Carl Yaxley
The first gig. It’s a rite of passage for any teenage music obsessive. It was 1982 and Stiff Little Fingers were at the UEA in Norwich. I was approaching my 14th birthday and SLF (alongwith The Jam) were my reason for being. My mate Charlie and I sandwiched geography and maths with giddy analysis of Fingers’ lyrics and chord changes weeks before Jake Burns and the boys popped our gig cherries.
I walked to the UEA - a concert mecca in Norfolk in the eighties - in my gig uniform. Baggy jumper sta-prest trousers and Doc Martens. Charlie wore the same. The proper punks were there although the NME told me the Now Then album had alienated the Mohican set.
It was a sell out. It was all I thought it would be. Loud, hot, sweaty and bruising. They played all the songs I loved and knew inside out apart from one. Jake told the moshing punks: “We’re not fucking playing Alternative Ulster”. My heart sunk. I loved this band but I felt betrayed. It was SLF’s anthem.
They succumbed in the encore and my sister’s boyfriend advised me to watch from the side because “it might get a bit tasty”. It was. But they played that song and too many more to remember even when I was reliving every moment in English lit the following day. I walked home with the sweat drying on my skin and my ears ringing. Thanks Jake. Thanks Henry. Thanks Ali. Thanks Dolphin. Dolphin!
Fingers split up the following year in 1983. This year the band is celebrating its 35th anniversary and I bet they still play Alternative Ulster.
