Open mic extravaganza. Excuse to consume beer. They're pretty much the same thing in my mind. Of course, there's always time between acts for standard conversations such as The Beatles versus the Rolling Stones or, somewhat bizarrely, why is there so much pubic hair in the urinal? No, I don't know (or want to know) the answer to that one.
There's a one man and a guitar theme going on tonight so let's run through the players. Franny McKeown did his intensely and relentlessly downbeat Radiohead on suicide watch songs. Jack James looked like the proverbial young Glasgow singer songwriter but showed himself to be a cut above the average with a polished and confident performance. Graeme Robertson rattled though his set like a disgruntled pub singer that had suffered at the hands of one too many hostile karaoke machines. Nick Bruce proved to have a distinctive voice and also had a pretty good idea of how to keep an audience's interest. Peter Getty proved proficient even if you got the felling that he was looking for a band. Matthew Malone had one of those clear, sonorous voices that was designed and destined for folk music. Steve Adams looked like Jerry Garcia and displayed an offbeat sense of humour as he delivered a selection box of damaged Christmas songs and quasi punk attitude. Gary McKenna then abandoned his compere role and shared with the assembled masses some of his curiously appealing yet distinctly oddball songs about deformed children. I think we shall be reading about him in the newspapers some day.
Anyway, it's a full moon tonight. That means I need a safe place to hide. Fast.