A succession of low pressure events. Cue tempest affectations, cue wind, cue cold rain, cue Blur’s ‘This Is A Low’ to satisfy the stereo’s simple sympathies (and no, there’s no space on the turntable for this – not tonight – whilst as for all those Morrissey records; best have a break for a few days, lest this place begins to accumulate the trappings of the shrine). It’s the type of evening (or day, or week, or year, or whatever) that calls for a curling up before the fire, armed with a bottle of single malt whisky and a few hundred slices of vinyl. Of the circular, grooved variety, I suppose – many things I may be, but a fucking floor tile fetishist isn’t one of them.
I’m sure that somebody, somewhere has produced detailed research upon the correlations between music and alcoholic drink. I imagine some serious academic bent over Bunsen burner and a week’s worth of new releases, carefully calibrating whether its white or dark rum that enhances the skiffle experience. Absinthe vs dubstep. Which grape compliments Norwegian death metal. Etc. Single malt is apparently a refined tipple; something measured, something in which any effort applied to the understanding is rewarded (very similar to snakebite and black – my more usual inebriation mechanism. Similar in every way except none). Whether or not the consumption of Islay’s finest export impacts upon choice of listening material is probably a moot point, although there’s something uncontextual, even unrespecting should the whisky’s aural backdrop not bequeath elegance.
James Yorkston / Woozy With Cider
Tunng / Woodcat