Let me tell you what it feels like.
It's like pulling on a favourite pair of shoes, of the snug, comfortable feel that putting your feet into that well worn leather sends through your nervous system.
It's like wearing that leather jacket that you've had for so long that when you put it on it feels like a second skin - warm, familiar and like, well, coming home.
So what is it that feel this way for me? What fills me with such a deep sense of peace, of contentment, that I can't help but take a satisfyingly deep breath and smile?
Rock music. That's what does it for me. Good old fashioned loud guitars, catchy hooks, driving rhythms and sing-a-long lyrics.
Yes, I love lots of other kinds of music. I adore electronica, being a life long fan of Gary Numan, Alphaville, and other classic bands like the Human League and Fad Gadget. I love what you might term easy listening, or folk, or country, or whatever you want to call it, bands like Counting Crows, artists like Newton Faulkener, Aimee Mann, and Tori Amos. I even dig certain rap artists, like Public Enemy, Cypress Hill, and Ice T (and yes, the true 'gangstas' among you may consider this rap-lite but fuck you, I like what I like).
And I love, love, love Nine Inch Nails, but my adoration of Trent Reznor's work borders on the religious so we'll deal with this another day.
None of these bands or genres really fires my soul up like rock music does, though.
As I write this I'm listening to a band called Junkyard who play hard rockin' blues, and I'm nodding my head and my fingers are itching to run into the conservatory and pick up my bass and just jam until my fingers bleed.
And you know what, I couldn't be happier. There's something about loud guitars that just pushes all the right buttons and I wouldn't change it for the world. Not even for a million dollars (or given the current exchange rate, English pounds).
People speculate on what heaven might be like. Heaven for me would be an eternal Friday night at Nottingham's Rock City circa 1989 (but with maybe better beer).
On that note, I'm going to go and turn it up just a little bit louder, at the risk of annoying the neighbours, and for the rest of the evening bask in my own piece of heaven.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Wednesday, 23 April 2008
Monday, 31 March 2008
A Beautiful Murder
Counting Crows - Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings
Ever since I first heard Mr Jones, the debut single from Counting Crows way back in 1985 I've been a huge fan of the band. There's something about singer and main songwriter Adam Duritz's impassioned and tortured lyrics that, in common with Trent Reznor, really seem to speak to me and understand what goes on in this head and heart of mine.
It seems like an eternity since the Crows last album, Hard Candy, hit the shelves some six years ago, but with their new offering, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, the wait has most definitely been worth it.
Flying in the face of their record company's wishes, Duritz stuck to his vision of a record that is for all intents and purposes actually two short albums that perfectly complement each other.
The first six tracks, the Saturday Night of the equation are up tempo rock songs, packing more emotion and musical hooks into thirty minutes than some bands manage in their entire careers. Opener 1492 powers along like a freight train, and has a rough around the edges feel that I've witnessed live with the band on occasion, but which has never been captured successfully on record until now.
The following five tracks are simultaneously fresh slices of Counting Crows' trademark sound while also managing to sound as though each of them are refugees from their various previous records, particularly Hanging Tree which could have sat very easily among the songs on This Desert Life, and contains one of Duritz's finest examples of the raw emotion he infuses his lyrics as he sings "You open windows, And you wait for someone warm to come inside, And then you freeze to death alone."
As Saturday Night's closing tune Cowboys comes to an abrupt end, the more sublime Sunday Mornings side of the album gently arrives in the form of Washington Square, a sparse but devastatingly lonely song that will stop hearts in the live arena.
Having stated in an interview that he approached the writing of this record as if it were to be the band's swansong (though he stresses this isn't the case), Duritz clverly recycles moments from their debut album August And Everything After with the line "I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed" in the short but poignant When I Dream Of Michelangelo, reprising the line from the first album's Mr Jones.
Having confessed that he's spent the last few years falling apart, Duritz is at his most beautifully vulnerable in songs like Anyone But You and You Can't Count On Me (which the record company lobbied unsuccessfully to change to the more positive You CAN Count On Me), and even ends his liner notes with another reprise, this time from Recovering The Satellites' haunting A Long December by musing that "maybe this year WILL be better than the last."
