‘Thomas the Tank Engine clung to me like a disease': the film about the choo-choo's global grownup superfans
It is curious to hear these words spoken at the outset of a disarmingly sweet documentary. What kind of perversion, or even crime, is twentysomething Michaud confessing to in his own living room? A glimpse behind him provides a clue to his obsession and anxiety: displayed on a table is a collection of toy locomotives and model railway books. And the centrepiece is a model of Thomas the Tank Engine.
In one of his letters to the Corinthians, St Paul wrote that when he became a man he put away childish things. Brannon Carty's documentary, called An Unlikely Fandom: The Impact of Thomas the Tank Engine, is a rebuke to that philosophy. It celebrates the men (and the fans Carty interviews are overwhelmingly male) who have found friendship, community and creativity in what, as far as I can judge, is the most wholesome of subcultures.
Yet a sense of shame pervades Thomas the Tank Engine fandom. 'Aside from a handful of people,' says Carty, 'no one's really out and proud about it – because it's socially unacceptable, especially here in the States.' Why? 'I think Thomas gets looped in with Sesame Street and other preschool TV shows over here, whereas in the UK it's seen more as a children's show.'
Such nuances of a multiplatform global brand – whose merchandising spans pasta shapes and duvet covers, and whose fans number devotees in Japan and Australia – were not, you would think, on the mind of Reverend Wilbert Vere Awdry in 1943. It was then that Thomas was born, on a fictional island called Sodor.
Awdry's son Christopher needed cheering up from measles. And the reverend thought his tales of anthropomorphised steam locomotives, operating on the Fat Controller's North Western Railway, would be just the ticket. Two years later, the first illustrated books appeared, colourful antidotes to postwar austerity Britain.
When I was a child, in the 1960s and 70s, I borrowed the illustrated adventures of Thomas and his pals from my local library. For later generations, though, Thomas means something else. His name evokes nostalgia not for the books but for all the TV series, in particular Thomas & Friends, which first aired in 1984 in the UK, written by the late Britt Allcroft and narrated first by Ringo Starr, then later by Michael Angelis and others including, in one spinoff, the silken-voiced ex-007 Pierce Brosnan.
Many of the twenty- and thirtysomething Thomas fans whom Carty interviews, and Carty himself, watched these shows as kids, and nostalgia for the plucky locomotive has haunted them into adulthood. Carty and his older brother watched the show as preschoolers in North Carolina, and would play with Thomas toys, but then their paths diverged. 'He lost interest,' says Carty. 'I didn't.' Why? 'I can't explain it. My parents can't explain it. They thought it was weird. I remember my 10th birthday: I was still asking for Thomas toys. I don't know – it just clung to me like a disease. I'm happy that it clung to me, though. Now I'm a year shy of 30 and it's still my thing.'
What's the appeal of Thomas in the US? 'You don't see a lot of steam engines over here. People see the Thomas engines and think, 'Well those are just made up. Those aren't real.''
As US versions of the TV series started appearing in the late 1980s and early 1990s, Thomas got a makeover The Fat Controller became Mr Controller. After Starr's stint as narrator ended, he was replaced in the US first by countercultural comedian George Carlin, and then by Alec Baldwin.
How did An Unlikely Fandom come about? 'I was studying film at the University of Northern Carolina,' says Carty. 'My professor said, 'Just go shoot a documentary. I don't care how long it is. Just find something you care about.' So I decided to film the adult Thomas fans who I knew. I made that film and graduated – then I realised there's a bunch of fans in the UK that needed to be in this. A ton in Australia. A whole scene in Japan.'
The fact that many of the interviewees are in their 20s and 30s suggests that much of the TV shows' enduring appeal lies in nostalgia for childhoods dating from when the shows were first broadcast. But there's more to it than that. Thomas has long held an appeal for people with autism. Indeed a 2001 survey found that children with autism and Asperger syndrome enjoy and identify with Thomas more than any other children's character. Why? Respondents cited Thomas & Friends' straightforward stories, overt narrative resolution, bold colours and clear facial features.
That said, anyone really can identify with the scamp. For example, in Down the Mine, Thomas gets his comeuppance after teasing Gordon the big engine for smelling of ditchwater after an unfortunate incident. When Thomas later tumbles into a mine, he is rescued by Gordon, who indulges in no tit-for-tat sneering whatsoever. Thomas learns two lessons: don't ignore warning signs and don't be a jerk to your mates.
