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Artist
The Disney Razors always understood (without having to think to much) about the infinite possibilities of playing loud guitar music. Back in the day they were our antidote to the idiot age, their first album, 750kg Maximum Breakdown was a soundtrack to our film. They were also a good way to meet girls. There were always lots of girls in the crowd, Danish tank girls, Tokyo low riders, Whisky girls from Sunset, Italian Goths, and good girls from Chelsea looking for some rough, black leather girls on shore leave from Southend on Sea. We were all there then, in the big cartoon club; bit players in our own strip and the Disney Razors were the house band: and that felt good, like we were somebodies, well-known where it counted: Ad White, Pilgrim Guy, Canadian Bob, Cowgirl Kate, Pauly, Roy's for Toys, Pretty Boy Clyde, Blue, Steve Honest, Jamie, Swedish Bob, Jan, Karen, Little Mark, Blonde Mark, Italian Fred, leather boys, boot girls, hairspray mohawks, washed up surferboys from the South, drinking, sniffing in the back the Fox, in the bargan basement of Cheapo-Cheapo records, dancing to Snowblind on the floor of Klub Foot. The Disney's were there, and all of these things, and an arm around your shoulder on a wet weekday night in the smoke and fog of the Moscow pub of Queensway. The gigs distilled it all. They were often chaotic, unbalanced, always cathartic, always peppered with brilliance that took you out of yourself, that took your breath away. Bloodletti