Andy Richardson: Fantastic Mr Foxy & co back on the Scene

Wolverhampton's finest were generating the sort of hype that The Stone Roses and Happy Mondays had done before them. It was 1989.

Following the successes of groups on the Stourbridge Scene such as The Wonder Stuff, Pop Will Eat Itself and then-still-rising noiseniks Ned's Atomic Dustbin, The Sandkings were next in line. And on a dank night in Walsall, they were being put through their paces as the region's movers and shakers watched on.

It wouldn't be long before the band's singer, the deliciously-bobbed Jas Mann, AKA Spaceman, would soar to number one with his new band Babylon Zoo. Nor, indeed, would it be long before drummer Terry Kirkbride would earn gigs as a session musician with Noel Gallagher, Paul Weller, The Who's Roger Daltry, The Verve's Richard Ashcroft and Stereophonics frontman Kelly Jones.

But back then, in the intimate, feet-stick-to-the-carpet arena of Junction 10, such thoughts were eons away. The Sandkings were looking to make a statement at the end of a remarkable decade. They were looking to show local tastemakers that they were the region's best, that they would be the ones to kick down the doors to rock's gilded temple.

And yet, remarkably, they were blown off stage by a local reporter with shaggy hair and a Breton T-shirt. He held down a day job as a journalist on the Solihull Times and on that night in 1989 he was probably too drunk to know what he was doing. Simon Fowler, then the lead singer with Birmingham art house quartet The Fanatics, was the highlight of a memorable night. Fuelled by Newcastle Brown Ale (probably) or some other mood-altering substances, Simon rushed to the front of the stage and stole their thunder. While too-cool-for-school observers stood impassively, Simon gave new meaning to the phrase: I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor.

Writers should never use such phrases as: words can't describe – (in this case, 'describe what Simon Fowler looked like'). It's our job to find the words, to paint the picture, to convey the meaning. And so I'll try, though I'll need a little help from Tom Jones.

The hip-swivelling, knicker-collecting, Elvis-befriending, voice from the valleys was once the world's best dancer. Hop on the number 34 and ride with me, right now, to YouTubesville. And there, under 'Tom Jones dances like HELL! (Treat her right, 1968)', you will find footage of a man possessed. Tom flips his limbs like an epileptic turkey, he shakes like a baboon stuffed full with methcathinone, he freaks like Bez after a really, really, really, really good trip to a crystal meth factory. On that night in 1989, that's how Simon Fowler danced. Arms above head, flipping back and forth, torso contorting like an inpatient suffering a panic attack and head shaking like Lemmy midway through Bomber; he was possessed. All eyes fell on him, rather than poor old Jas Mann or his mates from the Sand Castle King Singers.

Like pretty much everyone there that evening, Simon went onto better things. He formed Ocean Colour Scene with the precociously talented guitarist Steve Cradock, the gifted percussionist Oscar Harrison and the louche bassist Damon Mincella. And after an ill-advised foray into baggy – and who can blame them, it worked for The 'Roses – they drank pink Champagne, ingested more narcotics than a Columbian drugs baron and released a zeitgeist-capturing record called Moseley Shoals. It sold 1.5 million copies and gave The 'Scene a platinum coated pass to Britpop's VIP lounge where they snorted cocaine with the Gallagher brothers, were treated like royalty at the Groucho Club and were chased by screaming girls from Aberdeen to Australia – despite their distaste for flying.

'Shoals is 20 years old – happy birthday, buddy – and is being celebrated this weekend in the boho Brummie suburb in which it was recorded. Four thousand diehard fans will convene at Moseley Park to watch Simon, Steve, Oscar and Damon's progressive replacement, Raymond Meade.

Simon 'Foxy' Fowler is unlikely to frug like a youthful Tom Jones. And that's no surprise. These days he's a country gent, a man of 51 who lives in rural Warwickshire and spends his spare time hanging out with folk legends like Kate Rusby and John McCusker. The Birmingham City fan, however, remains the apogee of rock'n'roll. In an age of vacuous, fake-it-'til-you-make it ingénues; in an era of artless, fear-of-missing-out, blink-and-you'll-miss-'em wannabes, OCS have kept the faith.

So tonight Foxy and co will be delirious and full with emotion. They'll rock like Keith Richards, strut like Paul Weller, strum like Ray Davies and their fans will sing in communion like an overflowing St Andrew's. Oh oh la la, oh oh la la.