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The Lids: Belfast Punk/ New Wave, and a Band's Raw Legacy

by Geoff Shannon

 

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Chapter 1: August 9, 1971 - The Day of Demetrius

 

Belfast in the '70s was no place for dreams. It was a city at war, its people divided by barbed wire and suspicion. But one day stands out—a day I’ll never shake, no matter how many years pass. August 9, 1971. Operation Demetrius. The British Army swept through, collecting over 340 men without trial, taking them straight to prison cells. It became known as internment day, and the city erupted. People streamed into the streets, slamming metal bin lids against the pavement like a strange war drum, sending shockwaves that made the whole place feel alive. I was young then, too young to understand what it all meant. But I remember telling my mother, half-jokingly, “Listen, they’re celebrating your birthday.” It was her birthday, after all. 

 

But this wasn't any celebration. Those sounds stayed with me, lodged somewhere deep. Later, in 1978, when we were trying to find a name for the band, it came back to me—*The Lids*. It fit perfectly, just like it was waiting for us all those years. It was Belfast's rawness, its unrest, captured in a word. None of us knew then what we were in for, what music would come out of that tension. All we knew was that something had to be done with the noise and anger buzzing inside us.

 

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Chapter 2: The Birth of The Lids

 

I was restless long before The Lids came together. Like any young guy trying to make sense of life in Belfast, I’d been playing with other bands, taking every chance I got to learn and get better on guitar. Music was the one escape. I threw myself into it, dragging my guitar from one end of the city to the other, looking for something I couldn’t name. 

 

One day, I was walking down Cromwell Road, and through the noise of the city, I heard the unmistakable beat of a drum, steady and sure. I tracked the sound to a house and knocked on the door, not really sure what I’d say. A guy named Paul Kelly opened it, looking like he’d just been jolted from some kind of trance. “I like your style,” I said, half-laughing, and he invited me in. There was an energy to him that was undeniable—an intensity that I knew would translate to something raw onstage. From there, it was like things clicked into place. We found two more—Paddy Donnelly, who could play bass like he was ripping the strings straight out of the thing, and Peter North, our guitarist with a quiet fire. We were the first members of The Lids. That night, we organized our first jam session, playing in a cramped space filled with sweat and noise, our ears ringing. But that’s how it starts, right? It wasn’t long before we’d get shut down by the paramilitaries, claiming we were drowning out their voices. We probably were.

 

But we had found it. There, in the middle of all that noise, The Lids were born.

 

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Chapter 3: First Gigs - The Pound and The Harp

 

We spent months rehearsing wherever we could, trying to tame that raw energy. But taming it wasn’t the point. It was about finding the edge, finding the heartbeat that ran underneath it all. When we finally started landing gigs, they weren’t exactly glamorous. Belfast wasn’t known for its punk scene—or any scene, really. But there were two places that gave us a shot: The Pound and The Harp. They were bars that let kids in out of the cold, where anyone who didn’t fit into Belfast’s straight-laced mold could find a place to scream and sweat.

 

The people who came weren’t typical. They were a mix—bikers, students, punks, and drunks. Kids from every part of the city and beyond, all desperate for something that felt alive. We were different from other bands in the scene. We weren’t punk exactly, but something close to it. Something New Wave, though we barely knew what that meant. It was in the music, in the way we attacked our instruments. We wanted to be like the American bands that were breaking rules—Talking Heads, Ramones. We played some of their songs, putting our own spin on them, along with the original songs we were pulling together.

 

It was raw, it was messy, and it felt like we were doing something new. Soon, word started to spread. We had a crowd.

 

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Chapter 4: The Good Vibrations Label and Terri Hooley

 

At the same time, a man named Terri Hooley was making waves of his own. He’d set up the Good Vibrations label in the middle of downtown Belfast, throwing his weight behind new bands. Terri was a legend in his own right, running his label and a record store out of Great Victoria Street, pushing local bands to the forefront of Belfast’s underground music scene. I’d known him for years, so when we started getting serious, I approached him. He liked our sound, and it wasn’t long before he offered us a shot in the studio.

