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Time Has Told Me: The Servants

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Interview with David Westlake.

“The Disinterest album came out of a vortex of unspoken, unspeakable frustrations, paranoia, and miscellaneous perversity. Sonically and lyrically, the aim was directly to oppose the on-trend music of the time. No bell-bottomed, baggy banalities playing maraca and wah-wah mumbo-jumbo. More uptight, Kafkaesque outsider pop. More in keeping with the dense, monochrome mood of the film from which the band took its name.”

—David Westlake

Words: Mark Carry, Photographs courtesy David Westlake


My introduction to English indie treasures, The Servants, arrived last year in the form of a Soundcloud mix made by Cécile Schott (Colleen) based on the music that inspired the French artist’s latest full-length release ‘The Weighing Of The Heart’. The wonderfully eclectic tracklist featured Moondog, Laurie Anderson, Brigitte Fontaine, and the adventurous, ethereal indie pop of ‘People Going Places’ by The Servants (taken from the band’s long lost second album ‘Small Time’). Immediately I became utterly transfixed as the deeply affecting lyrics of frontman David Westlake resonated powerfully — a significant musical discovery loomed.

The Servants formed in 1985 in Hayes, Middlesex, England by singer and songwriter David Westlake. Their unique blend of poignant lyrics, intricate arrangements, and utterly compelling indie-pop sounds was a world away from the mundane and noisy lo-fi scene heralded by the NME’s C-86 compilation the band would later appear on. The Servants’ debut single ‘She’s Always Hiding’ is a delicately beautiful pop lament based on gorgeous, clean tones of guitars and Westlake’s stirring vocals. The opening lyric of “She’s always hiding / Like she doesn’t want to be found” opens up a vast world of beauty as Westlake’s poetic prose ascends into the forefront of the mix. The next single ‘The Sun, A Small Star’ would cast a similarly enchanting spell, before the eventual release of the band’s debut album ‘Disinterest’ in 1989. Amazingly, the debut record was recorded and mixed in office hours over five days in a demo studio in Bromley.

Guitarist Luke Haines (who joined The Servants in 1987, and of future Auteur fame), describes ‘Disinterest’ in his book ‘Bad Vibes’ as “existential art rock, ten years too late and fifteen years too early.” Tragically, the album — a work of true art — generated little commercial success that would sadly see the band disbanding in the early 90’s. Some years later, The Servants received their much deserved recognition by a new generation of music obsessives as the great Cherry Red label culled together the band’s unreleased tracks and singles into one CD, entitled ‘Reserved’. The compilation represents a vital document of a truly great band.

Having long been unreleased, The Servants’ second studio album ‘Small Time’ – and follow-up to debut ‘Disinterest’ – finally saw the light of day in 2012. Armed with two Fostex four-track tape recorders, a DR Rhythm drum machine, an out-of-tune piano, a box of effects pedals and a CAT Octave VCO synth, the duo of Westlake and Haines recorded the album in Haines’s own flat in Cannon Road, Southgate. Later that year, Luke Haines would write songs for his new group, The Auteurs, and David Westlake decided to study law. Alongside the release of ‘Small Time’, the Cherry Red-released compilation contained ‘Hey Hey We’re The Manqués’ on CD2, including rehearsal versions of songs from ‘Disinterest’, taped before the album was recorded. Thanks to UK’s Cherry Red and the US independent label Captured Tracks, the rich musical legacy of The Servants has been justly resurrected. Well, Belle & Sebastian frontman Stuart Murdoch (circa ‘91) was trying to locate Westlake in the hopes of forming a band with him, after all.


‘Small Time’/‘Hey Hey We’re The Manqués’ re-issued double album is available now on 2CD via Cherry Red and on double LP via Captured Tracks.



Interview with David Westlake, The Servants.

It’s a real pleasure to ask you some questions in relation to your music and the utterly timeless songbook of The Servants. First of all, please take me back to ’85 in Hayes, Middlesex, where The Servants were formed. Talk me through the inception of The Servants, please. What was the original line-up? Who came up with the name The Servants? Can you remember your first rehearsals as a band?

