From Pete Fowler, Perth Australia.

Chorley, Lancashire circa 1972 and the fun fair’s in town. A gangly and impressionable 14 year old watches tattooed gorillas rotate the Waltzer cars into a blur causing their pubescent female occupants to scream in mock terror (and reveal a few more tantalising inches of thigh). Gradually I’m aware of becoming less obsessed with thighs and more curious about the record which is blaring out of the speakers and making my feet tap involuntarily. I later discover that it was a bloke I’ve never heard of called Junior Walker backed up by a band called The All Stars and make a mental note to investigate this musical phenomenon more thoroughly.
Looking back, I believe that was the pivotal moment which steered me down the ‘right track’ instead of one of the other mind-numbingly tedious alternatives. The next year’s worth of weekends are spent with other converts at local youth clubs and underage drinking dens learning more about this addictive music that someone had coined Northern Soul, presumably to distinguish it from the type of soul played at clubs in the South of England. Little did we realise then that over 2 decades later the fires would still be burning brighter than ever.
If I wasn’t hooked after that first year, I certainly was after my inaugural all-nighter at Wigan Casino just before the first anniversary in August 1974. Okay, we’d all practiced the moves in front of the bedroom mirror in stockinged feet and then tentatively at the youth clubs where a failed spin or wrongly timed handclap didn’t matter so much, but these guys were in an entirely different league. It had more in common with Olympic floor routines than dancing. What about Mr. M’s? Might be better to start in there, watch and learn from the Olympians for a few hours, then find a quiet corner, wait for a favourite and don’t try anything outrageous. And so the love affair began, with Otis Blackwell’s "Its All Over Me", in the far corner of a shabby dancehall annexed to a much larger and even shabbier one in a pretty grim part of the North West. Perfectly fit for purpose.
After around 7 intensive years at Wigan, often preceded by warm ups in Blackpool Mecca’s famed Highland Room, the familiar settling-down sketch was activated and by 1985 I was well on my way to acquiring a career, a wife, 2.3 kids and a Labrador. Only 6 boxes of vinyl and a couple of vests adorned with badges of various anniversaries and all-dayers remained to remind me of those halcyon years. Next major move is emigration to Australia in 1992, accompanied by the 6 boxes of course, for the now compulsory monthly injection of nostalgia on Saturday night with a couple of six packs. Then, 3 years ago, a new chapter. News reaches me that a company called Goldmine is releasing Northern Soul compilations which, if purchased on vinyl, would incur expenditure of mortgage-like proportions. A boon for ex-pats around the world who are missing out on the massive renaissance across the UK. My interest is instantaneously revived and every spare dollar willingly goes to Messrs. Roberts, Koppel and Brown, the co-directors of Goldmine, as well as various vinyl dealers.
What about a Northern Soul night here in Western Australia? There are certainly enough poms around of the right sort of age group and if they’re anything like me, they’ll seize the opportunity with both hands. Pipe-dream I decide, until urged by a Chorley mate to start putting feelers out. That was a year ago and on 4th October 1997, I’ll be DJing the first anniversary which, if the last do is anything to go by, will attract 65-plus ex Wheel, Torch & Casino goers who still have Northern Soul branded onto their hearts. Total strangers at 8pm will be good mates and organising barbecues at midnight. I’ll get request lists so long, they can’t possibly all be satisfied. The dancefloor will be active all night culminating in a ‘3 before 8’ frenzy which I dare not miss. It surely can’t be far off the best Northern Soul night outside the UK and I’m now more certain than ever what music will be played at my funeral.
Pete Fowler