A Fridge Full of Memories

Saying goodbye to a Shrewsbury legend.

When I was 15 I walked up two flights of stairs and paid a man two pounds of paper round money to enter a Shrewsbury nightclub called the Fridge for the very first time. By the time walked down the stairs again I had heard more new music than I could mentally store, witnessed raw youth cultures ranging from the sexy to the terrifying and had kissed a 6^th form girl called Catherine who liked Sisters of Mercy and Suede. To say it was a great night would be a great injustice. It felt like I had discovered the universe.

The Fridge started off life in the very early 80's as 'The Dave Thomas Futurist Club' named after the local postman and promoter who put on the night playing a synth pop and new romantic playlist to Ra Ra skirted girls and sashaying boys. The night would later morph into The Fridge (presumably named after the Brixton club of the same name), and start playing more eclectic mix of music, mostly rooted in rock, post punk and Peel bands. I would come to it in 1992, and would go on to miss just two nights, reluctantly unattended due to family holidays.

When you walked in, you were met with almost total darkness. You would tread slowly due to the stickiness of the carpet. To your right were the men’s toilets that were almost indescribably grim. I had mate who worked at the Kwik Saves underneath the Fridge, and he claimed the pools of urine on the toilets would seep though the floor and the supermarket ceiling and form puddles of piss in the chicken aisle. Then on to the bar where you would buy pints of Bitter on plastic glasses because Bitter was the cheapest. If you were really flush you would drink neat shots of cheap vodka. If I close my eyes I can still taste that vodka. Then after that was the DJ booth were Rob Thomas would spin records in his Arsenal shirt, or my favourite DJ, Peter Dicken who looked like he was someone's dad. He wore glasses and would put a record on, stand perfectly still with his hands in his sport jacket pocket kind of smiling to himself. Then he would put on another and do exactly the same thing. His selections were amazing, and he was kind of a John Peel character, looking like a cabbie but playing this amazing music

Then on to the tiny dance floor. The music choices worked on a kind of shift system. First would be the rock bit were lads would head bang to The Cult and Walk by Pantera. Then the goth half hour. Men in wearing black tight cloths, including waist coats and with their nails polished and girls wearing wedding dresses, red lipstick and kohled eyes clicked the heels of their pixie boots to 'Temple of Love' by Sisters of Mercy. They danced in a trance, with their eyes closed and hands raised upwards as if receiving some healing prayer. One lad was obviously a goth apprentice. He wore his school trousers and a white shirt buttoned up to the neck and a haphazardly applied layer of lipstick. He seemed to have trouble remembering all the the lyrics to mouth along to which made me feel oddly protective of him. The elder goths danced around with him all the same. They always seemed to get tagged as miserable the goths, but when ever I've seen them out, they always seem to be having the best night out of everyone

Then it was the punks turn to pogo to Holiday in Cambodia by Dead Kennedy's and Pretty Vacant. The head punk was a guy called Bruce who wore a leopard skin fur coat over his bare chest and always had the best looking girl friends. In true Shrewsbury style he is my mates older brother. Then it was our turn signified by the melancholy opening bass chords of 'Happy' by Ned's Atomic Dustbin strained into life. It was our turn to dance. We jumped up and down, swayed and I soon copied a dance which involved jumping from foot to foot with your hands behind your back as you shook your fringe while looking at the floor. The Music was intoxicating. The Pixies followed Carter which followed Belly which followed Pop Will Eat Itself. I drowned happily in the sounds and in the shine of the three spotlights which illuminated the dance floor. Lost we were. Lost to the music and the celebration of being young and alive. This time was ours.

Then just as quick as it started, we rushed off the dance floor as the skinheads (real skinheads. Real green jacket, tattoos and aggro skinheads.) took to the floor to shuffle their eighteen hole ox blood Doc Martens to Madness and The Selecter. It was scary but thrilling. There was a guy called Darrell who worked for the local council and would dance to New Model Army and would kind of walk backwards in a crucifix and crush you gently against the wall. It sounds bananas written down but it was a kind of badge of honour to be squashed by Darrell. He was a cool guy, a bit older and un-wiser. We shared a soft spot for the Senseless Things. Last time I saw him he was at the Phoenix festival. He was holding a crowd surfer by the ankle and repeatedly punching him in the bollocks. He had this big grin on his face as the security guys looked on helpless.

Then after our tunes All That She Wants by Ace of Base (strange but that's the song that always makes me think of the Fridge) and it would be time to leave the dance floor, walk past goth corner, past the stage with the only two chairs in the venue and sit down on the floor by the curtains and either chat about music or chat someone up. I was sat there the night Kurt Cobain killed himself. There were lots of girls crying as the DJ played Bullet in the Head by Rage Against the Machine in sympathy.

It all went wrong in 1995 when the Fridge got refurbished into Liberties, a tacky Americana themed night spot that lasted about two years. The tried to put on Fridge nights but the dwindling numbers caused people hating the candy coated vibe of the place saw the night switch from a Friday night to a Tuesday night, which was effectively the final nail in the coffin. If we were being perfectly honest with ourselves it was time to move on anyway.

The Fridge (or Blu or Trade or whatever it was called as it law dormant for years) is currently being demolished as part of Shrewsbury's 'regeneration plan' and a new council head quarters. I'll be sad to see the old girl go, and for a provincial town place like the Fridge were crucial juvenilia. But for all the rose tinted glasses there was a darker side to being allowed so much freedom. It was very, very possible to be beaten up the local football firm for having long hair and/or dressing like 'a freak'. There was, particularly in rocker circles, examples of men in there thirties going with clearly underage girls. I'm not sure I would like my 16 year old self. I was outwardly arrogant and inwardly terrified of not being liked, A bit of a knob in short. One of the anthems of the time was called Beaver Patrol which tells you something of the period. There was much to learn.

I've heard people say that those days were the best of their lives and how they would give anything to go back, which strikes me as a trifle sad. It's unhealthy to live in the past, and anyway aren't our lives much better now? Are we not better people? Dare I say it, are our music tastes much better? I had my first proper kiss before a Fridge night and it was there where I first fell in love. I lost my virginity to a Fridge girl and the germs of my moral and political outlook would begin there. It has a very special place in my heart, but really it's time to let go. They can tear down concrete and brick, but the can't tear down memories.