David Westlake: I started a band with a friend called Ed Moran. We’d known each other since age 4, and went to the same schools. Primary in Hayes and on to the Catholic boys’ grammar in Harrow, which was perpetual violence. Ed bought a Fender bass after I started writing songs on an old acoustic. It was Ed who brought in John Mohan on guitar. He was into Django Reinhardt and Scotty Moore. Played a Woolworth’s Top Twenty guitar. We used a drum machine, which meant we could rehearse at home. Work took Ed away, but Mohan stayed with it. We advertised in the NME for other musicians. Phil King rolled up unannounced one Friday evening, after I’d sent him a tape of a few songs. I remember I was taking a bath when the knock came at the door. He played guitar, but we already had two of those. We needed a bass-player, so he agreed to change instrument.

I saw Mohan for the first time in many years after Captured Tracks released the Servants’ Youth Club Disco LP in 2011. We remembered how it was Phil King who persuaded us to play live at all. He gave us an ultimatum: either we play gigs or I’m leaving. Mohan and I would probably have just carried on privately sculpting the art otherwise. We were joined on drums by someone else I knew from school, Eamon Lynam. Phil King nicknamed him Neasden Riots — like the Clash’s Tory Crimes. It was after he was given a police-curfew following his alleged involvement in said fracas. Ed Moran still kept up with the band when he could, helping us out driving to gigs.

We rehearsed at a studio called Westar in Southall, West London. The Cocteau Twins used the place at the same time. The first (unreleased) Servants recordings were by this line-up, for a label called Statik. We were approached by the late Philip Hall about the possibility of signing with Stiff. And Mike Alway at Él, ever the English aesthete, expressed an interest. Neasden Riots’ curfew prevented continued participation in rehearsals and gigs, sadly, so we had to find someone else.

I named the band. The Servant is a 1963 film taken from a novella by Robin Maugham. BBC2 screened it at roughly six-month intervals in the 1980s. I watched spellbound each time. Its certain shade of Englishness — its mood, and what it had to say about the psychology of different types of relationship, about class and power and insidiousness — spoke to me.


As the singer and songwriter of The Servants, you were responsible for a plethora of captivating and truly compelling pop songs which were way ahead of their time. I would love to know what were the defining albums for you growing up, David? How soon did you realize the importance music would have on your life?

DW: The first single I bought was Sparks’ immaculate “This Town Ain’t Big Enough For Both Of Us”. I fell in love with it on Top of the Pops, and would play the single on repeat — with the arm left off the old-style record-player. Defining albums, among too many others: With the Beatles, John Lennon/PLastic Ono Band, Dusty in Memphis, the Velvet Underground’s third LP, side one of Love’s Da Capo. I was just 12 in 1977, but punk meant a great deal. Music was life itself, and I had very particular ideas about what I liked and what I didn’t. Unapologetic tunnel-vision. The Sex Pistols’ album and the singles from it were magnificent, but I loved the Talking Heads’ 77, too. Mark E. Smith and the Fall had a great strike-rate: Dragnet, Totale’s Turns, Grotesque, the Slates 10”, Hex and more.

I grew up with all kinds of ideas about pop sensibility and the crafting of a song. At the same time, I had an ascetic musical puritanism and a constitutional contrariety, which coincided with punk values. As a kid not quite old enough to be in a band when punk happened, yet completely energized by it, I disdained what the Smash Hits breed of vapid pop acts went on to do in the name of pop music. Especially after the monochrome, inky “Printhead” rigour of the 1970s NME and Sounds, with all their edicts and caveats on “rockism”, and the best in punk and post-punk.


The Servants’ first single was the gorgeous ballad “She’s Always Hiding”. Listening to the song today, I am reminded of just how current and deeply meaningful these songs of yours are. The clean guitar tones float majestically beneath your vocals. The opening lyric “She’s always hiding / Like she doesn’t want to be found” conjures up the sound of Pavement’s “Here”, which would not exist for another four or five years. Can you please talk me through the construction of this song? Also, in terms of the single-release, can you recall the day the single was released, what label you were signed on, and your hopes and expectations prior to the release of your debut single?