 

That’s how we found ourselves in Wizard Studios, Belfast’s home for any band looking to make their mark. Terri handed us 15 pounds for drinks, told us to relax, and let us get on with it. We recorded two tracks that day—“Helicopter” and “I Don’t Want You.” It was raw, capturing the anger and intensity we felt. “Helicopter” was the one we’d pinned our hopes on, but it never saw the light of day. Terri felt it was too close to home, too raw, with Belfast already on edge. It stayed locked away, a secret known only to a few. “I Don’t Want You” made it out there eventually, finding its way onto Anagram Records’ *Good Vibrations Singles Collection* nearly twenty years later. Funny how things go, how music has a way of resurfacing when you least expect it.

 

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Chapter 5: The Harp Bar and Our Fans

 

For us, The Harp Bar was everything. It wasn’t just a venue—it was a place where we could throw everything into our songs and watch it bounce back in waves. We started playing faster, louder, pushing the limits every night. And the crowd? They came alive in a way that was raw and thrilling. The Harp was something else altogether. It had a reputation—a bit rough around the edges, hosting strip shows and all sorts of nonsense that you’d never find in a regular pub. But for us, it was a second home.

 

The fans who came weren’t your typical crowd. They were a mix of everyone who didn’t fit neatly into Belfast’s box. I remember the smell of glue thick in the air, plastic bags stashed around, kids stumbling out, dazed and wild-eyed. They were there to feel something real. And we gave it to them.

 

One night, Peter—our guitarist and a bit of a legend in his own right—showed up with a full double-decker bus loaded with our gear. He worked for the council, had access to it, and decided it was the best way to transport everything. We piled in, the bus rolling down the streets of Belfast, fans and all. Later that night, we packed it to the brim, kids hanging out the windows, screaming into the night. We weren’t just playing music. We were creating something that felt unstoppable.

 

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Chapter 6: Confetti at the Harp

 

Toward the end of our shows, I’d do something a bit mad. I started tearing up newspapers and tossing them into the air like confetti, a half-crazed gesture that made the place feel like a war zone in the best possible way. Eventually, I brought a fan along, letting it whip the paper around like a storm. The bouncers were less thrilled, telling me to cut it out because it was annoying the cleaners. I tried, for a night or two. But eventually, I couldn’t help myself. I threw the paper up, let it rain down. That was The Lids—pushing everything just a bit too far, letting the moment take us.

 

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Chapter 7: Taking The Lids On the Road

 

After a while, it wasn’t enough to play The Harp and The Pound. We started traveling around the North and South, showing up in small towns and university bars, wherever they’d have us. Queen’s University was a regular spot, along with dives in tiny towns, crumbling pubs where the paint was peeling, but the energy was something else. We played everywhere. Once, a booking agent mistook us for a country band. Apparently, “The Lids” sounded like some kind of Western name. We played a few songs before the crowd turned cold. The owner pulled me aside, handed me a wad of cash, and said it was time to leave—quietly. We knew when to make an exit.

 

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Chapter 8: Recording Again at Wizard Studios

 

Back in Wizard Studios, we laid down more tracks. This time, it was “Walkie Talkie,” “My Secret Place,” “Heavy People,” and “In My House.” We brought in Lawrence Thompson on guitar—a man with a rare talent, someone who knew how to take things to a new level. The recording sessions were intense, capturing something raw and unforgettable. “Africa” was one track I remember well, inspired by the Ethiopian famine. It was a song that felt almost like a warning, a anthem for all the things we couldn’t control. We couldn’t have known, but years later, “Africa” would still feel relevant, a song that kept its edge as the world shifted around it.

 

Recording in Wizard Studios wasn’t glamorous, but we threw everything we had into it. We didn’t have much money, and airplay was limited, but we kept hoping, kept pushing. The city might’ve been quiet, but there was always something brewing in those walls. Songs rolled out that carried pieces of us—our city, our hopes, our anger. We never lost that edge. But as we kept playing, we realized that getting a big break in Belfast was like shouting into the wind. We were making noise, but who was listening?

