They said it was their last ever gig, but as I recall they were always saying that. It was 1.30am and I was still deciding whether or not to go and see the last ever gig by my first ever band. A few glasses of wine and one midnight-blue vintage frock later I decided that to miss this would be probably the biggest example of gaying out known to woman. So it was that not many minutes later I was in the warm, glowy, smoky noisebox that is Hugo’s Speaker Palace, hugging hello to all and sundry and bouncing with excitement. And smiling. And watching my first ever band play their last ever gig.

I could write a whole volume about the good vibes in the place that night. The people I hadn’t seen for a long time; the new friends to catch up with; the boy who danced so beautifully while shouting Serge Gainsbourg facts in my direction. The amazing little coversations that reminded me just how lucky I’d been to come across such fine, eccentric and scintillating people over the last however many years, and the unhinged dancing to Fela and Kraftwerk and, um, Gold Chains. But whatever. The reason I’m posting this is to remind those of you who know - and to tell those of you who don’t - what a fine band They Came From The Stars (I Saw Them) were, and are, and always will be.

Here’s my version of the story. It will be contested by others, no doubt, but this is how it seemed to me. The Stars were formed in early 1999 by three of us. Two genuis men filled with righteous anger and twisted humour, and one very naive young lady given to cooing over analogue synthesisers. A drummer who centred us all with Liebezeit zen precision, and a succession of bassists. And a revolving cast of thousands: stylophone owners, horn sections, girls whose function seemed solely to play bad xylophones and look good (never sure about that one), friends and neighbours - as many as we could cram onto the little stages we played on. There was a lot of bad post-rock around at the time; a lot of one-word band names and tasteful minimalism and sensible jumpers. We were prog-punks, then, given to enlightenment through ridiculousness and incredibly untidy finesse. Our aim was to excite. Taste was, we said in one song, pointless. Which is easy to say, but to then back it up by your clothes, actions and sound really means business. Sigil-embroidered cloaks, sandals with socks, rain wear, hats with radios in, a stonewashed denim dress (worn by the boys of the band, of course), a selection of head jewellery and sparkly snoods were all involved, at various points, before we settled on the white robes thing. Likewise, in among the crafted pop and kosmische freakouts you’d hear reminders of things you’d rather forget. I guess the point was to ask why you wanted to forget them in the first place. Or something like that.

We played a lot that first year, and argued constantly. Gigs were performed with strict costume rules: this time we’re all in blue; the next it’s Special Sports Day. Next to where Herbal is now on Kingsland Road, some friends of ours had a ’space’. There was a hole in the floor and some very dark corners, but for me it was all my Warhol dreams made real. A memory flashes into my head of me trying to play the bontempi dancehall refrain of ‘Work it for Bob’ while next to me a speaker bursts, literally, into flames. Other memories mostly consist of things Not Working. This isn’t surprising, considering the amount of stuff (Atari, violin, that box that made noises, whatever) we’d bring onstage - after that, playing in a band with guitar-bass-drums-singing would never do it for me. Multitasking for the good of the universe, we’d struggle gamely and hit some incredible highs. And we made people happy.

In 2000, we got our shit together a bit more, and toured the UK and began to record. After a show in Bristol, we drove to Avebury and watched the sun come up, still in our white stage costumes. And then it got sticky. Personal lives got twisted. I hit 23 and all chaos, inevitably, broke loose. Hearts got mashed and the remainder of the recording sessions played out in an atmosphere fraught with sorrow and invention - despite which, reviewers often remark on how much fun it sounds like we’re having. I was asked to leave, and, completely crazy in love with someone to the point that I didn’t really care about music anymore (a mistake I won’t make again), I did.

But it was after that, let’s be honest, that the Stars came into their own. This shit was serious. While the records that subsequently came out featured my playing, singing and writing, and while I sulked like all hell as a result, this was a labour of love just as intense than me following my heart. It was interesting to read people’s opinions of ‘our’ stuff: they picked up so much on the playfulness and the eccentricity, but few explored the manifestos therein. I guess this wasn’t helped much by the Stars’ live shows, which would feature white-clad testifiers Horton and Alex out-proclaiming each other over a barrage of saxes and trumpets and polyrhythms. This was a fun band, sure, but they were in earnest, and it took a bit of work to pick up on that. You’d be forgiven for not caring, and just smiling along with the songs.

It all got exciting when the Christmas single came out. I heard there was proper airplay and all sorts. I was still sulking at this point, and contrived to miss it all. But I was proud just the same. The refrain of ‘it’s good to see you, good to see you’ seemed to be everywhere, and - when I wasn’t being cynical and envious - all our ur-pop intentions made real. It was inevitable that the Stars most people will remember will be this incarnation of them - their more light side, I guess - and not the blazing insanity of much of their other stuff, but that’s people for you.

And so there came to be this last gig. For the last year or so things had been odd with the band, with this weird excess of talent spiralling around with no clear destination, so I almost expected it to end at some point (although the amount of times I heard ‘this band’s fucked, I’m sacking everyone!’ from a certain member did make me used to such announcements of finality, and therefore believe that it would never really happen). And it ended with a fucking bang, let me tell you.

There was probably much to criticise about Friday’s gig. But what was more important than any technical perfection was the spirit of pure and frenzied joy that hung over everyone. Percussion breakdowns went on for hours, and horns shrieked into the night as Alex and Horton chanted the ‘people are subject to change’. Whether it was the last show or not, it felt like one, in the best possible way. All the years of complexity mixed with all their innate spontanaeity spun itself together and burst out into the ether like a huge peal of laughter, rumbling like thunder and funny like elephants.

If I was writing rock histories, bands like the Stars would get whole chapters. Their early almost-anti-music stance came from a deep, visceral love of what music could do and a hatred for what it seemed to settle for doing. They had the sound of all the best psychedelic music; that is, the sound of trying to get to that point, reach that light, see things as they really are. Whether any music succeeds in this is an argument in itself, and I’d say not. But it’s that sound a skewed leap for perfection, really striving for something outside of yourself; it gets me every time.

So I skipped out of my first band and caused no end of problems. I went off and started writing, which I know they’d see as a poor second in artistic terms. But I had some of the best, the worst and the most illuminating moments of my young life through my involvement with They Came From The Stars (I Saw Them), and guys - if you ever want your authorised biography written, you know where to find me.

It was good to see you. Good to see you. Just wish you’d played ‘Block Rock’ is all.

www.isawthem.com

Posted on Tuesday, November 16th, 2004by Frances May Morgan