There are very few singer/songwriters who wear their emotions so nakedly on their sleeves as Duritz does, but in doing so once more he has created an album that any Counting Crows fan will instantly take to their heart, and which will remain relevant and engaging for years to come.
A literal record of two halves, and one that this murder of Crows can be extremely proud of.
Ever since I first heard Mr Jones, the debut single from Counting Crows way back in 1985 I've been a huge fan of the band. There's something about singer and main songwriter Adam Duritz's impassioned and tortured lyrics that, in common with Trent Reznor, really seem to speak to me and understand what goes on in this head and heart of mine.
It seems like an eternity since the Crows last album, Hard Candy, hit the shelves some six years ago, but with their new offering, Saturday Nights & Sunday Mornings, the wait has most definitely been worth it.
Flying in the face of their record company's wishes, Duritz stuck to his vision of a record that is for all intents and purposes actually two short albums that perfectly complement each other.
The first six tracks, the Saturday Night of the equation are up tempo rock songs, packing more emotion and musical hooks into thirty minutes than some bands manage in their entire careers. Opener 1492 powers along like a freight train, and has a rough around the edges feel that I've witnessed live with the band on occasion, but which has never been captured successfully on record until now.
The following five tracks are simultaneously fresh slices of Counting Crows' trademark sound while also managing to sound as though each of them are refugees from their various previous records, particularly Hanging Tree which could have sat very easily among the songs on This Desert Life, and contains one of Duritz's finest examples of the raw emotion he infuses his lyrics as he sings "You open windows, And you wait for someone warm to come inside, And then you freeze to death alone."
As Saturday Night's closing tune Cowboys comes to an abrupt end, the more sublime Sunday Mornings side of the album gently arrives in the form of Washington Square, a sparse but devastatingly lonely song that will stop hearts in the live arena.
Having stated in an interview that he approached the writing of this record as if it were to be the band's swansong (though he stresses this isn't the case), Duritz clverly recycles moments from their debut album August And Everything After with the line "I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed" in the short but poignant When I Dream Of Michelangelo, reprising the line from the first album's Mr Jones.
Having confessed that he's spent the last few years falling apart, Duritz is at his most beautifully vulnerable in songs like Anyone But You and You Can't Count On Me (which the record company lobbied unsuccessfully to change to the more positive You CAN Count On Me), and even ends his liner notes with another reprise, this time from Recovering The Satellites' haunting A Long December by musing that "maybe this year WILL be better than the last."
There are very few singer/songwriters who wear their emotions so nakedly on their sleeves as Duritz does, but in doing so once more he has created an album that any Counting Crows fan will instantly take to their heart, and which will remain relevant and engaging for years to come.
A literal record of two halves, and one that this murder of Crows can be extremely proud of.
Saturday, 8 March 2008
People *do* Smile More...
Thursday night found us at the beatiful Roundhouse venue in London's Camden Town to spend a couple of hours in the company of Newton Faulkner.
Looking like a refugee from The Levellers with his waist length dreadlocks and goatee beard, Faulkner is one of the latest crop of singer-songwriters, but what sets him aside from the Jack Johnsons of this world, who I also like very much, is the way that he plays his acoustic guitar.
Not only does he play it the conventional way with a mastery that suggests he's been playing guitars for as long as he could hold them, but he also uses the fingers and palm of his right hand to beat out a rhythm to accompany himself.
This technique is best illustrated on his inspired covered of Massive Attack's Teardrop, which despite the original being such an iconic song, Faulkner has made his own in much the same way that Johnny Cash made Nine Inch Nails' Hurt his own, even prompting an impressed Trent Reznor to declare "It's not my song any more."
Faulkner's album Hand Built By Robots is packed to the gills with catchy pop songs (though whether he'd agree with the 'pop' label is another matter) and so I was looking forward to being entertained for an hour and a half purely on the strength of the material.
