The man with the plan looked about. He asked himself the obvious question. No, not that obvious one. Why has democracy failed us? The other one. Where on God’s green Earth am I? The man with the plan saw a sign and that sign said Coatbridge. That’s what you get for buying a cheap satnav from eBay. Then the man with the plan saw another sign. John Bramwell live at The Georgian Hotel. That’s a much better sign.
Coincidentally, John Bramwell also started his set with a question and he then duly provided an answer his own existential question in the time honoured manner of the troubadour with his songs, whilst seeming on the surface to be simply melody driven in conception, also holding a dimension defying amount of sentimentality that drew deep from his long career in the wicked world of music. That wicked world of music might also explain him having a levitating dog with psychic powers as a muse.
Words, of course, have always had hidden power and it is to John Bramwell’s credit that he could weave meaning into his lyrics that, when combined with his self-effacing manner and wry humour, made his stories seem so very human. That is, as it should be, the way of the modern day troubadour.
The man with a plan looked for another sign. The bar was closed. That’s a sign that every man understands. Goodbye Coatbridge.