Kev was taking a dump or something so I shouted to him through the bathroom door. "Eight o’clock. OK? Just give them my name. You’ll be down as my guest."

A pause. "Hold on. That’s better," I heard from behind the door. "Are you sure I’m on the list, Dan?"

"You’re on the list. You’re my ‘plus one’."

"Are you sure you’re on the list, Danno?"

"I am on the fucking list, Kevvo. See you later." Ungrateful bastard.

I left our rented basement flat, went up on to Maybrook Road and made the short walk down towards Camden High Street. I was on my way to do an interview with Spindrone before reviewing their gig at the Red Swan. It was to be Spindrone’s opening night of their first European Tour and the gig was a sell-out. Spindrone was the new three-piece band formed by Jared De Novo after the split of his previous band, Motel Messiah, whose final album, ‘Five-Cornered Swerve’, had been one of the biggest indie successes of 1990. Big things were expected of Spindrone and, on the strength of just a couple of EPs so far, they were already being touted by the music press as one of the big names of 1991. The Melody Maker in particular had been giving them a big push, marvelling at De Novo’s enigmatic good looks and their ‘grunge meets shoegazing meets indie-dance’ sound.

Me, I was just doing a piece for my new fanzine, Area 52. In those days, it seemed like half the people in Camden were starting up their own fanzines, and I was no exception. Area 52 was my own little home-made music magazine, being put together in my spare time.

I was pleased at being able to get access to Spindrone at a time when there was so much interest in the band. The interview and review would really help the fanzine’s profile. Until now, the only material I’d managed to get together was a few live reviews of some also-rans and a lame interview with up-and-coming local band The Hyde.

As I reached Camden High Street, the early evening crowds were gearing themselves up for another big Saturday night. I crossed the High Street, noticing outside the tube station the tramp that I’d caught pissing on our next door neighbour’s front door for three consecutive mornings that week. As I went down Fulford Place, the Red Swan was ahead of me at the corner of Sherrington Road and Norbray Street. To the side was the entrance to tonight’s venue, The Downstairs Club. There were already a few people hanging around at the front, as a couple of bouncers put out a sign on the pavement: "Tonight. From Portland, Oregon, USA. Spindrone + Kryoshock + Guests. Sold Out."

I went round the back where some longhaired guy who I took for a roadie was sitting by the open stage door, listening to a Walkman and smoking a roll-up. Just inside, a smarter, older man was on a pay phone, pacing around in a little half-circle, shouting at somebody. I caught the roadie guy’s eye but he shook his head and pointed towards the front of the building.

I explained myself. "Hi. Er, No, it’s okay. I’m Dan from Area 52. They’re expecting me?"

"Whatever. OK." He gestured to me to come in.

As I passed the older man on the phone, he seemed to watch me very carefully, with a puzzled expression on his face, but carried on with his conversation, seeming to have calmed down a little.

I went down the stairs, past the empty bar and into the main hall. Bassist Karl Freudenberg and drummer Taylor Paulsen were sitting next to each other on the stage, their legs dangling over the front. I almost didn’t see singer/guitarist/songwriter Jared De Novo, sitting very still in the dark at the back of the stage, staring into the floor, his trademark mop of peroxide hair covering his eyes. I introduced myself to Freudenberg and Paulsen as I got out my tape recorder and notepad and set myself up.

"Nice T-shirt." Paulsen pointed at my chest. "The Hyde. Cool band. Jared bought that same T-shirt today from some stall on Camden Market."

Paulsen looked over his shoulder to De Novo and called him over. "Hey, asshole, come over here. Time to sell some records to your adoring public."

De Novo shuffled across to the front of the stage on his backside, like a crab, not bothering to get to his feet and walk. "Hey, nice shirt, dude," he managed to mutter as he looked up.

I then began what passed as an interview, asking some inane questions about the debut album they’d just finished in Seattle, how their sound had developed from that of Motel Messiah, their expectations for the European Tour, the way that the British music press were hyping them up. Nothing too challenging. Freudenberg and Paulsen did most of the talking. De Novo just chipped in now and again, mainly just to echo what his bandmates had already said.

After about ten minutes, while Paulsen was telling me about the finer points of his drum sound, De Novo suddenly lurched to his feet, looking very pale and unsteady.

"Oh man, oh man, oh man," De Novo intoned, before disappearing backstage.

"Is he OK?" I asked the others.

"I told him to lay off that shit," Freudenberg said to Paulsen before turning to me. "He’ll be OK, he just needs to, er, rest a little."

Paulsen smirked at this. "Life as an international superstar sure can get very tiring."

"Actually," added Freudenberg, "to tell you the truth, he’s been doing Ketatriclonol all fuckin’ afternoon."

I had never heard of this. Some drug, I assumed.

Paulsen seemed to sense my ignorance. "Ketatriclonol, man. KT. Katy. It’s the hot new shit in the States and Jared is, like, just, well, Jesus! He just can’t get enough of that stuff!" He turned to Freudenberg for help. "It’s from Guatemala or someplace like that?"

