Tonight I dearly wished I’d given my spare plus one to an international terrorist. For in one smiling swoop, a cluster bomb detonated in Dingwalls would have obliterated a goodly percentage of the fleas that feed on the stinking back of the Musick Biz hyena.

As you will have gathered, Rain Parade’s first European jaunt was big news – a sell out, with many turned away, and with a ‘as I was saying to John in the sales department’ type of buzzzzz. Bees ’round the honeypot.

Pot! Hah! The selling of America’s so-called ‘paisley underground’ by the pound, of £SD, during the past few months with the likes of Green On Red, The Long Ryders, True West and so on, has not been without some arch ironies. Like, musicians involved tell me that as a cohesive scene it hardly exists in the States. So it isn’t an accident that so many of the bands are taking a trip to Grotsville, England, to play toilets. We’re, after all, superior in the art of trends.

The pleasant perversion is that the sonic charge is more than a tab in the ocean, more than a fashion passion. There are always more Paisley shirts in the audience than onstage when these West Coast chaps come to London.

But the only rain was my inward tears of frustration. To be Frank, instead of Jack, for a second, Matthew Piucci and his pranksters clicked, slick. Theirs is what used to be called ‘head music’, perfect on vinyl. But at this gig, far from blowing minds, they simply blew it. (Sounds)

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