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.

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.

Bloodlettings: the best Disney gig I ever saw was at Bay 67 under the Westway at
the back end of Notting Hill, there was a good sound rig, so for the band it was a rare
chance for them to hear what they were > playing. I was with a mate of mine from
Huntington, Cal and to this day he still talks about Guy White's punk Chuck Berry guitar solos.

We were all misfits, malcontents, violent outsiders who needed something, something
that could push the shit away, even for a little while, the numbing bullshit and all-round
nastiness of those times. Somehow the Disneys could kick against the pricks, the demons,
the grinding wage slave monkeys that perched on every shoulder,
as London got melted down, rendered, rented apart and Ninevah was brought back
from the dead, as everything that was good got stripped away.

In those days we lived in the cracks. In the bits left over: Tin Can Towers, Gilbert Place,
White City, the last squat in Ladbroke Grove to this day I can still remember the stench.

Now we live in the age of the long war and 750kg still sounds good, sounds about right.



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