It will drive you mad. When you realise the number of half thought out plans you have running free inside your head. There are nearly as many of those as there are fully thought out plans that have been derailed by halfwits. Pineapple juice. Framboise. Vodka. Shake them up, pour into a girly glass and you have a cocktail. If only life were that easy. Maybe making cocktails isn't easy either. She just makes it look easy.
One man. One guitar. The view from the bar. It's Luigi Strauss. He won't fit into a cocktail glass but he will fit in a pigeonhole and that pigeonhole is of the introspective singer songwriter. Having said that, his songs may look inward but he knows the audience is on the outside and plays his game accordingly. A confident step on the road to fame? Perhaps.
Distracted by someone else, I fail to notice Kristina Cox is on stage. She sounds small, even fragile and hides behind a keyboard in the corner. Her affected vocals suggest she draws from a toy box full of tortured emotions but there is something else. Something sort of surreal. Like the carnival has come to town and all kinds of enchantments are now for sale.
John Rush is next. He is another one man and a guitar. Whilst his performance goes from melancholy to bouncy, I find it hard to remember his songs. Decent enough, but you need more than that these days.
Rebecca Orr is not alone - she's surrounded herself with a band. Her voice has clarity and she has a mainstream sound that will appeal to many. There is much to like but less to love. Love's like that.
Andrea Marini is no stranger to these ears. He does not fit into any prescribed genre. I'd even go so far as to describe him as an acquired taste. I doubt he even knows what a three minute pop song is. That's why you have to pay attention. Immersion in his music is voluntary. His music won't ever force itself upon you. His words exude an eloquence that speaks of darkness but is not, in itself, dark and, even with a full band, he still sounds like a man alone.
Ever wondered why people sell their soul to the devil? I do. Staring at a glass of bourbon, I realised that bourbon is not the friend I thought it was and that what you would sell your soul to the devil for is inevitably right in front of you. As I wandered back out into the damp streets of Glasgow, I step over vomiting students and have to avoid psychotic taxi drivers. Business as usual. However, I've learned something new tonight. There are angels.