Carty sometimes struggled to get interviewees to appear in his film. 'A handful were nervous about being on screen and having their identity out there. I said, 'Trust me. No one's going to look stupid. This is going to be very honest, but it's also going to be sincere. So as long as you are honest and sincere, the film will reflect that.''
An Unlikely Fandom does more than that: we watch devotees expressing themselves articulately, detailing how they learned film-making, or other creative pursuits, through fashioning fan fictions. Matt Michaud recalls how he took a video class at school and, inspired by a teacher to make his own movie, went home, got out his Thomas toys, put up a sheet for a backdrop, assembled rudimentary lighting and made his debut film. 'That summer,' he says, 'I made 13 episodes and started to build a following on YouTube.'
Indeed, the life expectancy of Thomas has been extended by two things Awdry could never have foreseen. Without the internet, forums instantly connecting fans worldwide might not have existed; and without YouTube, the rich world of fan films – such as Carty's own 2012 short Snow Trouble – might not have been seen so widely. 'I don't think that happens as much with other cartoon characters. I'm sure there are Star Wars fans who make fan films, but I don't think Bob the Builder or Fireman Sam fans do.'
Carty's next project could not be more different. 'It's about these Italians who came to Florida in the 1990s and made Jaws 5.' That's its unofficial title: Bruno Mattei's film is also known as Cruel Jaws. 'They wound up getting sued and their film was banned in the US. It spoke to me because Jaws and Thomas are my childhood.' Why was it banned? 'They stole footage from the first three Jaws movies and the main theme is lifted from Star Wars. It's horrible, but I love it. It's cheesy and streaming free everywhere. I would recommend it.'
Before he finishes that documentary, provisionally entitled Twilight Jaws, Carty will next month attend the UK premiere of An Unlikely Fandom. Much of the film's sweetness comes from Carty's footage of fans at conventions, making podcasts or – having been initiated into the world of steam railways through Thomas and his friends – working happily with like-minded souls as volunteers on narrow gauge heritage railways.
What I most enjoyed about his film is the complete lack of snarkiness about grownups who are essentially playing with toys. 'That was just the thing I wanted to get out to the world. I faced a lot of hardship for it. Other people faced a lot of hardship for it. Even fans gave other fans a hard time. They didn't know how to process it, right? A lot of people said to me, 'I wish I had this film when I was growing up because I would have realised I was not alone.' When you're growing up, parents are like, 'Why aren't you making friends? You need to find your crowd.' A lot of Thomas fans did just that in later life. It's such a healthy, positive thing.'
Carty tells me he and his girlfriend, also a Thomas fan, don't yet have children. 'Whenever kids come into the picture, it's going to be a Thomas household,' he says. Then, with the hint of a sigh, he adds: 'If they don't like it, we'll reconsider.'
Brannon Carty will take part in a Q&A following the UK premiere of An Unlikely Fandom at Alstom's Litchurch Lane Works, Derby, on 2 August.
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The Independent
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- The Independent
The Maccabees on reuniting: ‘There were years when it was like a stranger messaging'
I n a dank rehearsal room in New Cross, bathed in an eerie green light that clings to the walls like moss, The Maccabees are easing back into each other's orbit. A headline appearance at All Points East is still months away. Nearest me is their guitarist Felix White, dressed all in black. 'Any requests?' he asks me. Soon the air is thick with nostalgia. Guitars twitch and flicker. Drums roar. Then in comes the choirboy vocal, clear yet quivering, as if frontman Orlando Weeks is on the verge of an apology: 'Mum said no/ To Disneyland,' he sings. 'And Dad loves the Church. Hallelujah.' It's the first time I've heard 'Lego', from their 2007 debut album, since the south London band bowed out eight years ago. But here are all the early Maccabees hallmarks: staccato riffs, adolescent romance, tenderness wrapped inside tension. Back then, in the harried sprawl of mid-Noughties UK indie – a scene of skinny jeans, dirty dance floors and MySpace pages – they briefly seemed to be just another charming, successful young band, writing cool, funny songs about wave machines and toothpaste. Yet they were always headed somewhere else, evolving, their sound increasingly adventurous on their way to a Mercury Prize nomination, an Ivor Novello award, a No 1 record and a headline performance at Latitude. Then it stopped. Seemingly out of nowhere, in August 2016, the group announced they were to be no more, save for a series of farewell celebration shows at Alexandra Palace the following year. 'We are very proud to be able to go out on our own terms, at our creative peak,' a statement read. 