However, Faulkner's trump card is his stage presence and, more importantly, his humour. I can't remember the last time I've laughed so much at a gig, for the right reasons, anyway. Cracking jokes at his own expense and coming out with one liners that some professional comedians would kill for, he had the audience eating out of his hand mere moments after taking the stage.
He dropped Teardrop into the set about two-thirds of the way through, and for me I thought that would be the highlight of the set, but his master stroke came with his final song, another cover, that as a veteran gig goer of some twenty-odd years had me as impressed as I ever remember being.
Telling us that he had been tinkering with another cover, he launched into a version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody using just his voice and his unique guitar playing style. The audience went into rapture, singing along while simultaneously looking on wide-eyed as he again made the song his own, and ending the gig on the highest note that I've ever know a show to conclude on.
We laughed, we sang, and we witnessed the culmination of the first year of what I'm convinced will be a long and successful career.
Teardrop aside, one of Faulkner's best known songs is called People Should Smile More, and for the ninety minutes he was on stage we did. A lot more.
Looking like a refugee from The Levellers with his waist length dreadlocks and goatee beard, Faulkner is one of the latest crop of singer-songwriters, but what sets him aside from the Jack Johnsons of this world, who I also like very much, is the way that he plays his acoustic guitar.
Not only does he play it the conventional way with a mastery that suggests he's been playing guitars for as long as he could hold them, but he also uses the fingers and palm of his right hand to beat out a rhythm to accompany himself.
This technique is best illustrated on his inspired covered of Massive Attack's Teardrop, which despite the original being such an iconic song, Faulkner has made his own in much the same way that Johnny Cash made Nine Inch Nails' Hurt his own, even prompting an impressed Trent Reznor to declare "It's not my song any more."
Faulkner's album Hand Built By Robots is packed to the gills with catchy pop songs (though whether he'd agree with the 'pop' label is another matter) and so I was looking forward to being entertained for an hour and a half purely on the strength of the material.
However, Faulkner's trump card is his stage presence and, more importantly, his humour. I can't remember the last time I've laughed so much at a gig, for the right reasons, anyway. Cracking jokes at his own expense and coming out with one liners that some professional comedians would kill for, he had the audience eating out of his hand mere moments after taking the stage.
He dropped Teardrop into the set about two-thirds of the way through, and for me I thought that would be the highlight of the set, but his master stroke came with his final song, another cover, that as a veteran gig goer of some twenty-odd years had me as impressed as I ever remember being.
Telling us that he had been tinkering with another cover, he launched into a version of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody using just his voice and his unique guitar playing style. The audience went into rapture, singing along while simultaneously looking on wide-eyed as he again made the song his own, and ending the gig on the highest note that I've ever know a show to conclude on.
We laughed, we sang, and we witnessed the culmination of the first year of what I'm convinced will be a long and successful career.
Teardrop aside, one of Faulkner's best known songs is called People Should Smile More, and for the ninety minutes he was on stage we did. A lot more.
Tuesday, 4 March 2008
Skip To The Beat
I experienced two things of note today, one that's a reassuingly regular occurance, the other that I haven't experienced in a long, long time.
The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.
The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.
Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.
Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.
It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.
Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.
I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).
While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.
So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.
"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves
The first was the deep seated sense of satisfaction that washes over me when I rediscover a song that I haven't heard for an age, but which turns out to be every bit as good as I remember it.
The song in question today was by a rock band from nearly two decades ago called Company Of Wolves. This was a band that I discovered through the guitarist in the band I was in at the time, a decent chap called Sean Homer who I often think about despite having lost touch some ten years ago. Last I knew he was the manager at the Times Square branch of Virgin Records in New York, but when I first met him we were both working at WH Smiths on Wheelergate in Nottingham.
Sean was the guitarist in my first proper rock band, and was one of a couple of people I knew that were at one point closer to me than my own family. We never fell out, or argued about anything, which makes the fact, in retrospect, that we lost touch all the more sad.
