You looked like self-belief in a mini dress, the equal of anyone
Here, in an excerpt from My Rock’n’roll Friend, Tracey Thorn describes her first, life-changing encounter with Lindy Morrison
Do you remember how it began? I do, so clearly: March 31, 1983, backstage at the Lyceum in London.
I was in my dressing room sitting in front of the Hollywood-style bulbs surrounding the mirror – uncomfortably bright lights which showed up the tattered glamour of a faded old theatre, dust motes swirling in the air, a wornout sofa, a carpet that had seen better days, a window that didn’t open, stale air.
My band the Marine Girls were about to play a gig supporting Orange Juice. Also on the bill were The Go-betweens.
I was terrified and out of my depth, unused to dressing rooms, sound checks, gigs in London, all of it. In my second year at university, but still a small-town girl at heart, little more than a child. My band was drifting and splitting, our friendships fracturing, and I felt myself coming apart, beginning to wonder who I was, and what I wanted.
Earlier that afternoon I’d been brought close to
tears by my first ever encounter with a road crew. Now I was feeling lost and lonely, staring at myself in the mirror. I hated my hair. I hated my outfit. I hated my reflection.
The dressingroom door opened. A breeze. The air changed. Then someone speaking at the top of her voice. Your first words were: “Has anyone here got a lipstick I can borrow?”
I looked up to see blonde hair and a Lurex dress. A tall, angular woman, who seemed to reflect the light, or perhaps you had your own internal source.
You didn’t look like you’d ever been scared to go on stage, or felt judged by your own bandmates, or been browbeaten by a road crew. You looked like confidence ran in your veins. You looked like self-belief in a mini-dress, the equal of anyone.
I can’t remember what I said. I fear that I stared. I tentatively held out a lipstick. Who was this woman?