'There have been no fallings out.' Fans were bereft. In the years since, details of the split have remained hazy: by all accounts, it was not so much a blow-up as a simmering of fractures and differences. The pieces didn't fit together any more. While Weeks told The Independent in 2020 that the band 'just ran out of steam', blaming the creative frustrations of working as a group, it's clear a cooling-off period was needed. 'With Orlando,' says Hugo White, a guitarist in the band like his older brother Felix, 'there were a few years we didn't speak. You'd send one text maybe in six months.' They had been together their entire adult lives. 'I was 16 when I started the band,' Hugo notes. 'I was 30 when we split up.' Keeping five people together at that age 'locked into a diary that's scheduled for the next year, all intertwined in [each other's] lives', is difficult, he says. 'And I think that kind of broke in a way.' At that point, the five of them all agree, the idea of ever getting the band back together seemed inconceivable. 'It felt final,' says Weeks, who has now released three excellent solo records. 'Extremely final,' Felix jumps in, amid laughter. 'We needed it to be like that in order to move on,' says Hugo. 'It couldn't linger around.' Felix White during The Maccabees' set at the 2009 Isle of Wight Festival (Getty) We're 10 minutes in, and the group dynamic of The Maccabees is already unmistakable – a familial rhythm of in-jokes, unspoken cues and roles that feel shaped over years. If Weeks is the reluctant frontman, softly spoken and meditative, Felix is the band's ebullient cheerleader. Brooding opposite him is Hugo, with a jaw as sharp as his humour, cracking a number of close-to-the-bone barbs about the breakup. Drummer Sam Doyle and bassist Rupert Jarvis are here, too, quieter, more enigmatic. Though the mood is celebratory, there's no doubt the split was a difficult pill to swallow. 'It was so weird because you've made such a commitment to each other from a young age,' Hugo later tells me. 'So the idea that someone wants to make music outside of that group, with other people – it's almost like a betrayal... Even though it isn't.' For Felix, the way it ended, just as The Maccabees had finally earned their place at indie's top table, was, by his own past admission, 'heartbreaking'. 'We were mid-thirties and there was a real sense of saying goodbye to a part of your life,' he told us last year. The Maccabees wasn't the only breakup Felix was going through. At the same time as those bittersweet Alexandra Palace shows, he was also parting from his girlfriend Florence Welch, of Florence + the Machine. There was so much change in the air, Felix says, that it was difficult to navigate. 'Lots of endings happening in lots of different versions of life.' But then change has always been reflected in The Maccabees' music. Just as they became more expansive sonically, with gauzy guitar textures and swirling atmospherics reminiscent of Arcade Fire, so their lyrics matured. Gone were the chewed-up Lego pieces, replaced by introspection and songs concerned with the vicissitudes of ageing. Enjoy unlimited access to 100 million ad-free songs and podcasts with Amazon Music Sign up now for a 30-day free trial. Terms apply. Try for free ADVERTISEMENT. If you sign up to this service we will earn commission. This revenue helps to fund journalism across The Independent. Enjoy unlimited access to 100 million ad-free songs and podcasts with Amazon Music Sign up now for a 30-day free trial. Terms apply. Try for free ADVERTISEMENT. If you sign up to this service we will earn commission. This revenue helps to fund journalism across The Independent. Orlando Weeks performs during the band's 2013 Isle of Wight set (Getty) On a personal level, growing up with The Maccabees, all of us more or less the same age, I've always felt a strange sense of ownership over them, as if they are my band, a soundtrack to my coming of age. I was 20, still flinging myself across sticky, student dance floors in torn Levi's, when a mutual friend played them to me just before the release of debut album Colour It In. Then, two years later, nursing a broken heart, I found myself near Felix in the crowd as Blur played the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury. 'I fell in love to your first album,' I told him. There were other encounters, too, running the gamut from cringe to extremely cringe. Backstage at the Isle of Wight Festival in 2011, introduced to Hugo by a PR, I careened into fanboy overdrive, explaining more than once that 'your band changed my life'. Professionally speaking, I couldn't be trusted to be objective, either: I spent years wearing down a late, great music editor who refused to let me write about them. Eventually, she caved, and I reviewed them at Brixton Academy, not knowing it would be one of their last shows. (Headline: 'Is it time The Maccabees headlined Glastonbury?') Of course, they're not just my band. Recently, at a stag do in the Scottish Highlands, I derived immeasurable joy from watching the groom-to-be insist on playing four vintage Maccabees songs back-to-back at 3am, those time-capsule choruses still a bottomless font of bonhomie. To me, in an era of swaggering, hyper-macho indie landfill, with bands such as Razorlight and The Rifles, their music always stood apart, shimmering with warmth and depth. Evidently, Danny Boyle thinks so too. For a pivotal scene in his film Steve Jobs , he turned to the sweeping, crepuscular tones of 'Grew Up at Midnight', lifted from the band's critically acclaimed 2012 record Given to the Wild. 