Bacchus would blush at the vino hoard we gathered from the nearest shop we could find, a solid hour drive from this faulty tower we had purposely self marooned ourselves in. We cleared out one of the great halls in the heart of the pile and began to set up all of our instruments and gear. The first witty pop from the first(and not the last) cork being lurched from the bottle could be heard echoing through the halls. The cats inspected the guitars. ‘The drums sound fucking awesome in here’ cried Jarrod our stolen Australian oil rigger. ‘your damn fucking right they do’ agreed Ali our time travelling hero. ‘Fuck yea’ Simon ‘Frankie’ Clark muttered in astonished delight. Good old Frankie transported from the 20’s and dropped in the present armed with cigs and guitars. James stood with the same gate as Agamemnon that day. I quietly marvelled at just how tall James is, I thought, ‘fuck me he’s tall’. The room began to take on a life of its own. The band came together and bombed a solid path through ‘so tired’
More corks popped…. All in search of The Low Suns
Jack
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