The gallery is small but not the crowd for the “Private View” of exhibition Dandy in the Underworld: Portraits of Adam Ant. He really was beautiful.
Chrissie Hynde is here! Walking around as if she were a mere mortal. And there are rows of mohawks, as the punks have come out too.
Companion tells me that, in the heady early days of London underground punk, it was customary to spit a big gob at the performer as a show of respect for their work. We wax nostalgic as we wait for Adam to take the gallery’s makeshift stage and perform. I gird myself with free beer, expecting the worst.
Apparently, I am not the only American to take advantage of a bargain. Chrissie Hynde jumps on stage, sloppy drunk, and hurls incomprehensive insults at the audience until finally she is escorted away.
My feet hurt in these shoes and I want to go home.
Finally, Adam comes out and begins playing a stripped down set that rocks. My body moves but I swallow hard. Because Adam Ant is so damn good that I could just spit.