 

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Chapter 9: London and Nearing the End

 

Eventually, Paul and I decided to take our chances and head over to London. It felt like our last shot. We packed a bag, our guitars, and a few scrappy photos, armed with the handful of tracks we’d recorded in Belfast. It was a long shot, and we knew it. London had seen its fair share of bands come and go, and we were just another pair of hopefuls. But there was something about being young and on the move, out of Belfast, that gave us a bit of a buzz. We thought maybe, just maybe, we’d make an impression.

 

The big record companies listened. They gave us a few pats on the back, told us we were good—just not what they were looking for. At that time, music was moving fast, and The Lids were gritty, a little too raw for the polished scene of the ‘80s. So, we hit the pubs, drinking to the “what-ifs,” wondering what could have been. It was disappointing, sure, but there was freedom in it too. We came back to Belfast a little rougher, a little wiser, and ready to close a chapter we’d been holding onto for too long.

 

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Chapter 10: The Last Show and the Split

 

As much as we tried to keep going, the writing was on the wall. The tensions that had been building between us were reaching a breaking point, and we knew we’d gone as far as we could. Our last gigs together as The Lids came when we supported Tom Robinson’s band, *Sector 27*, for two nights at The Harp. It was bittersweet, but there was something beautiful about going out the way we came in—loud, unapologetic, and full of fire. At the end of that last show, we raised champagne glasses with Tom Robinson’s band, toasting to something none of us could quite name. It was the end of The Lids, or at least, that version of it.

 

After the show, we walked into the night with a mix of pride and sorrow, each of us knowing we’d been part of something rare. We didn’t need to say it; we just knew.

 

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Chapter 11: Keeping The Lids Alive

 

Even after the split, I couldn’t let go of The Lids. I tried to keep the name alive, pulling in new musicians, scraping together different lineups, trying to hold onto that sound, that rawness we’d found in those early days. But it never felt quite the same. Some of the new players were good, real talents, but it was hard to recapture that feeling. Eventually, it came down to just me and Paul, the two of us clinging to something that had already slipped away.

 

We played gigs here and there, mostly universities around Northern Ireland, but the spark was different. It wasn’t just the city that had changed—*we* had changed. The raw energy we’d once thrown into every show was tempered now, a little more tired, a little more resigned. Still, we recorded some tracks, trying to capture what was left. But deep down, I think we both knew we were running on borrowed time.

 

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Chapter 12: The Legacy of The Lids

 

Looking back, it’s clear that The Lids were never about fame or success. We were a product of our time, born out of a city in turmoil, an era when Belfast was shaking under the weight of its own history. We walked through it all—the riots, the paramilitaries, the late nights stumbling through quiet streets where the only sounds were our footsteps and the hum of the city’s hidden tensions. We weren’t heroes or rebels, just kids trying to make noise and say something real in a world that felt like it was coming undone. 

 

Through every beat, every show, we left a little piece of ourselves behind. The music we played, the bars we filled, the fans who stumbled out of The Harp, The Pound, and Queen’s University—they were all part of something fleeting and beautiful. We were young and hungry, drunk on the idea that maybe music could cut through the dark and give people a reason to keep going. And maybe, in some small way, it did.

 

It’s strange now, thinking back, realizing how much those years shaped us. How we laughed, fought, partied, and kept playing no matter what the city threw at us. We might not have made the charts, and our records might have gathered dust in back rooms and basement collections. But we were there, leaving fingerprints on the pulse of a place that was just trying to survive. 

 

To anyone who listens now, years later, I hope you’ll hear it too. Hear the echoes of those nights, those moments when The Lids were alive, loud, and untouchable. This album, these songs—they’re pieces of us, of Belfast, of a time when the world was wild, and we had the courage to face it head-on. We didn’t change the world, but we were part of it, and that’s enough.

 

Cheers, and thanks for listening.

 

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