Way back in the mid-00s, when your worth was determined by the badges on your blazer, I snuck into the now-defunct London venue Astoria and came face-to-face with my idol at the time: Carl Barât of The Libertines. He was standing there, like a glossy page torn out of the NME come to life, one arm slung around a tiny-fringed XFM DJ, a thin dusting of white powder around one nostril. I marched over to him, words falling out of my mouth with every step, and confessed my undying, everlasting love. He tried to escape as soon as possible, obviously, but not before he pressed a harmonica – which was stuffed with Rizlas – into my clammy, 14-year-old hand.
That harmonica now sits in a dusty box on top of my wardrobe, like a dirty souvenir of the indie days I, and many others, firmly left behind. It sits in the same metaphorical bin as Faceparty, New Young Pony Club t-shirts, pointed leather shoes, and Horrors haircuts – and I thought that dark period between 2001 and Kings of Leon’s “Sex on Fire” would never, ever be revisited.
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However, it’s been long enough now that we can all look back at our dirty little indie secrets with something resembling fondness. Earlier this week, for instance, we got Johnny Borrell – the white-trousered, turbo-mouthed singer of Razorlight – to narrate a definitive history of Landfill Indie music, flogging the horse that had long been dead in the name of memories, simultaneously sparking swathes of Twitter users to reminisce about their own dark indie confessions.
And then, earlier today, a whole wave of confessions started swimming under the hashtag #indieamnesty, which was prompted by a tweet from Rowan Martin of The Rhythm Method. Here are some of our favourites:
That’s just skimming the surface of it. If you’ve ever worn a corduroy blazer, followed The Pigeon Detectives on tour, or snogged someone from The Automatic, do the decent thing and let everybody on the internet know. This is a safe space – we’re all in it together.
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