...like forcing a wet mop through a keyhole. All I get is the rank rot of decay and a slow trickle of grey water. Welcome to the Marketplace of the Soul!
Johnny Marag crooned menacingly, spittle forming on his lips, flying into the black of the audience. Bright lights, sweating stage. Ram's horns curled up over his dripping black hair and with his legs wrapped in curly black wool he was the very picture of a modern satyr. Satyr with a ebony Gibson Les Paul Custom. Baa baa, black sheep, fork my whorish tongue.
Pan Io. Io. Io. Pan Io. Pangenitor. Panphage. Io Pan. Pan Io.
The opening band had been something of a disappointment.
Hi! Hello there. We are the Skinflint Berrypickers. Enjoy. Ready, boys? And a 1. 2. 3. 4.
A trio of fat boys: black overalls, black bow ties, & guyliner. Bluegrass metal.
"Froggie went a courting and he did ride. Uh huh. Froggie went a courting and he did ride. Uh huh. All the way to Frankenstein's hall, stole himself a bride. Uh huh."
L'ironie est mort.
The next set was a conventional set of outoftowners that were in tune (if nothing else). Must find that van comfortable. Couldn't say why Mr. Jones would have booked them. Maybe they put out.
Then Marag took the stage, already glistening. The emo chicks creamed, the shoegazers gazed at their shoes, and the planets did align.
"Ladies and Gentlemen and drunk fuckups of all ages:
THIRTEEN FACES OF THE GIBBOUS MOON!!!!!"