(Preface: I’d originally intended this to be a light-hearted ‘behind the album’ piece, but it very quickly evolved into something a lot deeper. Reader discretion advised – this is a long read!)

I play bass in a band called ‘Social Youth Cult’. Crap name, I know. As dramatic as it might sound, this band – and music in general - saved my life. This is as much a piece about our album ‘The Lighthouse’ as it is about my turbulent life, as the two are greatly intertwined.

Social Youth Cult formed on Halloween in 2023 – I’d moved to Newcastle for university not even two months before. I really struggled to find any sort of connection with other students due to the strong class divide and my general social ineptitude. I spent most of my first month at university holed up in my bedroom (better described as a cupboard with a bed). In these circumstances, I was very lucky to have met Holly, Shaun and Alex when I did. Those early days of the band were very fulfilling. We did little pseudo-photoshoots with friends, put up posters advertising our music and dotted about town with our guitars always strapped firmly to our backs. Life was pretty good. It was cool to be in a band.

We started gigging in March the following year and put out an EP and a single in mid-2024. Despite the unexpectedly immense reaction we’d received for our first releases, we felt the darkwave sound we’d initially cultivated had already run its course. We had a lot of arguments about the sound after we put the single out. ‘What do you want to do next?’; ‘That sounds shite’; ‘I’m not doing that’. I imagine the people who ran the rehearsal rooms we used at the time were quite fed up of our bickering echoing through the halls. We eventually turned slowly towards a heavier, more experimental sound, probably due to a bit of the frustration we were feeling in our lack of direction. We settled into something more atmospheric once the tension was over. We left 2024 very strong, having just sold out our first gig at Whitby Goth Weekend a couple weeks after making the daunting trip to Leeds for our first ‘away day’.

Despite how well the band was doing, I was in a terrible state coming into the new year. I’d been diagnosed with epilepsy less than 6 months before, around the time that we released ‘Black Lipstick’. It’s a horrible thing for anyone, being told that you could just fall over and die anytime and anywhere, and I was already very fragile due to some medication I was on at the time. Not ideal, really.

My friends, bless them, initially met the news with ‘fooooking hell, that’s rough’, because that’s really the only thing you can say. It was nice to see the people around me try their best to help and look out for me, but it was also incredibly isolating because no one ever felt fully comfortable around me. When it comes to these sorts of conditions no one has a clue what to do with you, often treating you as if you were a bomb about to explode. What else could they do? I could, and often did, seize at any time.

After my diagnosis, I was assigned a moron of a practitioner who prescribed a strong course of trial and error until we found some medication that would stop the seizures. I ended up loaded on 3 different – and conflicting - courses of medication. Not only did this treatment not help, but it also made me go fucking mental. By October, I was frequently seeing disturbing things. Shirtless men with slashed stomachs; eyes where eyes shouldn’t be; odd silhouettes in my neighbour’s windows. I remember I kept having dreams about swallowing my teeth. I was completely fucked.

I got really into reading about Ian Curtis. I was pretty devastated to learn that his journey through epilepsy was very similar to mine. He was subject to a similar sort of medical trial and error, and he couldn’t work because he was fitting so often. I remember sitting and crying for a good couple of hours after learning he couldn’t even hold his baby for fear that he would seize and drop her. I read that he was in a terrible, terrible frame of mind, and was very unpleasant to be around. He isolated himself from his friends, his wife and his family to listen to his records and focus on songwriting. It was his only form of expression, his only freedom. Eventually, as things got worse for him, even that outlet wasn’t enough. We all know how that ended.

I was in a dangerously similar state coming into 2025. I started keeping a ‘band diary’ once things started to pick up again after Christmas, mainly just to keep myself busy. I kept track of how our new material was developing, how gigs were going and how I was feeling about everything. Most of it contained frustrations with my own songwriting, and angry rants on how it was impossible for me to understand my bandmates. Reading it back, it’s pretty evident that I wasn’t the nicest to be around. I was a proper Scrooge, seeing faults in what I remember now to be great gigs, or key moments in our creative processes. The diary ended up being a really fulfilling thing in the end; it kept me in the present. Winter made it really hard to keep track of the days, and I was fully off the deep end in terms of my university work, so it was my only form of routine. I spent most of my time alone in my bedroom, often in pitch black thanks to the mountain of duct tape I’d laid over my window to avoid what I was seeing outside. I was hopelessly lost at sea, with only my music and my thoughts to keep me afloat. I wanted desperately to get out of the hole I was in, to get better and to find my way to shore, however far I would have to swim. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, however. Not at that point, at least.

