Free Suggs and the City: Journeys Through Disappearing London by Suggs

pretty much over by the time we first played the venue in 1979, but the Hope’s legendary status remained undimmed.
    The Hope was run by a bloke called John Eichler who took a bit of a shine to us despite us being a bunch of kids to whom the application of the term ‘rough and ready’ would’ve been bordering on kindness. As I’ve said, the basement bar was smaller than the Dublin and held no more than 50 people, I reckon, and this was in the days before half the population was clinically obese. We’d been going to the Hope long before we made a ripple on the local scene because - being the very discerning jukebox jury we felt we were - the choice of music on the old Wurlitzer was the best in town. In contrast to a bottle of Lambrusco, over time that jukebox got even better, as John allowed us to put our own selection of ska and Motown on it, and the Hope became our unofficial HQ.
    So, having begun our ascent up pop’s greasy pole, we decided the time had come to return John’s kindness by doing a gig at the Hope - for a fee, of course. I must confess I was slightly taken aback by the fact that he wanted to hear some of our material first and was downright shocked when the selection of dodgy rehearsal tapes we gave him failed to light his fire. He relented eventually, however, and gave us a gig. The fee he offered was 40 quid - a lottery-winning sum for us back then. Of equal importance was the fact that every band worth their rock salt had played here at one time or another; even stadium-fillers Dire Straits had graced its tiny stage the year before, playing to an audience of six plus a dog according to legend.
    We played the Hope and Anchor on 3 May 1979, which by some strange and unwished for coincidence was the very night Margaret Thatcher led the Conservatives to victory in the General Election. As we all know, this turn of events eventually led to unemployment and recession. In our case, that very scenario almost hit us with immediate effect following our debut at the Hope.
    The gig itself was great but, in a moment of madness, I happened to put my foot through a monitor on the stage which had a value of 40 quid or, as the rest of the band politely informed me, our fee to the last penny. But John, being the person he was, not only refrained from telling us to never darken his basement again, he also gave us an extra tenner so we had something to go home with. The Hope still puts on live music to this day, though John pulled up anchor long ago and now runs the fantastic Three Kings in Clerkenwell.
    Without having had the opportunity to play the pub venues, we certainly wouldn’t have made it, nor, I suggest, would just about any of the bands that made the charts in the 1980s. Henry Conlon (Alo’s son, who’s run the Dublin Castle for the past few years) made this point during a meeting with Tessa Jowell when she was Secretary of State for Culture. Henry went to Westminster as a representative of Camden’s licensees to discuss the onerous new licensing laws that had been proposed for live-music venues. While he was in the culture secretary’s office, Henry noticed a gold disc on her wall that had been awarded to Coldplay, whose first ever live gig had been at the Dublin and who had also graced the Hope. Henry thought he’d make a bit of a stand, given that his livelihood was being threatened by the new laws, so he pointed to the disc and asked her where she thought Coldplay and legions of other bands who’d contributed greatly to Britain’s culture and economy had started out. The answer was, of course, the music pubs. Many are facing last orders through redevelopment and, for some, time has already been called, such as the Tally Ho and the Falcon in my neck of the woods.

    During the summer of 1979 things really began to take off for the band and we signed to Stiff Records. But only after we played at a wedding reception at the Clarendon Ballroom in Hammersmith.
    The wedding in question was Dave