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powerhouse past


We would filter across New Farm Park, all of us coming from different directions, in the dead of the night. We had our guitars on our backs, sticks tucked into the tops of our pants. We would gather at the old power station and exchange cigarettes before stealing inside to claim the stage. It was a derelict structure, partly demolished, reeking of homelessness and dissidence. But it was the perfect arena. Our chords would ring out through the building, bounce between beams and amplify in the vast space above our heads. Mostly the cops left us alone. Otherwise we just pissed off and came back the next week anyway. One poor guy, always in the same back corner by the stairs, with this musty fur jacket draped over his shoulders in winter or summer, he might have been our biggest fan. He never said a word but when we played he always raised his head and moved it a little in time. The last time we played though he wasn’t there. I think that’s when we knew it was the end.

Find out more about this Hello Sunday article.

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