This post contains strong language and mature themes that may not be suitable for all readers. It captures the raw, unfiltered reality of band management in the ‘90s music scene. Reader discretion is advised.
Gas Solari: Burn Hard, Fade Out
Bangkok to Manchester: The Relentless Hustle
I arrived in Manchester in the ‘90s, broke, sunburned, and dragging a bag stuffed with regrets and unpaid bar tabs. Years spent working in a Thai bar—chasing fleeting highs, dodging brass, and angry drunks, living a life that would break most—fuel my hunger for more. I plan to return to London, but I need a band first. Urgently. Something to fill the roster. I’ve already signed Rudi, a South African with a voice like INXS’s Michael Hutchence, and Mentona from Liberia, who cost me a fortune. My family thinks I’m nuts, probably wondering what I’m on. I don’t care. I’m driven. Returning to bricklaying or hustling scams? Not an option. I crave adventure like I crave air. So, I channel my passion for travel, music, and chaos into managing bands. I had no clue about the shit awaiting me, but I didn’t care.
The hustle never stops.
Then Gas Solari hits me like a shovel to the face.
The Spark: Gas, Solari, and Vivian
I sign them because they’re raw, not chasing some manufactured scene. They have it—that rare, electric spark most bands chase but never catch.
Nick, from Bournemouth—of all places—is dating Vivian Solari. The Vivian Solari. Supermodel. Face on billboards. Legs for days. Band name? Gas Solari. Bold. Perfect, or so the frontman believes.
They arrive in Manchester, buzzing with Spacemen 3’s droning vibes, lost in fuzz and substances. They hide nothing. Their gigs? Pure Spacemen 3 tributes, blasted through worn-out amps. Homage or rip-off? I don’t care. It’s electrifying.
When they dive into Transmission or Ascension, they command the room. Walls vibrate. Your chest feels the pulse. For those fleeting moments, they’re untouchable.
The Cult Classic: Space Psyche Trance
Space Psyche Trance is a chaotic masterpiece. Half studio, half crackly BBC sessions, they landed through a distant relative. It’s as raw as it gets. Crocodile and Action Records release it. Cargo shifts a few copies. Outside Manchester? It barely registers.
It doesn’t matter.
Cult fans devour it. They still do. They scour Discogs like treasure hunters, chasing that scratched CD case like a sacred artefact. Maybe it is. The right track, the right vibe, the right night—it ignites you.
The Fade-Out: Love and Letting Go
Nick cares about little. We never click. He thinks I’m a prick. I know he is. Fair play. He’s content as the almost-made-it guy, his money troubles fading while mine are just beginning. Vivian is his world. He marries her. The band dissolves quietly. No drama. No final gig. Just gone—like a cigarette flicked into a damp gutter.
Some bands don’t crash and burn. They slip away.
Ghosts of the Hustle
I still see those grimy clubs. Selling CDs nobody wants. Paid in warm beer and broken promises. Boots sticking to floors littered with kebab scraps, spilt drinks, and worse, sneaking into rooms reeking bleach, sweat, and grit. That was the real work.
“You remember Gas Solari?”
Yeah, I remember. I saw the spark ignite and then watch it flicker out.
Not every band goes out with a bang. Some slip out the back door into the rain.
That photo? My cousin’s Japanese husband snapped it in Burnage. The world’s a fucker. You live. You fuck it up. You laugh. Or you don’t.
The next day, I hitch a ride back to London, where I belong. It's like I've never been gone. That’s when the real shit begins.