Despite a mix that virtually eliminated keyboards and favoured bass and drums over vocals that needed all the help they could get, the hits came thick and fast.
It’s roasting in the Big Top. Listless little clouds drift up from the smoke machine. But there is nothing listless about Mr. Baxter and his boys on a night like this.
Fine words, fine wines and possibly even the occasional fine. Tom Mathews makes his now annual pilgrimage to the cuirt festival of literature in Galway.
An occasional series in which our TOM MATHEWS visits an exotic location and, under the guise of attending some class of conference, proceeds to get very drunk on the local hooch
What has transformed 47-year-old boy Adonis TOM MATHEWS into a realistic simulacrum of that red-nosed little feeb in the Bamforth Comic postcards? Yes, readers, a punishing fortnight at the Galway Arts Festival. Now read on
Yes readers, it s that time of year again when TOM MATHEWS hacks his way through the vin and verbiage of dear old Galway town for the cuirt festival of literature.
From seven long days journey into nightmare, from a city where the Medjugorge Herald is displayed hard by Big Uns From Fiesta, from a city where the local headline runs Padraic O Conaire s Head Recovered and everyone else wishes theirs would; in short from the Czirt Festival Of Literature in Galway the writers week that makes writers weak what s left of TOM MATHEWS sends this report.
Being a strange, terrible, wondrous and uplifting saga of pints, goats, monsters, Malcolm McLaren, jokes, art and, er, lettuce. Or, to put it another way, the inimitable tom mathews reports from The Galway ARts Festival.
