Saturday night at the DB Gladstone – ah, those were the days. The dingy old pub with cracked stucco walls, peeling paint and the stench of beer seeping from its pores slouched next to its corporate neighbours on the corner of Peterborough and Durham Streets and sneered at their clean concrete exteriors. In the ’80s, the Gladstone was the venue for great gigs. I remember seeing legendary Kiwi bands such as The Wastrels, the Dance Exponents and Pop Mechanix there and The Gordons in all their edgy glory.
It was the place to go. Saturday nights, I’d put down my Victorian poetry texts, backcomb my black and purple hair, squeeze into my drainpipe jeans, strap on my winkle pickers and head to the Gladstone to scowl with friends in dark corners.
Many of us did our courting there, pogo-ing into the night as the bass thudded on and the singers’ voices became husky with the clouds of cigarette smoke that engulfed us all.
I hope with the rebuild that there will still be room in Christchurch for a bit of grunge. We need a few haunts in which we can lurk and not feel obliged to be perky and bright and have our teeth whitened to fit in with the crowd.
Keeps it real somehow.