DW: “She’s Always Hiding” was one of the first songs I wrote, in my teens. It was before I knew even how to form certain chords properly — or conventionally, at least — so I searched around the fret-board and hit on just what I thought sounded good. I remember hearing myself on Peel’s show for the first time with “She’s Always Hiding”. It was a thrill. I had pointed out to me one other example of a song said to have something in common with “She’s Always Hiding”, by one-time NME journalist and early-days Creation artist the Legend. The Servants first recorded a version for the Statik label. I prefer the released version — it has a better feel. I like the drums on the later version, though, on Hey Hey We’re The Manqués — the other half of the Servants’ Small Time double-set.
The single of “She’s Always Hiding” was on Head Records. It was a label set up by then-Creation-employee (later head of the Heavenly label) Jeff Barrett. Head was an allusion to the Monkees. I prefer Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones and The Birds, The Bees as albums, but neither of those would have produced a fit label-name.

The aim was always simply to make good art. Any hope of commercial return was by then informed on one hand by the Velvets, and on the other by the putrefying state of English pop as the ’80s drew on. If you grew up watching clips of the Beatles on TV being chased in and out of Marylebone Station or Shea Stadium and tearfully wailed at by adoring young girls, it came at the same time to seem a perennial rarity for great music to win mass appeal. You couldn’t help arriving at this inverse equation. You could hear on record the Velvet Underground delivering effortless brilliance at Max’s Kansas City only for them to be met with a few but barely enough hands clapping to deserve the description applause. Or see how even a popular group like the Kinks failed to chart in England with the manifestly good Village Green album. Then in the ’80s, the masses lapped up the pop-slop dished out by the glossy Smash Hits halfwits. It began to feel like obscurity might equate with greatness, while mass appeal might equate with stupidity. As a theory it was a handy consolation for being not even close to having hit records, in any event.


I must say my all-time favourite Servants song is “She Grew And She Grew”. The energy and immediacy of the song always strikes me. It’s such an irresistible guitar-pop gem that bands decades later can’t come close to replicating. Was this recorded in one take? What was the recording process like? The lyrics are sheer poetry.

DW: Yes, songs tended to be recorded in one take. On account of both economy with studio-time and the feeling of a performance. You might iron out mistakes with repeat takes, but you risk losing the spirit of the delivery. There is a second version on Hey Hey We’re The Manqués. Also one live take.


Looking back on the Servants’ career, I feel your meeting of guitarist Luke Haines must have been a defining moment where everything just clicked. Did you post an advertisement looking for a guitarist? This is circa ’87 and would lead to your album Westlake, released on Creation in late ’87. I can only imagine you must have had a bucketful of songs ready to record to tape, prior to the recording sessions in Greenhouse Studios, London?

DW: Luke was a joy to work with. I went into music expecting to find any number of like-minds. I don’t mean yes-men. Anyone half-familiar with Luke Haines will know that he would be constitutionally incapable of earning that description. But when you have very particular ideas about what you do you’re incredibly lucky to find even one person you genuinely click with. Luke was that for me. Yes, he answered an NME ad I placed. He replied in the second half of 1986, after the release of the second Servants single, “The Sun, A Small Star”. We met up at a pub outside Ealing Common tube station, the Granville.

The line-up I had up to that point drifted apart the first time we got dropped. In Morrissey’s recent Autobiography he expresses his feeling about Johnny Marr going off to play with the Talking Heads in the words “monogamous I, polygamous he.” The Servants was obviously a far more low-key prospect for any musicians I was lucky to have play my songs with me. But I had much the same intensity of feeling and principle about being in a band. I felt that a great band ought to aim at being a circumscribed union. I was 21, still high on idealism. For a month or two more, at least. I wanted whoever was in the Servants to do only the Servants — monogamously — and not play with any number of other bands, fitting the band in around other bands when convenient. The 1986 line-up’s rhythm section was five to eight years older than me, so they were more pragmatic than about the ups and downs of the musician’s lot. Being good musicians, they had no trouble fitting into other set-ups both while that line-up was still going — polygamous they — and when we got dropped. But I was left out on a limb, not knowing if we would get to make another record. I knew I wanted to keep the Servants going. I liked being in a band, even if the short experience I’d had up to then showed me that the kind of unity I was looking for must be rare. On from that “monogamous I” metaphor, I became wary of “players”.

Luke stayed for five years. For me, the feeling of being part of a unified band came when he joined, so I’m glad that is apparent to someone other than me. We never exchanged a cross word. I was quietly upset when he told me in 1991 he was leaving, but he did everything with absolute integrity. And look what great art he had ready to show the world, so it was natural and right.