'We thought that was going to make us f***ing massive in America,' says Felix. 'They used the whole song at the end and we were like, 'Oh my God, we're going to America, people…'' He pauses… 'F***ing nothing. If anything, we were smaller after the film came out.' The Maccabees at the NME Awards in 2016, shortly before their split (AFP/Getty) Be that as it may, there's no downplaying the magnitude of those farewell shows, which felt part celebration, part elegy. I was there and can attest to just how emotional they were. 'There was a real sense when those last Maccabee shows happened that everyone had been, was a particular age, and it became sort of symbolic for saying goodbye to a certain part of your life – sort of early thirties,' says Felix. 'That idea of real adulthood was upon everyone, that you're definitively ending a stage of your life – and it felt like it was inside all of the rooms when we played those shows. It felt like everyone was pouring their own collective sense of goodbye into it, whatever that might be – relationships, being young, people that couldn't be there, all that kind of stuff. So it felt very heavy.' For a while, it seemed that Felix would not look back as he set off on new paths. He launched Yala! Records, wrote the cricket-themed memoir It's Always Summer Somewhere and started a cricketing podcast called Tailenders with radio host Greg James and England's all-time leading wicket-taker Jimmy Anderson. But as time passed, he realised, 'you do get to a point where you're like, actually, life doesn't last forever. If we want to do this, it could be a really beautiful thing.' There was a recognition that it would likely feel that way for their fans, too, who had felt the poignancy of their parting, and had since perhaps been doing a lot of the things that the band had been doing, like starting families and spending more time at home. 'As a Maccabee through the ages, I think you can really hear that in the music: you can hear that we're 19, you can hear that we're 24 and so on. And the gigs used to feel like that, like when we were first playing, and there used to be people hanging from the ceiling and shoes flying everywhere and all that kind of thing. And then, as we got older, it changed into something more introspective.' As we got older, it changed into something more introspective Felix White Cut to Glastonbury this year and there The Maccabees are, headlining the Park Stage, with a comeback set that weaves all those elements together. Yes, there's introspection, but also that frenetic energy; if there'd been a ceiling, you can be sure people would have hung from it – perhaps without their shoes. 'We never thought we'd be playing these songs again to anybody,' Felix said to the crowd. So how come they are, I ask? The catalyst, Hugo says, was his wedding to the author and poet Laura Dockhill in lockdown. After hiring out a pub in Battersea, he invited Weeks on the condition, he jokes, that he would sing. 'And just for the after party,' Felix chimes in, laughing. 'It's not an open invite!' And so, for the first time since Alexandra Palace, all five of them were in the same room. Their friends Jack Peñate, Jamie T, Florence Welch and Adele all performed that night. Crucially, so, too, did The Maccabees. Reuniting, says Weeks, 'didn't feel forced, because after the end of something like The Maccabees, to coordinate a meeting felt sort of contrived. Then, suddenly, there was this event that was a very obviously uncomplicated reason to all be together.' After Covid, he explains, there were tentative conversations about a reunion. Slowly, the pieces aligned. The White brothers' new band 86TVs were forced to pause their plans after Stereophonics called back their drummer, Jamie Morrison, for a tour. 'So, suddenly, there was this fallow year for them,' Weeks continues, 'and I had finished my stuff with [his 2024 album] Loja. So it was just a natural hiatus there. If there hadn't been an All Points East that felt so good, then it might easily have just drifted and not happened. But it just felt very uncomplicated again.' The boys are back in town: The Maccabees at Glastonbury 2025 (Jill Furmanovsky) Certainly, their Glastonbury set had a natural ease and coherence. 'The thing that I was really noticing was that me, Land [Orlando] and Hugo all used to do this thing where we'd all move at the same time, like unintentionally choreographed,' says Felix, when I meet him and his brother again a few weeks after the festival. 'You'd do two steps forward, stand still, three steps back, and you feel everyone do it at the same time. Like, weird, telepathic, synchronised. And here we were doing it again.' Falling unconsciously into step with one another without even speaking, he says, was 'so weird... even beyond the playing, like it was in your body somewhere'. Beforehand, though, 'I was f***ing nervous,' says Felix. 