Free Touching From a Distance by Deborah Curtis Page B

the next morning. That night Ian ripped his leather jeans to shreds, but I was able to stitch them and make them wearable. Despite the condition of the jeans, I assumed his legs would have been all right. In fact they were so badly cut he undressed in the dark that night so I wouldn’t see. I suppose Ian’s stage persona had already begun to get out of hand, but he obviously didn’t want me to see him like that. The performances I saw were nowhere near as frenzied.
    Ian was excited when they were offered the support gig with Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers at Rafters. That night was the first time Warsaw were ever called back for an encore and whatever they did after that, it never matched that specific feeling of elation and pride I had that night. From then on, gigs became more available and slightly further afield, including Eric’s in Liverpool.
    We prepared the triangular room of our new home for the composing of Ian’s forthcoming masterpieces. He painted the walls sky blue, the carpet was blue, the three-seater settee was blue, as were the curtains. The only concession was the bright red spotlights and, later, a red telephone. He kept the old stereogramme in there too. Ian had nocraving for a hi-tech music system; it didn’t seem to matter to him what he played his records on. We barely set foot in the streets of Macclesfield and as such our social life remained centred around Manchester.
    Most nights Ian would go into the blue room and shut the door behind him to write, interrupted only by my cups of coffee handed in through the swirls of Marlboro smoke. I didn’t mind the situation; we regarded it as a project, something that had to be done. Neither did I inspect his work. I never doubted that his songs would be anything but superior.
    The majority of Macclesfield youngsters were still listening to heavy rock music. Rural life and fashion was at least ten years behind anything that might have been happening in Manchester. The atmosphere was that of intense anticipation, as if a huge tidal wave was on its way and everybody was determined to be on it. The Ranch Bar in Stevenson Square was a favourite meeting place. If you walked down Market Street, you would always encounter one of the Buzzcocks or the Worst. Everyone seemed to congregate around the city centre. They were afraid of losing the momentum; scared of missing out on an impromptu meeting. No one waited to have their talents recognized. Instead, they decided what they wanted to do and did it, be it pop photographer, producer, journalist, or musician. It was a deliberate snub of the London scene and, as far as music was concerned, Manchester was set to become the new capital.
    Paul Morley was one of these hopefuls. To earn money he worked in a book shop in Stockport, but the love of his life was a fanzine called Out There, which concentrated on capturing the current exciting events happening around the area. Londoners finally realized that perhaps their city was no longer the centre of the Universe as they had previously thought, and Paul Morley found himself being asked to write about Manchester and its bands. He seized the opportunity and constructed a niche for himself. There was so much to write about, such a plethora of events, that he was able to push aside his initial shyness. Ian liked Paul Morley’s approach and at home he talked about him as if he was the key tothe band’s anticipated success.
    ‘We had the same interests and the same beliefs in the music and in what we wanted to do, the same dreams. The way I wrote about the group probably meant a lot to Ian. A lot of people thought it was indulgent and pretentious, but I meant it and I think Ian knew that. I always thought it was really funny because there was Ian up on stage singing intense songs and there was me writing about it intensely. And we wouldn’t talk about it, but it was always in the shadows.’
    Paul Morley
    In July 1977, the New Musical Express printed a two-page