How soon did you realize the special musical telepathy that existed between you and Luke? For me, I think of Jagger/Richards, Lennon/McCartney, Morrissey/Marr, and then there’s Westlake/Haines. It’s such a poignant force and I would love to gain an insight into the collaborative aspect of your work together. Was it a case of having a song written, and Luke would then add his guitar on top? It really feels such an effortless process and forms the cornerstone to the Servants’ greatness and timeless quality.

DW: Luke is his own man, of course. The Servants finished in 1991, and he is known for what he did after, so I cannot presume to speak for him. Speaking for myself, having had close on thirty years with little to no fanfare, I am ready to grab my half of this high praise with both hands and not go through the humility motions. Thank you.

Yes, I would write and demo a song and then Luke would add guitar. You don’t need me to tell you that he is a great musician. Technically proficient musicians are not hugely difficult to find, though. It’s sharing, or complementing, a discriminating aesthetic sensibility that produces good and interesting results. And not being in a position where your mind turns to thoughts of murder that makes it last any decent length of time.



After a few false starts, the debut album ‘Disinterest’ by the Servants would finally be recorded in 1990. I was very interested to read (more to the point, I was in utter disbelief!) that the album was recorded and mixed in office hours over five days in a demo studio in Bromley. Can you recall the particular equipment and set-up each of you had at your disposal, David? It must have felt good having the space and time to put these songs to tape. What was your aim for this record, from the outset?

DW: A demo studio in Bromley is right. If this is what you mean by the equipment, I played my usual red Gretsch Broadcaster. Luke played his Telecaster and the old Hofner semi. Alice played a Fender Precision. Standard kit for Andy Bennett, the drummer on Disinterest (and Hey Hey We’re The Manqués). I was, simultaneously, glad of the opportunity to make the record and full of a kind of dead energy. At this time I tended to walk around daytimes wired on the outside, fatigued inside. Paradoxically, I felt often like I was too tired to sleep.

We ended up with the record company for whom we did the album not directly through choice. Luke tells the story elsewhere of how the third Servants’ single, “It’s My Turn”, was released on Dave Barker’s Glass label. You couldn’t help but like Dave. And Glass, while it remained his. But organization and drive were not recognizably Dave’s strengths. Clever me put the phrase “in case of Fire break Glass” in the run-off groove to the single taken from Disinterest, because easy-come-easy-go Dave gave up doing Glass to start a new label with Fire’s Clive Solomon.

The Disinterest album came out of a vortex of unspoken, unspeakable frustrations, paranoia, and miscellaneous perversity. Sonically and lyrically, the aim was directly to oppose the on-trend music of the time. No bell-bottomed, baggy banalities playing maraca and wah-wah mumbo-jumbo. More uptight, Kafkaesque outsider pop. More in keeping with the dense, monochrome mood of the film from which the band took its name.


I think Luke Haines’ description of ‘Disinterest’, in his book ‘Bad Vibes’, perfectly sums up the record and indeed The Servants’ criminally short lifespan: “existential art rock, ten years too late and fifteen years too early.” Looking back on the album’s reception, what were your feelings during this time? It must have been very frustrating to have created such a staggering body of work, only to be kept in relative obscurity.

DW: We had that feeling Luke describes, of being in a tragicomedy scripted by Galton and Simpson. The album would not have happened but for the shared experience of too much of nothing and a resulting attitude of something bordering on nihilism. It was probably a bit unhealthy, but the type of experience you grew up in the ’70s to regard as character-building.


This takes me onto the Cherry Red label’s release of Reserved in 2006, a collection of the Servants’ unreleased tracks and singles in one CD. This is a beautiful document of The Servants, and especially hearing the live-takes and demos of your many truly innovative works. Can you talk me through the collection of these demos and the feeling of revisiting this part of your life? The song “Loggerheads”, for example, was previously unreleased and what a song it is. There must have been many of such songs that have survived, and many years later thankfully see the light of day.

DW: A bright young man called Neal Handley-Sawer does some occasional work for Cherry Red, and he searched me out with the idea of doing a Servants compilation. Naturally I was delighted. Not to come over all too sentimental, but Cherry Red repaired my long-damaged faith. I had my guard up at first, because of disenchanting previous experience. But Cherry Red has principle where certain others do not. At the same time, there is a Hogarth Press-like aesthetic to Cherry Red. Doing some things simply because they are worth doing. Captured Tracks aims to uphold a similar ethic in America, I think. Luke’s support was invaluable, too.

