
I have muffled memories of Koko.
Hazy memories, altered by time (the baggy jeans I wore to iconic rock night Feet First are back back back), alcohol (Pernod and Diet Coke please), or in the instance of my inaugural visit, hazy because I experienced the pounding 80s disco at what was then the Camden Palace through the shield of amniotic fluid, ensconced in my mother’s eight-month pregnancy bump. I’ve been in the club for my entire 40 years.