There were definitely moments of clarity, where the sea calmed and the sun fought off the clouds, even if only for a little while. I often took myself to Tynemouth and did a lot of writing in front of the lighthouse there. My lighthouse, it was. Sitting and staring at it for hours on end, sat on a hard bench in the freezing cold, I studied what was essentially my muse. Some days I would go and the lighthouse would be clear and formidable. Other days, it was elegant and flowing. The best time to visit was at night. The sound of unseen waves, the chill of strong wind and my lighthouse, guiding the way. I got stuck there a few times after missing the last Metro home, but I didn’t really mind. It was worth it to spend that extra time with the light.

I started having these surreal experiences during my night-time visits. I drew the lighthouse over and over again and I must’ve written hundreds of pages about it. I felt a connection to it, like nothing I’d ever felt before. This inanimate object was almost an addiction. Many of the album’s lyrics came from my visiting habits. I’d resolved to do something with these feelings and turned to songwriting. It was my only outlet. My only freedom.

As things started to pick up again in the new year, we had early versions of songs that would eventually make their way onto the album. I’d gotten us booked in to record at The Bunker by then, which meant that we had about 6 months to have some kind of finished idea to bring into the studio. The material we had so far was promising. We had ‘Venus’, the song that kicked off the heavier sound, pretty much finished and other songs like ‘Close to Nothing’ and ‘Dead Space’ were in their infancy. We had other work-in-progress ideas, such as ‘Holy Teachings’ and a punkier song called ‘Bloodletting’ that never really went anywhere. We were gigging every now and again, and we had some pretty great offers for shows later in the year. Things were moving nicely, we were pulling decent crowds and our music was good. I ought to have been happy. Yet something still wasn’t right.

As I’m writing, I’m beginning to realise that this piece is really selfish, actually. It’s incredibly cathartic for me to write about the horrible couple years I’ve had, and to use this almost as a way to put a nail in 2024-25. To expect people to read and care about this in a vacuum makes me a bit self-important, though. I suppose I should be didactic in some way; using my experiences as advice or as a message to people out there that it gets better. God knows I needed something like that when I was at my lowest.

I did something terribly stupid in February. Had I read or heard someone talk about experiences with the kind of mindset I was in, I probably would’ve thought twice. The thought that someone in a similar situation might read my heavily digressional ramblings and consider it in their own lives is comforting. It gives all this individualist typing some purpose at least. Makes me a saint, if anything (kidding).

Anyway, I was in the worst state I’d ever been in after that. It couldn’t go on like it was. I can’t remember what the catalyst for it was, but I’d just resolved one day that I was going to sort myself out; that I obviously wanted to get better, and that if I didn’t, I might as well already be dead. It took me a long time to sort of stand up for myself in that regard. I took myself off some of the meds. It was fucking horrible ‘coming down’ from those. I shivered constantly, I was throwing up a lot, and I didn’t even move out of bed for a couple of days. I still have some minor tremors in my hands that I developed in that period. Any normal person would’ve shipped themselves straight off to the doctor, but they’d been no help in the past. ‘What would they do now that I couldn’t do myself?’ was my main thought. I think I was right, in the end.

Things eventually calmed down. I started leaving the house more often and was feeling more connected to music than ever. I got very into The Chameleons after their Newcastle gig in December. I’d met Mark Burgess after he’d just randomly showed up at Nightbreed – Newcastle’s finest goth night. The Chameleons have their own little section in my heart that they will forever occupy for getting me through this period. I still listen to them non-stop, and they’re probably the biggest influence on everyone in the band, even if that isn’t directly evident in the music.

I worked my way back into the good books of my friends, as I had unceremoniously abandoned them both physically and emotionally for a good couple of months. I repaired the effects of my mental absence with the band and eventually found my way back onto the face of the earth. I reworked some of my Tynemouth lyrics, put together some rough ideas and really started to feel the pull of songwriting again. I was doing something fulfilling with my time for the first time in nearly a year. I poured my newfound heart into what was going to be our album.