There were some good songs that didn’t get recorded in the studio. There was talk at different times of both “Water Baby Blonde” and “Who’s Calling You Baby Now?” being singles, for instance. So I was glad to be able to include live and demo versions of a few things like that. It was always a good live band, and some of the records I find I play most often are live albums, like the Velvets’ 1969, or Totale’s Turns. It’d be nice to put out some more live recordings like those on Reserved. There are other unreleased songs.

I wish I had given “Loggerheads” to the NME for the C86 compilation. I held it back at the time because I thought we could record a better version. It was recorded at the same session as “She’s Always Hiding” and the b-side, “Transparent”. At the time, no one was more ambivalent about that compilation than the people who were on it. No one expected it would sell well, and I have still not actually heard it. I always hated “Transparent”. C86 has evolved as a subgenre. Bob Stanley had some interesting things to say about it in the notes to the CD86 edition. The original compilation is being reissued in 2014. And I’ll be playing at the NME C86 show on June 14th in London. My first gig with a band for thirteen years. I’ll be joined by my friend Dan Cross, guitar-great from another ’80s band, Perfect Disaster. He played on my Play Dusty For Me album back in 2001.


Is there one song that you feel is the best song you’ve written, David? I’d love for you to recount writing this particular song and indeed where and when it was given its wings?

DW: Speaking of the Play Dusty For Me album, there is a song on there called “Back on Track”. That would be one, in part because it had a therapeutic function for me. It is about surviving devastating loss. Bereavement. The recording retains its authenticity and sincerity. Doesn’t become histrionic. Some fantastic musicians contributed to giving the recording the wings of which you speak. Dan Cross on guitar, as mentioned. And Cormac and Willis Moore on bass and drums. Cormac recorded the album at his P.Boy Studio in Ireland’s Kilkenny. It’s a pity that Play Dusty For Me has never been really properly released in physical form. I realize, anyway, that a therapeutic song about loss cannot sound terrifically inviting to the overwhelming many unacquainted with my, er, oeuvre. I like “Song For John”, also from Play Dusty For Me. It’s inspired by a Wordsworth sonnet, “London, 1802”. The apostrophe in that is to John Milton, but the song is from me to John Lennon and my late father, also John. This could all sound ponderous and odd in equal parts, but “Song For John” is still an irresistible little piece of major to minor seventh-ing and sixth-ing, the like of which I wish Love would have made part of a set of shorter songs on a different side two to Da Capo.


Also included on The Servants’ Reserved collection is the band’s Peel Session from March, 1986. The live songs capture that special spark of brilliance. I love how crisp and clear the instrumentation of guitar, bass and drums are, and your vocal delivery is sublime. My highlight is “You’d Do Me Good”. It must have been an honour for you to record this session for the legendary John Peel. Can you take me back to the day of these recordings and say what it was like to be part of Peel’s sessions?

DW: The Servants’ Peel session was produced at the BBC’s Maida Vale studios by Mott the Hoople’s drummer, Dale Griffin. A privilege in itself. I wanted us to do songs that we hadn’t already recorded and wouldn’t have another chance to record straight away. Dale Griffin was cordial in the morning, but you got the impression he hadn’t been on the cordials at lunchtime. He returned in more waspish frame. He knew his stuff where two guitars, bass and drums were concerned, anyway. The high ceilings at Maida Vale gave a full, resonant sound, as well.

We were surprised when the recording and mixing was completed that we were not allowed a tape of the results. The BBC had a strict rule in connection with intellectual property law which precluded handing out copies. So we had to wait for Peel to broadcast the session and tape ourselves off the radio if we wanted a copy. I understand the Beeb subsequently relaxed the no-copies rule, but it added then to the event of doing it. Having to wait a couple of weeks to hear what you’d done and taping yourself, hoping but not knowing the songs would sound good.


I must ask you a couple of questions in relation to The Servants’ long-lost second album, ‘Small Time’, recently released for the first time by the New York-based independent label, Captured Tracks. This album is such a momentous record, full of interesting arrangements and innovative instrumentation, and not least poignant lyrics encompassing many dark themes. This album was very much you and Luke working as a duo, am I right? I would love for you to discuss these songs, and the day-to-day sessions that took place during the recording of Small Time.

