Monday 23rd February



The last gig on earth, was a freezing wet sunday night on a
back room pub stage on the edge of town, an officious
sound engineer coiling cables chanting,
‘Please step off the performance area, no, I mean it!’
as you lean in to shake the hand of the man who’s just
emptied his heart in front of you, music that defies you
to find fault & radio to broadcast it, a sound that would’ve
been all over the Peel show. Pete Um, fragments of songs,
never long enough to let you second guess, never let you
down, everyone a chorus & an anthem, each individually wrapped
by hand for your discovery, gone before you knew they were here.
My ears come out to play, face hurts from grinning. The queue
at the back of the room as he rummages in his bag, fishes out a
12 & pauses, wrestling with concepts, art & commerce,
what price honesty? He should be touring the world, spreading
his brand of syneasthetic joy, tonight you’re grateful he’s here
& you can shake his hand for now.


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