Really good friends in this life are hard to come by, and to let them slip through your fingers, as I have done more than once, is stupid. I'm lucky in that I still have some friends from my youth, who have been there through thick and thin. Over the years we;ve reassured each other, supported each other, lied for each other and been there for each other, and I won't let those who I still know slip away, and I know they feel the same.
Now where was I? Oh yes, the song. The song is called Sacrifice Me, and it's a beautiful track played on a couple of steel guitars and with a delightfully raspy vocal. What really works, though, are the words.
It's one of those songs to be played in the dark, with a glass of red wine and a smoke. A song that is equal parts hope and despair. Equal parts elation and sorrow.
Which brings me to the second experience, that of the skipping of a needle on vinyl.
I haven't had a record player for years, and I actually downloaded the Company Of Wolves album because after searching high and low for years I'm convinced it doesn't exist on CD (and if it does, and you know where I can get it, please do let me know!).
While playing this song, though, which was clearly recorded digitally from vinyl, it skipped. Several times actually. While it's annoying in one way, it also kind of adds to the atmosphere and the memories that the song wells up in me.
So, a bittersweet discovery, perfect but flawed, much like me.
"Search for yourself, 'cause you're the hardest thing you're ever going to find."
Sacrifice Me, by Company Of Wolves
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Cold Metal Rhythm
It's May, it's 1979 and I'm nine years old.
It's also Thursday which means that it's Top Of The Pops on the television, which in turn means that I'm glued to it, drawn like a moth to a flame.
On the screen a young man with blonde hair dressed in black in singing in a flat, monotone voice over a heavy, doom laden synthesiser, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights.
The man is 21 years old, from London and is the unwitting innovator of a new style of music that will be variously known as new wave, new romantic and electronica.
His name is Gary Numan and he's singing his number one hit single Are Friends Electric?, a tune that would provide the backing for another number one some 23 years later, almost to the week, but this time with vocals by three teenage girls who weren't even born at the time.
Are Friends Electric? became the first single that I ever bought with my own money, and the album that spawned it, Replicas, the first album I bought with my own funds.
29 years later I'm sitting here listening to the just released redux version, complete with an entire disc of previously unreleased demos from the Replicas sessions and I'm nine years old again, falling in love with this cold, electronic, unemotional masterpiece all over again.
So much has changed in the intervening years, people have come and gone, friends have been born and died, but still I love this album more than pretty much anything else that I've ever heard.
This album anchors me to me, is my constant in a life full of change, and is more important to me than I could ever put into words.
In two short weeks I'll be seeing Numan play the whole thing live, and it'll be akin to a religious experience for me, particularly when Down In The Park is aired, a bleak tale of synthetic friends, rape machines, ritualised death and crippling isolation that I have always found strangley cathartic.
And so I sit here, and I feel absolutely complete. I have good red wine, a packet of smooth cigars, and a deep sense of peace and tranquility as I write of my past, which defines my present and future. I am, in short, in a place that I can only describe as Heaven. If I were to die tonight, then it would be in a state of absolute calm and indescribable peace.
Such is the power of music. For a few short hours I am whole, I am complete, and I am happy.
"We are not lovers
We are not romantics
We are here to serve you
A different face but the words never change"
Down In The Park by Tubeway Army (1979)
It's also Thursday which means that it's Top Of The Pops on the television, which in turn means that I'm glued to it, drawn like a moth to a flame.
On the screen a young man with blonde hair dressed in black in singing in a flat, monotone voice over a heavy, doom laden synthesiser, looking like a rabbit caught in headlights.
The man is 21 years old, from London and is the unwitting innovator of a new style of music that will be variously known as new wave, new romantic and electronica.
His name is Gary Numan and he's singing his number one hit single Are Friends Electric?, a tune that would provide the backing for another number one some 23 years later, almost to the week, but this time with vocals by three teenage girls who weren't even born at the time.
Are Friends Electric? became the first single that I ever bought with my own money, and the album that spawned it, Replicas, the first album I bought with my own funds.
