Pale Meridian — About the band
Visual concept preview of the Music Artist template's About page: The band above the laundrette: who the four of them are, how nine years happened, and the street the whole thing is named after. The sections below are a non-interactive composition of open-registry blocks.
Pale Meridian formed nine years ago in the practice room above the laundrette on Meridian Street, and never really left it. Four people, four records, one van, and a label run off the same kitchen table.
The room came first. Row found it — above the laundrette, cheap because of the noise, perfect because of the noise — and the band assembled around it the way bands do: a flatmate, a flatmate’s cousin, and the drummer from the pub quiz team.
Nine years later the rent has tripled and nobody will move. The driers are on every record. The laundrette’s owner, Mrs Okonkwo, has heard every song first for nine years and remains the only critic the band is afraid of.
The four of us, plus the two people without whom the four of us would still be arguing in a stairwell.
The practice-room wall is nine years of tour laminates, water-damaged setlists, and photographs nobody remembers taking. When a record is finished, one object from the sessions goes on the wall and never comes down.
For Sodium Lights it was the blind from the window on the cover. The room is darker now, which everybody agrees is somehow correct.
Nobody does this alone. Old Casino open most of our nights because they should be headlining their own; the zines wrote about us when nobody else would; and the list — the letters — is the nearest thing the band has to a hometown that travels.
Booking, press, and the label all go through Mabel — one email, read every morning, answered in the order it deserves rather than the order it arrived.