In late 1975, just after her 18th birthday, Shanne Bradley went to a party at St Albans School of Art in Hertfordshire. Unbeknown to her and her friends, there was musical entertainment: a band from London no one had heard of. She suspects the group had just phoned up and asked if they could play. “They were so bad,” she says. “We were dancing, having a good laugh. We thought they were a piss-take of a 60s band. Someone said they saw the drummer afterwards and he was crying because they were so terrible.”
Afterwards, the singer came over and asked Bradley about her clothes: “If I dressed like that all the time. I’d had a difficult childhood and I think I expressed that through my clothes. I’d butchered my hair: I’d tried to use henna and peroxide and it came out wrong – bright orange. I was wearing ripped fishnets and a holey jumper. I had 11 ear piercings. I asked him what his name was. ‘Johnny Rotten.’ I was like: ‘What?’”