29 years later I'm sitting here listening to the just released redux version, complete with an entire disc of previously unreleased demos from the Replicas sessions and I'm nine years old again, falling in love with this cold, electronic, unemotional masterpiece all over again.
So much has changed in the intervening years, people have come and gone, friends have been born and died, but still I love this album more than pretty much anything else that I've ever heard.
This album anchors me to me, is my constant in a life full of change, and is more important to me than I could ever put into words.
In two short weeks I'll be seeing Numan play the whole thing live, and it'll be akin to a religious experience for me, particularly when Down In The Park is aired, a bleak tale of synthetic friends, rape machines, ritualised death and crippling isolation that I have always found strangley cathartic.
And so I sit here, and I feel absolutely complete. I have good red wine, a packet of smooth cigars, and a deep sense of peace and tranquility as I write of my past, which defines my present and future. I am, in short, in a place that I can only describe as Heaven. If I were to die tonight, then it would be in a state of absolute calm and indescribable peace.
Such is the power of music. For a few short hours I am whole, I am complete, and I am happy.
"We are not lovers
We are not romantics
We are here to serve you
A different face but the words never change"
Down In The Park by Tubeway Army (1979)
Thursday, 21 February 2008
The Song Remains
Things come and go, people arrive and depart, sometimes staying for a few brief moments, sometimes for a lifetime.
One thing that always remains are the songs.
I'm sitting listening to August And Everything After by Counting Crows and I'm reminded once again just why this is one of my favourite records. Ever.
It fills my head with images, and memories, and desires. It gives me hope, it makes me despair, the music lifts my soul and the words break my heart because I understand them completely.
Since coming into my life thirteen years ago, Adam Duritz's lyrics have reached into my soul and ripped out my very being, holding it up in front of me, broken and bleeding for me to regard, to consider, to refelct on and ultimately to heal.
There's nothing so powerful as a song that is you, and so many of the Counting Crows songs seem to tell my story, even though I've never been to some of the places, or met some of the people, but still, they're me.
Duritz sings of love, of loss, of walking the fine tightrope that is sanity and of occasionally falling from it. He yearns for solitude and peace, and yet craves company and understanding. He sings pain, he sings joy, he sings from the heart and he sings me.
And I listen, and learn, and empathise, and remember and try to forget and re-live fragments of a life that isn't my own but could be.
If there is something beyond this life that we struggle through, then I have but one wish, that I can take the songs with me. For they are me, and I am them, and as long as I have them then I am never alone.
"We couldn't all be cowboys
So some of us are clowns
Some of us are dancers on the midway
We roam from town to town
I hope that everybody can find a little flame
Me, I say my prayers, then I just light myself on fire
And I walk out on the wire once again"
Counting Crows - Goodnight Elisabeth
One thing that always remains are the songs.
I'm sitting listening to August And Everything After by Counting Crows and I'm reminded once again just why this is one of my favourite records. Ever.
It fills my head with images, and memories, and desires. It gives me hope, it makes me despair, the music lifts my soul and the words break my heart because I understand them completely.
Since coming into my life thirteen years ago, Adam Duritz's lyrics have reached into my soul and ripped out my very being, holding it up in front of me, broken and bleeding for me to regard, to consider, to refelct on and ultimately to heal.
There's nothing so powerful as a song that is you, and so many of the Counting Crows songs seem to tell my story, even though I've never been to some of the places, or met some of the people, but still, they're me.
Duritz sings of love, of loss, of walking the fine tightrope that is sanity and of occasionally falling from it. He yearns for solitude and peace, and yet craves company and understanding. He sings pain, he sings joy, he sings from the heart and he sings me.
And I listen, and learn, and empathise, and remember and try to forget and re-live fragments of a life that isn't my own but could be.
If there is something beyond this life that we struggle through, then I have but one wish, that I can take the songs with me. For they are me, and I am them, and as long as I have them then I am never alone.
