Woke up this morning. The sun was shining which is a sure sign that a plan would be needed to get through today. A plan that would include a visit to the Georgian Hotel in Coatbridge to hear the words and music of Peter Bruntnell and of Dropkick.
I remember Dropkick from way back in the day and, even though this was an acoustically powered subset of the full band, their mix of jangly guitars and harmonies ripened on the vine of life remained as potent as ever. Add in their unforced stagecraft and it was soon obvious that even two thirds of a Dropkick can still score every time.
Peter Bruntnell was a name unfamiliar to me but he has clearly been pulled from the herd of longtime singer songwriters for special attention. His presentation was casual, self-effacing even, and, even with two most able cohorts on stage to keep him company, it was nonetheless always going to be his show. He duly had little problem demonstrating that he knew plenty of finely pointed words and that he had mastered the art of neatly gluing them on to the sheet music that life handed him over the years. That’s the kind of talent that wins audiences over.
Without further ado, today's plan was marked as successfully completed. Time for some chicken pakora.