motorola

Nottingham Rescue Rooms on a Monday night, there's a crowd but somehow we've been booked into a 500 capacity venue which we're just not going to justify. After some promoterly deliberations the show goes on, as indeed it must. We are not Franz Ferdinand, whose record, incidently, is really pretty cool, but that's another story. After some shameless post show CD negotiations with some oh so very poor students it's back at my parents house for luxuriation. Next day I visit my brothers grave and it all comes back, as indeed it should, the stupid waste of life and death that was his. I spend half an hour watching the comings and goings of the villagers from the a bench on the cemetery hillside holding conversation with my brother, the kind of which I never really had with him when he was alive. There's a stone mason with an electric drill rigging up some kind of gravestone attachment disturbing the quiet and then I'm out of there. Later I have a good cry with my Mom. It's great to meet up with The World Turned Edgar at Coel Castle who are old mates and tonight's Birmingham support. They deliver a sparkling set of moody psychedelic power pop despite this being only their second gig. I also catch up with visiting friends and cousins who I've not seen in some cases for years and we get into that everything is worth it in the end feeling, which is nice. My cousin Martin remembers ROOT MULL...and not a lot of people do! Then it's motorwaytime gentlemen please, VPx