We can probably agree that the venue is somewhat inauspicious. A glorified scout hut, no stage, a wee woman at the trestle table flogging cheap cans of lager during the sound check. Yes please, I’ll take two – we can’t be doing a gig sober. And then the band take the non-stage, just a boy and a girl, a guitar and a box of tricks to flesh out the sound. It takes panache to wield your guitar as a weapon, something with which to strafe the crowd (however meagre and sparse that number of gig watchers may be); get it wrong, and you end up looking like (to use the Scottish vernacular) a fanny. Get it right and the collateral damage is a joy to behold, songs as punctuation, as celebration, that solitary moment when everyone present – even the woman at the trestle table – falls prey to a seductiveness of sound. We will leave this scout hut, dispersing into the night somewhat drunk, somewhat leery, but all the better for bearing witness . Because it’s all about the music.
Motormark / We Are The Public