Sometimes you just have to go with the flow and hope you don’t drown in the river of misfortune. Sometimes things just work out in a way that you did not anticipate like, perhaps, a transporter malfunction in an episode of Star Trek although without the excessive use of mascara and having to rub yourself down with baby oil. Or perhaps you just encounter a cat called Theodore, a drummer called Gordy and a couple of bands going by the names of Always The Way and Bullitt. I’m feeling kinda Sunday now.
Bullitt seemed like the kind of band that Sundays were made of. With melodic rock clearly on their agenda, these three good men strummed their acoustic set with the earnest conviction of a band on a mission. The aim of that mission was best indicated by the macho posturing of their lead singer who seemed determine to transcend the limitations endemic to a basement in favour of that oft appealing stroll down the yellow brick road to the stadium of success.
Always The Way were more of an anachronism. Performing a set so long that it had to be split in two, they ventured far into the languorous land of seventies rock with many a song that had no natural end. But was it all as it seems? Perhaps not for, at least in the second part of the set, they staked a claim to the moral high ground with some determined reflections on the consequences of war. A band with serious intent then but also one that would have benefitted by bringing the talents of the drummer and the statuesque singer more to the fore.
So she draws an eye on a piece of paper. The eye follows me everywhere so, figuring that I have overstayed my welcome, I make a hasty departure to seek sanctuary on the last train. It, as always, smells of chips. Home sweet home.