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In late 2016, Chris Killip’s son stumbled upon a box of contact sheets containing photos his father had taken at The Station, an anarcho-punk music venue in Gateshead that was open from 1981 to 1985. These images of raw youth captured in the heat of the party had lain dormant for 30 years; today they come back to life in this book. The Station was not just a venue for music and rehearsals, but a melting pot for the expression of the subcultures and punk politics of the era. Killip recalls: “When I first went to The Station in April 1985, I was stunned by the energy and atmosphere there. It was totally different, run for and by the people who went there. Every Saturday I could, I went there to take pictures. No one ever asked me where I was from or even who I was. A 39-year-old man with short white hair, always dressed in a suit, with pockets sewn inside the jacket to store my slides. With a 4×5 camera around my neck and a Norman flash and its battery strapped around my waist, I must have looked like someone straight out of a 1950s B-movie. “1985 was right after the miners’ strike, and there was a lot of youth unemployment. Most of the punks at The Station didn’t have jobs, and that place—run as a very inclusive collective—was so important to them and to their self-esteem.”
Published by Steidl, 2020
28.5 x 37.5 cm
80 pages
ISBN
In late 2016, Chris Killip’s son stumbled upon a box of contact sheets containing photos his father had taken at The Station, an anarcho-punk music venue in Gateshead that was open from 1981 to 1985. These images of raw youth captured in the heat of the party had lain dormant for 30 years; today they come back to life in this book. The Station was not just a venue for music and rehearsals, but a melting pot for the expression of the subcultures and punk politics of the era. Killip recalls: “When I first went to The Station in April 1985, I was stunned by the energy and atmosphere there. It was totally different, run for and by the people who went there. Every Saturday I could, I went there to take pictures. No one ever asked me where I was from or even who I was. A 39-year-old man with short white hair, always dressed in a suit, with pockets sewn inside the jacket to store my slides. With a 4×5 camera around my neck and a Norman flash and its battery strapped around my waist, I must have looked like someone straight out of a 1950s B-movie. “1985 was right after the miners’ strike, and there was a lot of youth unemployment. Most of the punks at The Station didn’t have jobs, and that place—run as a very inclusive collective—was so important to them and to their self-esteem.”
Published by Steidl, 2020
28.5 x 37.5 cm
80 pages
ISBN
