Friday 18 April 1863

My collection of 18th century music boxes, wooden discs and rock LPs has long attracted the scorn of many so-called contemporary music lovers from amongst my friends and sweethearts. It is true that the needle above the damage done needs replacing, only working properly when a silver shilling is balanced atop it (and, of course, the further we get from payday, the lower the denomination becomes, and the jumpier things get). Undeniably Barton has stolen a beat within this generation of Bargreaves but he’s a rural forager (I’m an urban warrior) and I do my damndest to support the local ‘scene’ here. Yesterday saw me take DH and Sydney to the Compo & Foggy to see Zack’s band Centurion Disco battle with lesser equals; tonight Jefferson Cake visits and in his slim-fitting, sleeveless coal sack has me leaping around to the sounds of Adequate Herb. With the weather remaining distinctly parky for the time of year I have entered the venue wearing a camel-haired overcoat and the hairiest mutton chops since Sweeny Todd dismissed me as a veggie. It is no exaggeration to say that I sweat like an ancient shire horse, later pursued through Studentsville by a crowd of salivating glue-sniffers. As DH and Barton drum loudly in respective performance it seems I am left to clean up the words they do not need to use – some of them downright filthy. Each to his own dancefloor, stage or distinctly funky study I say.

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