DW: Captured Tracks are first to release Small Time on vinyl, yes. But the album was released for the first time on Cherry Red in England, on CD. Yes, it was Luke and I as a duo. I am so glad that the album has been released. I like the way of thinking expressed in the songs. The bit in “Everybody Has A Dream” which first laments that all you get is nowhere, but then reasons where is there to get? These songs remain very me. In “Aim In Life”, the line about smiling at the victory that is your own defeat, when still you wouldn’t have it any other way. Or in “Let’s Live A Little”, the carpe diem pop reminder that we won’t be here very long, next to the qualified patience and optimism of saying we have the rest of our lives, but how long is that? We recorded the album in 1991. It was always called Small Time. I would head over to Luke’s place on Cannon Street in Southgate with demos. Lead vocal, harmonies and rhythm guitar over programmed drums and a bass-part, and we would work on overdubs. His percussion on “Everybody Has A Dream” is so good. It’s saucepans.


My favourite song on the album is a close challenge between “Fear Eats The Soul” and “Slow Dancing”. The latter is such a gorgeous ballad to bring the album to a fitting close. I love how your acoustic guitar is placed prominently in the mix of most of these songs. I was reading in Luke’s liner notes that a certain secret weapon was at your disposal, namely a CAT octave VCO synth?

DW: The acoustic is prominent by necessity, in fact. We recorded the songs on two Fostex four-track tape recorders. I put the main vocal and the acoustic down live on the same track on most of the songs. “The Thrill Of It All” was the biggest challenge to mix. The lead vocal was on the same track as the rhythm guitar. It came out very low in the mix, so everything else had to be balanced in such a way as to make the vocal as audible as possible without losing the feel of the whole.

We loved the CAT. Like other ’70s synthesisers, it was temperamental. It was as if you had to wait for it to be in the mood. And it could give up halfway through a take sometimes, which always sounds unintentionally amusing. Like on the live version of “Decades”, from Joy Division’s Still. In the last verse, it sounds as though Bernard Sumner hits some keys on the synth at random, aware nothing he touches will sound right now the instrument has given up co-operating. No human musician’s temperament is as capricious as those old ’70s machines. You can hear Ian Curtis trying not to laugh at that point, can’t you? Which is a nice moment to have on record, really.


Looking back today on the Servants’ music, you must feel deeply proud of your work. It is clear that the songs you wrote back then have stood the test of time, and remain as vital today as they did. It must be a lovely feeling to have new audiences and generations discovering your music, and listening to the songs you wrote. Is there one moment during your time with The Servants that you feel is the most cherished memory you have to hold on to today?

DW: I do feel proud of the work. It’s in the notes for Reserved that the Servants — I in particular — earned a reputation for haughtiness. I may have rubbed a few people up the wrong way, on a quest for perfection. But I don’t regret any uncompromising moves made on principle. Yes, it makes it all the richer a feeling if ever and whenever new people discover the music.

I cherish the fact that Small Time is out. Really. I didn’t think it would ever see the light of day. For more than twenty years Luke and I were the only people who had heard it. Luke gave me the tapes for my fortieth birthday, in 2005, and suggested trying to do something with it. The album was like unfinished business, so much work having gone into it all those years ago, never to be heard. Studio-wiz Des Lambert put in a lot of time transferring and synchronizing the tapes. Different parts were on different tapes recorded at minutely varying speeds, so it was a complex job marrying everything together.

The happy epilogue is not only that Small Time did finally get released, but that it was on a better label — Cherry Red — than it would have been at the time. The same can be said of Captured Tracks. And I like the sound. It functions as an antidote when the ear tires of over-worked, over-polished recordings. It is my favourite Servants record.



‘Small Time’/‘Hey Hey We’re The Manqués’ re-issued double album is available now on 2CD via Cherry Red and on double LP via Captured Tracks.

Captions for Photographs:

(i) “The Servants – Hey Hey We’re The Manqués, 1990”

(ii) “David Westlake – Servants main man”

(iii) “The Servants – Live, 1986”

(iv) ‘Small Time’ re-issue by Cherry Red Records.

All photographs courtesy David Westlake.



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