The Great Hall at Lancaster University was my portal to an alternate universe, a kaleidoscope of wild freedom and musical ecstasy that unfolded every Saturday at midnight. Like Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, the clock striking twelve became my cue to step into another world—one of legendary rock bands, liberated souls, and nights that felt infinite.
Barry Lucas, the mastermind behind Rock Goes to College, was the architect of it all. He turned the Great Hall into a Mecca for live music, drawing in a galaxy of stars. Every weekend, I found myself there, surrounded by my fiercely independent, sexuality-liberated female friends, beer in hand, and the heady scent of pot lingering in the air.
The bands that graced that stage were a who’s who of rock ‘n’ roll legends. Thin Lizzy with Phil Lynott flashing his scratch plate into the crowd, picking out the prettiest faces. Wishbone Ash shredding their dual guitars in perfect harmony. Paul McCartney and Wings, with Linda Eastman—graceful, understated, and part of Kodak royalty—watching proudly. There were the raw energy of Ten Years After, the powerful rhythms of Fleetwood Mac, and the unforgettable riff of Free’s All Right Now echoing through the hall.
Some nights were pure magic. I remember Eric Clapton’s haunting guitar filling the air, Van Morrison’s soulful ballads bringing a rare hush to the crowd, and even the bluesy riffs of Chicken Shack transporting us to a different plane. Genesis, Mott the Hoople, and Hawkwind—each had their moment in the Great Hall’s spotlight. And when Chuck Berry took the stage, the hall erupted like a time machine had transported us to the roots of rock itself.
There were others too—Pink Floyd’s otherworldly Atom Heart Mother show, King Crimson’s experimental brilliance, and Yes with their progressive harmonies. Jethro Tull’s Ian Anderson, with his wild, almost shamanic stage presence, was unforgettable. And Emerson, Lake & Palmer, with their bombastic theatrics, proved that music was a full sensory experience.
My crew of friends made these nights unforgettable. We were unashamedly ourselves, dancing, laughing, debating the merits of Led Zeppelin versus Black Sabbath, and losing ourselves in the music. By the time Quintessence’s psychedelic grooves took hold, we were deep into the Newcastle Brown Ale and passing joints with strangers who felt like lifelong friends by the end of the night.
And the clothes—oh, the clothes! We were a walking parade of bohemian freedom. Velvet jackets, flared jeans, flowing skirts, platform boots, and fringe-covered everything. My friends, with their fearless spirit and wild laughter, were the heart of the night. Together, we were explorers, venturing into the vast soundscapes of the Great Hall.
It wasn’t just the music—it was the drama, the audacity, and the chaos behind the scenes. Barry recounted how Gaz Taylor, with his floppy black hat and a flair for the theatrical, once talked him into booking The Who. For £1,050, they turned the Great Hall into a seismic event, shaking Lancaster to its core. The “establishment” was furious, claiming that students would bankrupt the colleges, but we didn’t care. It was our rebellion, our declaration that we’d rather burn out than fade away.
These weren’t mere concerts; they were movements. Music in the early ‘70s wasn’t background noise—it was a declaration of identity, a rallying cry, a way to connect with the universe and the people standing beside you. Barry and his team took the energy of Hyde Park, Woodstock, and the Isle of Wight and brought it to Lancaster. And somehow, in that cold northern city, we felt the pulse of the world.
One night stands out vividly. It was a bitterly cold winter evening, and the anticipation in the Great Hall was electric. Fleetwood Mac had just played Black Magic Woman, and the room was humming with energy. A group of us stepped outside for air, and the frosty night seemed to crackle with possibility. Someone passed me a joint, the smoke curling into the night sky as we laughed and talked about everything from the latest Dylan album to our half-baked plans to hitchhike to Glastonbury.
When we went back in, the stage lights dimmed, and Deep Purple’s Smoke on the Water began. The crowd surged forward, an unstoppable wave, and for a few minutes, it felt like we were all connected by something greater than ourselves—a timeless rhythm that swept us away.
After the shows, we’d spill out into the chilly streets of Lancaster, still vibrating with the energy of the night. The Ring of Bells on China Street was a favourite haunt, a smoky pub where we dissected every riff and lyric over pints of bitter. Some nights, we ended up back in someone’s flat, huddled around a record player as Santana, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, or The Grateful Dead spun us further into the early hours.
But these nights were more than parties—they were a rite of passage. They were the moments that defined who I was, that taught me the importance of living boldly, loving freely, and finding beauty in chaos. The Great Hall wasn’t just a venue; it was a crucible of youth, freedom, and self-discovery.
Decades later, I imagine sitting across from Barry Lucas, pint in hand, reliving those extraordinary nights. “You made it happen, Barry,” I said, my voice thick with nostalgia.
Barry leaned back with a smile. “You lot made it worth it. The music was only part of it—you were the real show.”
And he wasn’t wrong. Those Saturday midnights weren’t just concerts—they were freedom, rebellion, and the pure, unfiltered essence of youth. We didn’t just watch legends; we lived alongside them, creating our own mythology in the haze of pot smoke and the echo of electric guitars.
Looking back, those Saturday nights feel like a dream—a vivid, kaleidoscopic chariots of sound, colour, and emotion. The Great Hall was our Hyde Park, our Fillmore East, and our tiny slice of eternity. We were young, wild, and unafraid to reach for the stars.
The Great Hall was where giants came out to play—and for a few glorious years, I danced among them.
