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What happened the night Liam Gallagher came to my flat in 1996 and what we all lost with the demise of 'madfer-it', writes SYLVIA PATTERSON
I first met Liam Gallagher in early 1995, at the NME Brat Awards, the supposedly 'edgy' alternative to the Brit Awards.
A freelance music journalist in my late 20s then working for NME, I was casually watching ITV's The Chart Show one Saturday morning when an arresting sound suddenly pealed through the screen, like an urchin trailing a knitting needle along an iron railing. By the time the song ended – this thrilling, sneering, portentous wash of sound called Supersonic, their debut single – I was in favourite-new-band love, a moment made all the more indelible by the news, that very morning, of the violent suicide in America of Nirvana's Kurt Cobain. The young have swapped chaos for control, their mental health tested daily by the digital age which formed them, forever mindful of self-empowerment, safe spaces and wellness in a world where body coach Joe Wicks'plays' Glastonbury.
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