"I thought it had come out of some animal testing lab in Siberia?" suggested Freudenberg.

"No, man. Hong Kong? The point is, he’s gonna do something really stupid if he’s not careful."

"Will he alright for the gig?" I asked.

"Sure, as long as he’s got enough Syldopadrine to balance him out, level him off."

Paulsen second-guessed me again. "Syldopadrine. SPD. Sly."

"More hot new shit!" added Freudenberg helpfully.

Then, from backstage, walked in the man from the phone upstairs. "You two," he said to Paulsen and Freudenberg, "keep an eye on that jerk while I see if can save his fuckin’ life for the hundredth fuckin’ time this week."

He then turned to me "You Danny? Sven sent you? I was just talking to him. He said you could, er, help us out with our little difficulty."

"Well, I’m Dan, but I’m not–"

"Well, you got here quick, that’s the main thing. I’m Russell. Russell Nobles. I manage these clowns. Now, Sven recommended you very highly."

While I wondered who Sven was and what the hell this Russell guy was talking about, he offered his hand so I shook it.

"Listen, Russell, are you sure you’ve got the right person?"

"Danny, all I know is that if Sven sent you, you’re the right person, okay?" He gave me a knowing look. "We just need a little supply of SPD, just enough for a couple days. The bottom line is, if we don’t get it, we’re in deep shit here Danny. We got America’s leading ambassador for the latest developments in synthetic drug abuse back there, and a whole load of eager young kids starting to line up around the block."

"Russell, I’m really not sure I can help you."

"Jesus, Danny, you must know people, or people who know people?"

Before I could protest any further I realised that I did know people, or people who knew people. So I got my stuff together and told Russell that I’d be back very shortly.

Upstairs, in the bar of the Red Swan, I was relieved to see Kev and his mate Pete, just breaking into their first pints. Kev saw me coming and looked at his watch.

"You’re early. Short interview?"

"A bit shorter than planned." I leaned in towards him. "Listen Kev, I need a favour."

Pete sniggered. "What, your pen ran out?"

I ignored Pete and turned to Kev. "Come over here." I dragged Kev into a quiet corner. "Do you know what Ketatriclonol is? KT? Katy? The new drug? From the States?"

"I might have heard of it. Why?"

"What about Syldopadrine? SPD?"

"Might have. What’s this about, Dan?"

"I need some."

"Danno, you dark horse. I didn’t think that was your thing."

"It’s not for me, I can assure you. But I need some Syldopadrine. Now."

Kev could sense my urgency. "Whoa, Panic Boy. You can explain yourself later. To be honest, Dan, I’ve never heard of either of those. Not my bag. Tell you what, though, Hollywood Dave might be our man. I’ll give him a bell. He’ll be stocking his shelves for tonight’s little wholesale and retail activities around town so its a good night to catch him."

Kev went over to the payphone next to the bar and made his call while I bought a pint and waited with Pete.

Kev returned a couple of minutes later, shrugging. "Well, he’s not sure exactly what you were talking about, but he says he can do you some Monkey, some SLMA, some Moscow Reds, some Beaster, or maybe some Piss."

"Piss?!" Pete spluttered into his drink.

"Piss. Psislephronal, or something. Apparently. Sound any good?" Kev asked me.

Pete interrupted again. "Any of that lot’ll do me if he’s not interested," he smiled, then drained the last of his lager.

As I wondered what to do next, I could just make out the sound of a siren above the noise in the pub, getting louder and then stopping, very near. Without saying anything to Kev and Pete, I made my way outside and round the corner towards the stage door. An ambulance had just parked there. I caught sight of the paramedics heading in though the door. I tried to follow them but the roadie guy was there and this time he was having none of it. He physically blocked my path and then pushed me away. I retreated and decided to try around the front instead. As I passed the ambulance, I saw that tramp again. This time he was pissing against the far side of the ambulance. He recognised me and waved cheerily.

At the front entrance of the club, a large crowd was being dispersed by the bouncers, while another doorman scribbled "CANCELLED" over the pavement sign and the posters in the doorway. I heard the siren again and turned round to see the ambulance tearing off in the direction of University College Hospital.

The first issue of Area 52 was completed and rushed out to a couple of local record shops within a fortnight. The first run of 500 copies sold out in about three days and I needed to print off another 2,000 after that as several other shops got interested. I shouldn’t have been that surprised. There were plenty of people wanting to read the final Spindrone interview before Jared de Novo’s tragic early death. I was even interviewed about it all myself, by the NME. The interest in the fanzine was enormous after that. Shops were telling me that customers kept asking them when the next issue was coming out and what would be in it.

But the first issue was also the last. First there was the new policy at work about abuse of the photocopying facilities, then I got promoted and I just couldn’t afford the time. In the end things just drifted and I lost motivation. Ketatriclonol never really took off as a recreational drug, while Jared De Novo and Spindrone were quickly forgotten, of course. Even in Camden.

END