The Iguanas - all seven of them
The Iguanas - all seven of them
“We’re like a tropicana Doors,” young Ali enthused as he was trying to persuade me to book his Bristol band for a gig at De Koffie Pot. I was immediately sold, my mind tripping off on what might have happened to Jim Morrison if in fact he hadn’t died but had made a crafty escape to Brazil and ended up in Manaus or perhaps on Copacabana Beach. The women, the feathers, the ayahuasca. Those leather trousers would be pretty rank in that climate though.

Having booked The Iguanas I wondered whether they would live up to the promise of the description and then worried how we could cram seven musicians into the space. The truth was that I needn’t have worried, sure there was a touch of Doors-type keyboards and a hint of Latin that made The Iguanas sound a bit like The Doors on holiday, but actually their sound was more Afrobeat and stompingly good fun.

The night they played was a warm-up for a slot at Glastonbury and the art students were out in force having finished for the summer. It turned out to be a steaming night of fevered dancing, so good that I had hoped to have them play again for my January birthday party. Unfortunately, their singer quit and so they cancelled.

The Iguanas are dead! Long live the Iguanas!! Here’s waiting for their next incarnation.

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When Richard Met Debbie

Everybody knows the story of my meeting with Patti Smith but she’s not the only one of the artists of the New York underground scene of the late 1970s who I’ve met. Yes, of the CBGB centred scene-makers, I’ve also talked to John Cale and Richard Hell, exchanged grunts with Tom Verlaine and hung with Lenny Kaye. OK I confess to having engineered these encounters, mainly by blagging my way backstage, but my coming face-to-face with the Queen of NYC cool, Debbie Harry, that was totally unexpected.

When Richard Met Debbie

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