So, there I was on a Wednesday night after a deluge that would have made Noah dig out those plans he once had for an ark. To the sensible, a trek down into a basement in a land now with even more water than it normally has would seem a rather poor idea but the temptation to dive into the depths tonight provided by Our Friends The Dead, Freya Giles and Michael Hamilton was overwhelming. And it just might be dry down there.
And so to Michael Hamilton. With mellow intent and bringing a solid sense of jazz inflected rhythm to his guitar playing, he effectively filled a gap left by the illness of another and did so with both an unassuming style and a fair degree of ear pleasing charm. That’s more than enough to make you forget the clouds outside.
Freya Giles also did a fine job of replacing those thoughts of drowning in Sauchiehall Street with wistful visions of organic enchantment and her folk flavoured vocal elegance soon transformed her words into the very spells that would inevitably lead your spirit towards the forest.
Our Friends The Dead. Should you ever have wondered, of an evening, if what the world needs is another man with an acoustic guitar then, tonight, you would have found the answer to your question. A minstrel of melancholy striding fearlessly through a minefield of metaphors towards the land where the demons are buried, Our Friends, The Dead – for it is he – weaved his songs of shadowy stanzas into a coat that would protect you from the most inclement of weather. A voice that truly speaks to the soul of a man.
Outside, it rained once more. Oh Glasgow, I love you so.