Tracey Lenin Tracey Lenin London So there I was, smoking cold in The Blind Beggar, sour mash swirling in my mouth. I didn’t even have a red left in my wallet. The door swung open and Dalmasso stumbled across with a couple of guitars that had lost their owners. He had a sideways look on his face. He knew I wouldn’t buy. Wood, the local fiddle player stopped playing. Dalmasso still owed Wood money for a job he did down the Camden Lock. The three of us just stood there, staring at each other. It was like something out of a Graham Green novel. The wet silence was broken by the advancing Sarah Strange. This girl was all business. Some unknown skiffle skipper from the baking Oceania. To settle his debt, Dalmasso, Strange and I agreed to play a couple of slots with the fiddle player. So there it was. The four of us, a jump pop, post film noir quartet. We played the first few shows without instruments and they were rougher than a hand in a blender. We fleeced a kit off a bloke I knew up Cally Road, and with Dalmasso’s guitars decided to keep playing round the circuit.