No more heroes | 1 November 2012

The Wharf is an unpretentious venue in Tavistock which offers a menu of entertainment whose criteria are difficult to fathom but are probably linked to the fact that Tavistock is near Plymouth and therefore miles from anywhere and quite an arse to get to. I saw a fat girl in an anorak screaming out loud with excitement at a poster advertising The Wurzels, so there isn’t too much going on for the under sixties. The venue stands 300 and seats about 30, which is pretty much what Hugh Cornwell would have been playing to when the Stranglers first drove their van around pubs in Guildford. All those years ago. He was old then. As a teenager doing A-levels I remember being more shocked by the fact that he was 30 than by the fact that he shouted out the word clitoris on Rattus Norvegicus. Cornwell is 63 now so he probably spends a lot of time trying to find his reading glasses. He might even garden. Some people do, I believe. Even old cool ones.

I paid the 22 quid for a seat. I didn’t want to stand when I was 17 and I don’t want to now. The live music experience is stressful and nauseating enough without adding to the physical discomfort. A seat near the fire exit is what I like. Then and now. And then I was a rock critic! Punk was impossible for that — wedged in the middle of a weird homoerotic scrum — we girls looking amazing — loving the queue — loving the shoes — loving the drink and drugs — stalking Paul Simenon down the King’s Road — but the live music itself (the noise) was always fairly unpleasant when played in small venues.

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Nigel Jones

Walking, not working out, is the best exercise

The Stranglers were a perfect band — they had Jet Black (now 70, he wears an oxygen mask for his publicity photographs; I hope I’m that funny when I’m 70); they had Dave Greenfield on keyboards which meant the arrangements had texture; they had Jean-Jacques Burnel, who was fabulous looking and quite violent and you can’t ask for more from a bassist.