I got better and better the more we wrote. I started attending university again and began to travel up and down the country with the band across the spring. We had most of the album written by May, with a couple straggler tracks to finish. In July, we went into The Bunker for 4 days with Phil Jackson, who made our songs sound a hundred times better than we ever thought they could have. Everything went so well that I still can’t really believe it. I was in love with the way the music sounded, how I felt while playing it and the connection it gave me not only with my bandmates, but also with the past winter’s experiences and how they sat in my slowly healing mind. I was growing content with life, which is something I’m not sure I’d ever experienced before that spring.

I almost feel like an observer of the band at times. It’s like I’m viewing something so special from the other 3 members that it takes a while to register that I’m actually in the band. ‘I couldn’t possibly be a part of this, could I?’ is a frequent thought that flies through my mind. The album turned out very, very well. I remember sitting with the rest of the band, turning all the lights off in my living room and listening to the first round of mixes in complete silence. A resonating “Aye, I really like that” and a bit of “Fuuucking hell” came out once we’d listened to it in full. I was very, very happy with it.

It got to about September, and we’d hit some pretty big gigs while gearing up for the album launch at Whitby Goth Weekend. We had an overwhelming response at Morecambe’s Bats in the Attic. Something stupid like 100-odd people turning up at 2:30pm to see us open the festival. I’d gotten to know some pretty big characters in the scene there, which has given us some great opportunities to look forward to. We had two October stops: a gig in Edinburgh with the amazing Twisted Nerve, and a visit to Leeds’ ‘Black Pilgrimage’. Both of these shows were some of the best we’ve ever played. We launched the first single ‘Close to Nothing’ in Leeds to a great response. Everything was falling into place ahead of the launch.

From the beginning of the year, I didn’t feel ready to let the album go. I think I started to feel very paternal towards the material. Working on this album was the only thing that had kept me alive in those strange times. I felt like by releasing the record I’d be giving away a little bit of my soul. It was a very dramatic way of thought, and I think I knew so at the time. That didn’t make the sensation any less real, though. I’d be setting all these feelings free – the isolation, the illness, the impending doom. Most of all, I felt I’d be letting go of the relationship I had with my lighthouse. And I just wasn’t ready for that.

Once we’d finished those two October shows, I think I finally felt ready to let go. November was inbound, and with it came the dreaded winter. I began to worry that I’d drop off the face of the earth again once we’d put the album out. I would have nothing to occupy myself with and be stuck with the season’s darkness again. I pushed this to the back of my mind. I had the launch gig to focus on. I had, pretty stupidly, worked myself half to death to make sure everything was perfect.

We got into Whitby on the 1st of November, the day before the launch. The band and a couple of friends (all very hungover, on account of a house party the night before) travelled down in the afternoon and we had a chill night in, as we’d be very busy the next day. We listened to the album at midnight, just as it was released. It was a very, very strange experience. Alex and some others had gone to bed, which left Holly, Shaun, me and our friends Nina and Mason to sit in silence and listen through the whole thing. I zoned out listening to the first half, a little bit drunk on red wine. Though, as it got to ‘Strange Times’ I felt a very weird drop in my chest. It wasn’t dread, it wasn’t worry and it wasn’t panic. It was like I’d finally swallowed something that had been stuck in my throat for a while. I almost felt like I was floating. I’d never felt anything like it then, or since.

The album came to a close and everyone else dragged themselves to their beds pretty soon after. I stayed up, trying to process what I was feeling and making final preparations for the next day. I sat down at some point, checking my phone. 2am. ‘Bedtime’, I thought. I put my phone down but picked it up again thirty seconds later after hearing it buzz. 4am. I’d somehow just lost two hours. I didn’t sleep or get lost in my phone. I’d simply just lost two hours. Dazed, I looked out of the window and watched the empty street for a while. Something about that image, combined with the feelings the music had given me that night, seemed to completely iron out any worry about letting the album go. In a sense, I was ready to give this part of myself away. Everything was calm for the first time in a while. I was quite happy. I then near-immediately threw up in the kitchen sink. I went to bed soon after.

