Ruins were formed in 1978 in Mestre, a small town just outside of Venice where I once stayed for a few days in the late eighties. In the long, warm Summer evenings, the people of the town would gather in the main square and drink wine and socialise and dance to angry electronic music about how horribly bourgeois they all were, something that growing up in rural Essex had not prepared me for. I miss the place.
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