No idea where this is going; holding a lit match in the darkness as I feel my way along.
The bass thrummed like a distant heartbeat from deep in the earth, as if a long-buried temple called forth its adherents from slumbering death. Frazer didn’t even have to look up from her drum kit to know the band were swaying as one to its tempo. Even Pike who could barely exist without flapping his lips—improvising, scatting, even humming when he had no words to sing—seemed content for a space to just lean into the beat as Jones stretched the chord out on his guitar and the room rolled with it—hypnotised, in the music’s thrall like zombies called by its chant.
You could wield a guitar like a weapon—and sometimes Jones surely did—but tonight it was a kind of repository for all the energy in the room, taking it, swirling it around and sending it back threefold to start the process again.
Keeping the pace on the kick with the…
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