11/08/19. Short on time, the brilliantly monikered Esprit de Corpse finish the evening with a frenetic set. Jarvis is a great frontman, rather like a (more) ghoulish John Cooper Clarke; greasy two-piece, bubble hair, scuffed Cubans, yesterday's eyeliner, candle wax flesh. Bent beneath the polystyrene, he wrings the Telecaster's neck and spit-kisses the mic, "WHYDONCHAKILLME? … Continue reading Run As Fast As You Can, Bear.
They sat around in the low light and the blue smoke of the room and after a while he picked up a guitar and started to strum some rudimentary chords, plucking triads and tripping harmonics and, believing he was, of a sudden, some rough blues man, he began to throw in some hems, some hums, … Continue reading Some hems, some hums, some uh-huhs.
Warren appears at the door. He dips a hand into a pocket, palms the Queen, coat tails flapping; street life, movement, magic, within them. He glides the tables. Rows of exclamation marks, nods at question. Disappears to the bar. When he returns, he shuffles a chair through his fingertips from a neighbouring table. He allows … Continue reading Chuck Berry’s Briefcase.