Damien Youth

Peter Daltrey had just arrived from leafy England with his son, Oli. Clearly unnerved by the dark trek to and fro from the house to the studio, Peter eventually came to love the stillness of the garden, gulping fresh air inbetween takes, replenishing his oxygen supplies, thinking of Avebury and home. Listening to the thrum of distant traffic, imagining the drivers headed far out west on endless Kerouac roads. Couldn`t see the stars, but knew they were there. Addicted to the doughnuts and fascinated by the 500 channels of TV back in the candlelit house. He found a spider in his bed on the first night and slept on the floor for the rest of his stay.


Peter Daltrey had just arrived from leafy England with his son, Oli. Clearly unnerved by the dark trek to and fro from the house to the studio, Peter eventually came to love the stillness of the garden, gulping fresh air inbetween takes, replenishing his oxygen supplies, thinking of Avebury and home. Listening to the thrum of distant traffic, imagining the drivers headed far out west on endless Kerouac roads. Couldn`t see the stars, but knew they were there. Addicted to the doughnuts and fascinated by the 500 channels of TV back in the candlelit house. He found a spider in his bed on the first night and slept on the floor for the rest of his stay.

Oli Daltrey came fresh-faced and energised from The Fog Band and Gentlemen`s Relish: his proto-punk guitar-driven Cavernesque outfits. Oli could sleep for England. Combined with the deadly long-haul jet-lag, he was rarely seen before noon, ready to consume a vast breakfast of waffles and maple syrup; new to his palette, but never-to-be-forgotten. During takes he listened intently, waiting for his entry then spearing his guitar into the mix like an English knight on a pure white charger.
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