The launch night was fucking amazing. I’d quite unreasonably started a row during soundcheck because I felt it was taking too long and that the sound wasn’t quite right. We had an amp quit out on us and I was still feeling a bit ill from my unceremonious vomit the night before, so I walked off halfway through and just went to the green room to get ready. I have no idea what the sound guy did while we were gone, but once we got on stage the sound was really, really good. The crowd was huge. We’d sold the place out on a Sunday, and I was told after that this was practically unheard of. We played two sets: one of the album in full, and one comprised of some tracks we hadn’t played in a while, along with a cover of the Velvet Underground’s ‘Heroin’. I finished the set by beating the fuck out of one of Alex’s cymbals with the headstock of my bass. I felt fucking amazing. Free.

I’d finally found my way back to shore and could rest. I’d nearly drowned more than once on my way to ‘The Lighthouse’. Spending so long lost at sea, it was almost nauseating to be on dry land. But I’d made it.

Surprisingly, I have managed to occupy myself musically since the album came out. It turns out that putting one record out makes you want to make more music immediately and at all times, which has kept me going steady. I realise that this piece has become very autobiographical, and that some of you might not be all that bothered about the details of my absurd feelings and mental experiences. As a treat for sitting through all that, I’ll give you a bit more insight into each of the album’s tracks:

Venus:

The song that drew us towards the heavier, deeper sound. I remember Shaun comically ripping off ‘Release the Bats’ as placeholder lyrics when we first started writing it. He says it’s about old Mesopotamian figurines – like the ‘Venus of Willendorf’ – which appeals greatly my interests in ancient history. A nasty little tune, with a bass part that focuses plenty on octaves. Hurts my hands like hell. Always fun to watch Alex scream the ‘death’ bit at the end.

Close to Nothing:

A song that took a long time. It was pretty much all Shaun in terms of writing. The bass part didn’t sit right with me for a while. It’s very unusual, with a dissonant drone and weird rhythm during the verse. It’s probably my favourite to play now though. We didn’t have an ending for quite a while, as is typical of our songwriting. We always come up with solid verse and chorus parts but never know how to end a song. Nine times out of ten we just go really big and then have an ‘everything falls apart’ ending. This was the first song where we used that idea, and it works to tremendous effect. Holly’s guitar part at the end came out of nowhere and it was a nice moment for us all when things finally clicked. I know it sounds like I’m bragging because she’s in my band and all, but she is just an incredible musician. Once we got hold of this song, we were less ‘Close to Nothing’ and more close to what we wanted for the album. The standout track for me, and Shaun’s best lyrically.

The Man in the Photo:

My evil little child. Came from a jam sesh me and Shaun had in my bedroom, where I played around with the weird groove idea and he essentially assaulted my guitar. Those types of creative moments are very fun. Though, because it’s such an unusual stop-and-start rhythm, it was very boring when we first played it together with the band. Alex wasn’t a fan initially, and I began to fall out of love with it as the lyrics I had at the time were shite. Everyone wanted to drop it, but I kept pushing as I thought it had some proper potential. After about 3 months of trying it on and off again, the drums and the bass all of a sudden clicked together. I rewrote the lyrics, and after a long period of random experimentation, Holly’s abstract guitar came together about 2 weeks before we went into record at The Bunker. I really enjoyed recording it. Phil had Holly record something like a hundred different guitar noises then we cut them up and put the best sounding ones into the verses for a call-and-response dynamic with the vocals. Lyrically, it’s absolute bollocks. I was listening to a lot of the Nightingales at the time and wanted something a bit more spoken word in a ‘Gales Doc’ kind of style. I gathered up a lot of old words that I thought were useless and pieced them together Kid-A style. I think it turned out very well. I’ve enjoyed seeing people try figure out what the song’s about. Art is only what you see in it, after all, eh?

I don’t visit my lighthouse much anymore. I haven’t seen it properly in just over a year now, and I wonder sometimes if it misses me. Or maybe it’s glad that I finally stopped coming. I’m happy now, for the first time in my life, because of those visits. I’ve washed up on the shore, and I’m ready to make my way back to civilisation. One day I’ll go see it again, and I’ll be able to thank it for everything it has done. I hope my lighthouse knows that it saved my life, even if it was in such a roundabout, strange way.

(Thank you so much for reading all this jumbled, emotional scrawling. It took me 3 months to get all this written down in a way that was fulfilling for me, but not self-aggrandizing or utterly boring for a reader. I feel a lot better having gotten it out of my system. I hope you enjoyed reading about my weird life, and our weird album. Thank you.)