaks and rock’n’roll loners, Bags would get the harmonium to stand freely for a few seconds; then, as he straightened up to leave, it would start to sway mournfully and slowly collapse in upon itself, playing dead. Bags’s parka hood would flop over his head as he repeatedly fought the innate guile of his ancient adversary.
