Sensory Overload.
My old band Big Day
Out used to rehearse in a day centre every Sunday (like most aspiring
rock bands, I guess). Whenever we arrived, there was only one thing on our
mind, and it wasn’t music. Each week, we’d pray that they'd left their sensory
room open by mistake.
We only discovered the room by accident. The building was essentially a large square made up of four long corridors meeting at each end, with a courtyard in the middle. These passages had a more than passing resemblance to The Overlook Hotel. We’d wander up and down them in breaks between practising, trying all the doors along the way.
On one memorable occasion, a door that was usually locked swung open to reveal a pitch-black room. After a few moments furtively scrabbling for a light switch, I found a whole bank of them on the wall. I flicked them down to be hit by a sea of colour: all manner of mirror balls, disco lights, bubble machines, psychedelic oil projections, fibre-optic and lava lamps came on at once. It was as if someone had crammed the Summer of Love into an 8x8 foot room. It was like Aladdin’s cave, only better. It was the most exciting moment of my life up to that point.
(I grew up in Stevenage, remember.)
I felt like I was having an acid flashback, without ever taking it. The scene could only be improved by a four-piece rock band in animal costumes, playing I am the Walrus. If opening doors could be like this more often, the world would be a much better place.
We didn’t get much work done that day. We nipped to a nearby McDonald’s for milkshakes, and then decamped to the sensory room for the foreseeable future. It was a cool way to spend the afternoon, man.
Every week after that, we’d check that forbidden door, hoping for the best. It was only unlocked on about three or four occasions in the next eight years. If we’d spent less time fiddling with that handle and more time rehearsing, we might have got a recording contract. Still. I've got no regrets.
We only discovered the room by accident. The building was essentially a large square made up of four long corridors meeting at each end, with a courtyard in the middle. These passages had a more than passing resemblance to The Overlook Hotel. We’d wander up and down them in breaks between practising, trying all the doors along the way.
On one memorable occasion, a door that was usually locked swung open to reveal a pitch-black room. After a few moments furtively scrabbling for a light switch, I found a whole bank of them on the wall. I flicked them down to be hit by a sea of colour: all manner of mirror balls, disco lights, bubble machines, psychedelic oil projections, fibre-optic and lava lamps came on at once. It was as if someone had crammed the Summer of Love into an 8x8 foot room. It was like Aladdin’s cave, only better. It was the most exciting moment of my life up to that point.
(I grew up in Stevenage, remember.)
I felt like I was having an acid flashback, without ever taking it. The scene could only be improved by a four-piece rock band in animal costumes, playing I am the Walrus. If opening doors could be like this more often, the world would be a much better place.
We didn’t get much work done that day. We nipped to a nearby McDonald’s for milkshakes, and then decamped to the sensory room for the foreseeable future. It was a cool way to spend the afternoon, man.
Every week after that, we’d check that forbidden door, hoping for the best. It was only unlocked on about three or four occasions in the next eight years. If we’d spent less time fiddling with that handle and more time rehearsing, we might have got a recording contract. Still. I've got no regrets.