'And the TV thing really does heighten the whole experience.' 'You can't really get a more high-pressure scenario,' agrees Hugo. They'd been calm in the days leading up to it, but that changed on the day, explains his brother. 'Land had this thing in his head where he was saying randomly, sporadically, with no context, how nervous he was out of 10. So you'd be having a chat, and he'd suddenly go 'seven', and then half an hour later, it'd be 'six', and then 'nine'.' Nerves aside, the band were thrilled with how it went. 'I didn't come down from it for days,' says Felix. The set was capped by an appearance from Welch, now back with Felix, for a rendition of her galloping 2008 hit 'Dog Days Are Over'. 'It was a rehash of what we did together at the wedding,' says Hugo. 'As soon as she sings in a room, it changes. She has that thing where she changes the atmosphere in the inner space, and it's really rare.' The whole process was very different from the classic rock cliché of 'putting the band back together' – rebuilding relationships took time. 'We'd meet up with our kids on the South Bank,' says Hugo. 'Stuff that is so far from how we would have spent every day. After a year of not speaking or whatever, you know, you go for a coffee and walk for an hour. Hugo White: 'Florence has that thing where she changes the atmosphere in the inner space, and it's really rare' (Getty) 'Obviously, it's different now,' he adds, 'because Land lives in Lisbon, but things are just back to how they were. And there were years where it was like a stranger messaging you.' Of course, there have been seismic shifts in the musical landscape since The Maccabees formed in 2004 over a love of The Clash and the BBC series Old Grey Whistle Test, which featured punchy, angular performances by the likes of Dr Feelgood and XTC ('You can see why it looked fun to play fast,' says Felix). These days, the industry is 'less focused on bands', says Hugo. 'People are creating these things on computers. Because it's cheaper, it's easier. It doesn't require the same effort as five individuals that connect in a certain way to be able to create something.' Jarvis agrees. 'It's so much more expensive to just be a new band. Back when we first started, we'd chuck in a fiver each to go and spend four hours rehearsing, [but] that doesn't get you anywhere nowadays,' he says. 'I feel very sorry for the new bands because of that, and there's a lot less new bands. You really notice that – there are fewer venues, fewer nights out, fewer things going on for bands to form a scene.' As the fashions of the scene that spawned The Maccabees in the indie sleaze era made a comeback, Weeks saw his past life through a new lens. 'We must be far enough away from that moment to look back at those pictures with a kind of giddiness,' he says. 'The colours and the weird asymmetrical haircuts and plimsoles and acrylic Perspex dangly little earrings and all of those things that, at the time, didn't feel nearly as cool as looking back at photos of The Clash. But we're far enough away from it now that it owns its identity.' The tribalism of the era, when you could tell which aisle of HMV a person would head to just by their hairstyle, holds a romantic pull for the band. 'There was still so much DIY-ness about it all,' says Weeks. 'There was more of a look, a cohesiveness of aesthetic.' Felix recalls being at a metal bar in Camden recently, 'and they've all got a look. That made me feel really nostalgic and jealous thinking, oh, I can't remember being in a place where everyone's got this code that makes them all sort of connected.' Felix White (far left): 'We spent two and a half years in full-on mania making 'Marks to Prove It'' (Jill Furmanovsky) Though the average fan's taste may seem more diverse than ever, Hugo wonders if something was lost in the transition to pick-and-mix fandom in the streaming era. 'You used to buy one album and listen to that until you got another album. [Nowadays] you don't have to listen to one album.' He stops himself and laughs. 'Do they even listen to an album? You just dart between songs like social media, scrolling through things.' The Maccabees seem conflicted about social media generally – especially its demands for self-promotion. 'When Marks to Prove It came out in 2015,' Felix recalls, 'we had a long conversation about whether we should even put on the Instagram that the album's out. We spent two and a half years in full-on mania making this record and it was generally like, is it naff to say the album is out today?' 'When you think what kids like the young artists now are expected to do, it's just, like, mind-blowing in comparison to how things worked for us,' Hugo says. 'We were so fortunate to be able to make stuff as a group of people and not be in this constantly competitive environment.' 'Just being not part of promotion,' Weeks marvels. 'Yeah, it was always someone else in control,' says Doyle. 