44. The 1975

Brixton Academy

11 January 2014

There’s something almost spiritual about heading to a gig alone. Just you, the music, and maybe, just maybe, some kind of transcendental connection with the artist. Or so I told myself.

In truth, when my mate bailed, I should’ve taken it as a cosmic warning. But no, I was committed. Stiff upper lip. Onward, into the cold Brixton night, to see The 1975. Back in their early days, when they were still trying to convince the world they were more Joy Division than Imagine Dragons. (Spoiler from 2025: they weren’t. They really, really weren’t.)

The venue was already heaving when I arrived, and immediately I realised something was wrong: I was ancient. This wasn’t a gig. This was a youth convention with a backing track. The crowd glowed, not metaphorically, but literally. The sea of raised iPhones lit the room like a mass alien abduction in progress. I felt like someone’s lost dad who’d wandered into the wrong building whilst looking for the school disco.

Seeking refuge and a touch of dignity, I retreated to the bar. I asked for red wine. The bartender, with dead eyes and a smirk that said “We don’t serve your kind here, Grandpa,” handed me a tiny plastic bottle of… Black Tower.

Yes. Black bloody Tower. The wine that haunted the 1980s like Saxon posters and the promise of social mobility. A beverage once marketed as aspirational sophistication for Thatcher’s middle classes, but which in reality tasted like regret. I took a sip. Notes of cherry and oak? Try vinegar and broken dreams. It was less a drink and more a liquid apology from history.

Meanwhile, The 1975 had launched into their set. I drifted to the back, trying not to look like I was there to pick up my daughter from the school concert. A group of goths were dancing nearby, long black coats, eyeliner, questionable footwear choices. I gave them space. They didn’t return the favour. At first, they inched closer. Then closer. I made a subtle escape manoeuvre, only for a rogue hand to emerge from the black-clad maelstrom and pinch my arse. I froze. Turned. My prime suspect: a large goth girl, avoided my gaze with a kind of forced nonchalance. It was her. It had to be.

At this point, The 1975 were deep into another polished slab of radio-ready rebellion. The crowd screamed. I felt like I’d wandered into a Spotify algorithm. Between the crowd, the wine, and the unsolicited goth assault, I’d had enough. I slipped out into the cold Brixton air like a man escaping the scene of a crime, which in reality, I was.

The 1975 were never going to be my thing: too sleek, too calculated, too desperate to be iconic. And as for the night? It stands as a cautionary tale, etched into my memory like the taste of Black Tower.

Never trust a band with a number in their name. Never trust wine that comes in a bottle small enough to be mistaken for shampoo. And always, always, watch out for the goths