Hammersmith and Shepherds Bush were our manors back in 1984. It was rare that we went further south than the Palais, further east than Ken Market, further west than the Ravenscourt Arms. Many weekends we would head up north to Camden of course, but mostly it was West London all the way.

I say ‘we’, but TMTCH emerged from a large, extended group of nighthawks, all down from somewhere else, all hungry to get stoned, loaded and buzzed, all haunting the same dingy clubs; everyone getting together and splitting up, falling in and out of every day. Money was short but time was long in Paradise West Twelve.

For a while we lived in a large 4^th floor flat just off Shepherds Bush Green. That was a cavernous and cold place. We’d neck Night Nurse flu syrup to get to sleep in the bitter nights. For punks who were drifting through town, our door was always open. Literally. I’d wake up and there would be 8 or 9 kids sleeping through the hallways, sparked out in their boots and leather jackets and green tipped mohawks. At one time there were so many of us living there we were dubbed The Ant Hill Mob.

One day I came back from my job down at the Harrods warehouse in Barnes to find parts of a motorbike laid out all over the hall carpet. A tall, gaunt kid was smearing oil and grease over bits of engine and the carpet. That was the first time I met Stefan Cush. Getting oil on the carpet was what he was all about……

A favourite trick of ours was to buy one ticket for the cinema down on the other side of Shepherds Bush Green. We’d hang out by the fire exit until the ticket holder crept down the back staircase to let us all in. That cinema was right next to the Shepherds Bush Empire where Terry Wogan did his TV chat shows for the BBC and where, 35 years later, we would finally headline our home manor to a sold out crowd 🙂 An emotional night.

We started busking down at Hammersmith subway, a warren of tunnels under the roundabout at the junction of King Street and Shepherds Bush Road. Pubs and bars cropped up through every street like berries on brambles; The Hampshire Hog, The Swan, The Brook Green, The Salutation, The Swakely, The British Prince, The Bushranger; hundreds of them. At closing time even the drunks lying face down on the bar would stand for the Irish anthem. And if they didn’t, they’d get a helping hand.

Music blew through those pubs and clubs like a high wind. Sam Cooke, The Fureys, Thin Lizzy, Eddy Cochrane, Patsy Cline, Marty Robbins, Kenny Rogers, Chuck Berry; all mixed in with the punk we first loved. We learned the songs we heard in those pubs and played them in the subways; we reflected the undergrowth we grew up in.

Anyway, it was on one of these busking sessions that a passer by stopped for a while to listen before offering a slot at a shindig happening up in Camden that night. The main attraction was a band who called themselves Poguemahone. And off we went into the sunrise 🙂

King Street Serenade is my tribute to those days and all those old friends.

Check out the song on Bandcamp.