'Deliver the artwork and they would promote it by getting posters up or whatever it was,' adds Hugo. I'd love to have seen Nick Drake's Instagram. Imagine him asking people to swipe up and share Felix White The sort of 'savviness' that self-promotion requires was not what set them on their way, notes Weeks, picking out current bands he likes – Divorce, Caroline, and Black Country, New Road – who have 'accidental alchemy' but also manage to be engaging on Instagram, without having to lay bare their 'private, inner workings'. 'I'd love to have seen Nick Drake's Instagram,' says Felix, laughing. 'Imagine him asking people to swipe up and share.' It's clear that as they prepare to play All Points East, headlining a bill that includes Irish sensation CMAT and indie stalwarts Bombay Bicycle Club, laughter and good vibes have returned to The Maccabees. 'Everyone's in a good headspace and connecting with each other, and that's allowed it to be stronger,' notes Hugo. Which raises the question: will there be more music from The Maccabees in their forties? 'Do you think that means we would make better music or worse music?' asks Felix. It'll be a different stage of life, for better or worse, I reply. 'It'll be slower,' laughs Hugo. 'There's a good feeling about it,' Felix says, with a wry smile. 'It's tempting…' The Maccabees headline All Points East on 24 August in Victoria Park; last tickets are available here . Reissues of their albums 'Colour It In' and 'Given To The Wild' are released on limited edition vinyl on 22 August. You can pre-order here
BBC News
an hour ago
- BBC News
Calls for Depeche Mode to be honoured in home town of Basildon
Fans of one of the world's biggest-selling bands have called for them to be officially recognised in their home Mode started out as a four-piece in Basildon, Essex, in 1980 before achieving global fame with their trademark electronic sound and brooding Quarton, lead singer with tribute band The Devout, said: "In Basildon, there should be some sort of mural or something that draws in tourism from around the globe to say magic was created here."Basildon Council has not responded to a request for comment. Quarton said: "Magic started here in this little town in Essex and it means a lot to millions and millions of people."Calls for official recognition come as a BBC Radio 4 documentary Depeche Mode: Reach Out and Touch Faith speaks to commentators and guests about the group's working class roots and remarkable journey as musicians. The band, originally called Composition of Sound, was formed by friends Andy Fletcher, Vince Clarke and Martin Gore before Dave Gahan was recruited performed for the first time as a four-piece at Nicholas School, now James Hornsby School in Laindon, Basildon, which Gore and the late Fletcher attended, with Clarke a former pupil at Laindon High Road School. The band, however, mostly live in the United States now and have been critical of their hometown in was quoted as saying: "I really hated Basildon. I wanted to get out as quickly as I could... I hear it's a pretty horrible place these days," while Gahan was quoted as saying: "All I remember about Basildon was that it was awful." Deb Danahay first became friends with Gahan at Barstable School, with Depeche Mode playing one of their first gigs at a party she co-hosted at Paddocks Community Hall, used to help run the Depeche Mode Information Service in the band's early days and was in a relationship for four years with Clarke, who left to launch Yazoo with fellow Basildon musician Alison Moyet and later Erasure with Andy Bell. Ms Danahay now takes dedicated Depeche Mode fans - known as Devotees - on tours of Basildon, built to ease post-war overcrowding in majority of visitors were from Europe, particularly Germany, and South America, she said."Most of them think they're going to come to the town centre and there's going to be statues of the band - they're really shocked [that there isn't]," she said. Ms Danahay, who lives in Canvey Island, said that while there was a plaque in James Hornsby School's sports hall to commemorate Depeche Mode's first gig, there was little else in the way of official recognition. On tours, she is limited to taking fans to a board outside featuring photographs of Gore, Fletcher and Clarke along with former pupils Alison Moyet, The Cure's Perry Bamonte, and Bob the Builder and Paw Patrol creator Keith appreciated giant portraits of the band members in the Towngate Theatre too, she said. As pioneers of the electronic sound inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 2020, Depeche Mode and their peers were shaped by growing up in a new town surrounded by young people, Ms Danahay said."My parents... came from Dagenham and lots of Dagenham and East End people moved there," she said."They got a brand new house and the town centre wasn't even built then - and it's an analogy that I've heard, that it was because there were no old people... there wasn't people saying you shouldn't be doing this or that."We had so much freedom and didn't appreciate it because we thought this was how everyone's town was: the schools were brand new, everything was completely brand new. "It was just brilliant." Follow Essex news on BBC Sounds, Facebook, Instagram and X.
BBC News
an hour ago
- BBC News
East of England news quiz of the week 26 July
From an otter in an odd place to an inspiring Ed Sheeran, how much East of England news can you remember from the past seven days?
