I spent most of today in a dark and dusty basement just underneath the Kingsland Road, down there with the ghosts of musicians long dead and some still kicking, writers and magicians come to visit, they all leave their own impressions. Boxed into a room covered in skip found carpet that has gained a reputation for making important people itch. The blinding light and tedious reality of the outside world have disappeared, unimportant compared to what I witnessed there in the warm dark. Hanging sound baffling constructions all designed to focus the force of amplified guitars, drums and synth. This Machine Kills Fascists. It soon becomes clear this place is special, charged with memories of hot summer evenings spent on the Cote D'Azur with Roxy Music, driving at full speed across mainland Europe in an overdue hire car with Adam Ant and The Stranglers wired and out of minds on dreams, loves and ideas. Drinking in concrete Berlin bars with Bowie and The Beat, walking towards a nuclear sunset across endless expanses of soundscape and vast possibility, Ian Curtis turns his back on us and disappears into the heat haze. The contents and inhabitants of this tardis room, coil and squirrel internal energy, saving themselves for the outside world, channeling the forces of all that they have learned and loved onto the eager and ready eyes and ears of all that come to see them perform.