Watch Leah's stories on her experiences with Illegal raves in Blackburn and police intervention.
Leah Maynard. A name that, for most, might not ring a bell – but for those who lived through the Hacienda haze and the Madchester maelstrom, she’s a fucking legend. From the neglected warehouses of Thatcher-era Manchester to the sunlit chaos of Ibiza with pop icons, Leah wasn’t just there – she was at the beating heart of it all, a living, breathing slice of rave history.
Born and bred in Blackley, Leah grew up in a world where the only escape from the grim monotony was to lose yourself in the thumping basslines and strobe lights of Manchester's rave scene. There wasn’t much else. No TikToks, no Netflix. Just cold streets and hot nights filled with beats. And Leah? She danced, raved, and lived it all with an intensity that would make most so-called Madchester veterans look like tourists.
Watch the full interview with Paul and Leah below
She’s got the photos, the flyers, and the stories – oh, the stories – to prove it. Like the time she was at Konspiracy, that infamous night at the basement club where anything could happen within. Or how she ended up on that legendary Ibiza trip with some of the Happy Mondays. Yeah, that trip – the one that birthed half of the myths and chaos surrounding Madchester’s most infamous exports. Leah was there. She’s got the snaps to back it up, and they’re as raw and wild as you’d imagine.
And if that wasn’t enough, there’s her Peter Gabriel story. Leah, somehow, ended up at the house of the Genesis icon himself, Peter bloody Gabriel, for a party. The details are hazy (like most tales from that era), but the vibe? Unmistakable. Think ethereal vibes, star-studded madness, and Leah soaking it all up like it was just another Thursday. It wasn’t. It was legendary. And Leah was at the centre of it, as usual.
Some of the memoribilia that Leah has saved over the years. A very small snapshot.
When I sat down to chat with her for this interview, I had no idea what to expect. To be honest, I was born in 1995 – a decade too late to experience the Hacienda in its prime or even sniff the last fumes of Madchester’s glory days. But fuck me, Leah didn’t just tell stories. She dropped me into the thick of it, gave me a backstage pass to a time and place I thought I understood but quickly realized I’d only scratched the surface of.
She talked about the raves – the illegal ones in derelict warehouses, the ones that turned the cities industrial wreckage into Madchester’s playground. She painted a picture of a scene that wasn’t just about music but about rebellion, survival, and the kind of hedonism that could make even Keith Richards blush. E’s, beats, sweat, love, chaos. It wasn’t just a scene. It was a movement. And Leah wasn’t on the sidelines – she was in the engine room, keeping it all alive.
What sets Leah apart isn’t just her stories (although, trust me, they’re gold). It’s the way she tells them. Regal but raw, candid yet stoic. There’s a gravitas to her presence, like she knows she’s a keeper of something sacred but doesn’t feel the need to shout about it. Her memorabilia – flyers, clippings, photos – is a treasure trove of a lost world. It’s not just history. It’s her life, lived in technicolor, and seeing it up close left me dizzy.
For years, I thought I knew Madchester. I’d heard all the stories, read all the books, and watched 24 Hour Party People more times than I care to admit. But Leah Maynard made me realise how one-sided that narrative is. It’s not just about the big names and the big nights – it’s about the people like Leah, the unsung heroes at the coalface of the scene, who made it all happen. The ones who danced, raved, and lived through it. The ones who kept the fire burning.
Leah Maynard isn’t just a footnote in the story of Madchester. She is the story. And trust me, if you’re lucky enough to hear it straight from her, buckle up. It’s a ride you won’t forget.
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