"We couldn't all be cowboys
So some of us are clowns
Some of us are dancers on the midway
We roam from town to town
I hope that everybody can find a little flame
Me, I say my prayers, then I just light myself on fire
And I walk out on the wire once again"
Counting Crows - Goodnight Elisabeth
Sunday, 3 February 2008
A Rare Intimacy
As I mentioned a few days ago, we've got tickets to see Sheryl Crow at the Scala in London, a small, very intimate venue near Kings Cross.
I'm particularly pleased about this because I've wanted to see her live for years but I have an intense dislike of seeing bands and artists in the various aircraft hangers and enormodomes that the most popular artists are compelled to play these days in order to maximise their revenues, and to accomodate the sheer numbers of fans that are clamouring to see them.
It wasn't always this way, though, a fact I was reminded of when I was doing some research for my book on the rock scene in the late 80s / early 90s.
Back then, rather than play a single date at Wembley Stadium, bands like Iron Maiden or Def Leppard would instead book themselves in for multiple nights in the more intimate venues in the capital. For example, on their 1985 World Slavery Tour (so called because of their Powerslave album, as opposed to any apology-inducing references to our bad old English ways) they performed for six consecutive nights at the old Hammersmith Odeon, now called the Labatt's Apollo, not nearly as appealing a name, but that's corporate sponsorship for you.
Similarly Def Leppard played there for three nights on the first leg of their mammoth Hysteria tour, although by the time they returned the following year they were big enough to play multiple nights at Wembley Arena and Birmingham's NEC, but that first time around it was a fantastic opportunity for their fans to see them up close and personal, as it were.
Now, though, and I'm aware that I'm sounding like a curmudgeonly old moaner, it seems that the minute one of my favourite bands gets a sniff of success that they're booked in at some place where unless I'm queuing outside the venue at noon on the day of the performance then there's a good chance that I'll be in a different post code to the stage by the time I've grabbed a beer and made my way to my seat.
C'est la vie, I guess, and with the way the record industry is going more importance is going to be placed on live performance, and the corresponding revenue of course, so I'll just accept that unless I catch a band on the upswing, then I'll be herding myself into the country's cattle sheds to see them, and take comfort in the fact that every now and again someone will 'do a Sheryl' and play somewhere like the Scala.
I'm particularly pleased about this because I've wanted to see her live for years but I have an intense dislike of seeing bands and artists in the various aircraft hangers and enormodomes that the most popular artists are compelled to play these days in order to maximise their revenues, and to accomodate the sheer numbers of fans that are clamouring to see them.
It wasn't always this way, though, a fact I was reminded of when I was doing some research for my book on the rock scene in the late 80s / early 90s.
Back then, rather than play a single date at Wembley Stadium, bands like Iron Maiden or Def Leppard would instead book themselves in for multiple nights in the more intimate venues in the capital. For example, on their 1985 World Slavery Tour (so called because of their Powerslave album, as opposed to any apology-inducing references to our bad old English ways) they performed for six consecutive nights at the old Hammersmith Odeon, now called the Labatt's Apollo, not nearly as appealing a name, but that's corporate sponsorship for you.
Similarly Def Leppard played there for three nights on the first leg of their mammoth Hysteria tour, although by the time they returned the following year they were big enough to play multiple nights at Wembley Arena and Birmingham's NEC, but that first time around it was a fantastic opportunity for their fans to see them up close and personal, as it were.
Now, though, and I'm aware that I'm sounding like a curmudgeonly old moaner, it seems that the minute one of my favourite bands gets a sniff of success that they're booked in at some place where unless I'm queuing outside the venue at noon on the day of the performance then there's a good chance that I'll be in a different post code to the stage by the time I've grabbed a beer and made my way to my seat.
C'est la vie, I guess, and with the way the record industry is going more importance is going to be placed on live performance, and the corresponding revenue of course, so I'll just accept that unless I catch a band on the upswing, then I'll be herding myself into the country's cattle sheds to see them, and take comfort in the fact that every now and again someone will 'do a Sheryl' and play somewhere like the Scala.
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