I am the dog with the tail that wags incessantly to the beat of the drum. I am the cat with claws sharp enough to slice and dice anything. I am the hamster on the wheel of life. I am here in the cool red light of the basement of Broadcast with Laetitia Sadier and Jane Weaver. I have beer and I am happy.
Speak to me therefore of matters spiritual and I would point you towards the stage where you may well find the answers that you seek for, accompanied by a band both mannered and sympathetic, is Jane Weaver. She, like a prophet, follows her own path to nirvana and delivers her sermon on matters deep and intense with an attitude that exemplifies all things that are both heartfelt and downbeat. In between the words, however, she still worships the holy ghost of melody and her psalm, consequently, is sung to the skies.
Laetitia Sadier is a mistress of songs that do not end. Her songs simply stop as if to deny you the answers to those ecumenical questions that prey upon your mind once mesmerised by her sonic presence with her voice and guitar, again amplified and brought into the sharpest of focus by the presence of two onstage soul mates, sharing an organic fluidity that soon entrances even the ears of a non-believer. Maybe that is down to her inestimable Gallic charm – God is, after all, French – or perhaps simply to the well oiled mechanics of exemplary musicianship but the end result was nothing less than uplifting.
Let there be light. Let there be heat but, most of all, let there be fried chicken.