Two winters ago I found a box of seven-inch singles in a skip behind the old Locarno ballroom in Coventry. The sleeves were water-damaged but the vinyl still spun clean. Each one was pressed in black ink on white cardstock — no colour, no gloss, just the hard geometry of a scene that refused to soften itself. I played them on a borrowed turntable until the needle wore down to nothing.
The Floor Was the Front Line
The dancers who filled those halls weren’t just moving to the beat. They were making a claim. Black trousers, white shirts, thin ties pulled tight — the uniform said what the press wouldn’t print. On a checkerboard floor in a country tearing itself apart, moving together was the boldest statement anyone could make.
In a country tearing itself apart, a room full of Black and white kids dancing together was the most dangerous headline going.