April

[Sweder]

March creeps away, dragging with it a sadly lacking kilometre tally. Work and pestilence took their toll, as did apathy.
Enough now, let it go. 

Kicked off the new month with a visit to Bevy Parkrun. I left my good intentions with the freshly printed barcodes - required in order to register an official time - on my desk. Ah well, it's the thought that counts. I approached this as casually as a man full of last night's Hawkwind (Winter Gardens, Eastbourne) and a generous helping of Long Man ale should. The sun beamed and the vistas shone, dog-runners scampering ahead over the lush hilltop. It was a joy to be out there, no matter how fuzzy the head.

I managed 28 and change for the two laps, according to Runkeeper. I'm happy with that, as I am with 15th place, my highest finish in the history of Parkrun, sadly not recorded for posterity for the aforementioned reason. There's always next week. Tom and I chatted after the run, Almeria 2017 top of our agenda. Tom's keen to join us, confirmation of dates notwithstanding. We agreed that the Rumble on the Ramblas deserves an audience. We may need to charter an aircraft at this rate;  it should be quite an event.

Last night's gig was pure time-travel. The venue, more accustomed to Tea Dances and local fairs, the perfect setting for a band safely strapped into their well-worn stage show of futuristic, psychedelia and high-octane, fire-eaing dancers. Dave Brock conducted proceedings, a young Lemmy-lite on Rickenbacker providing a sold, driving beat.  Ironcally, it all looked terribly dated, but therein lay the charm for me. I'd stepped straight into the mid-Seventies. Less hair but still plenty of aromatic atmosphere and much, much better beer.

   

As bands do these days the group laid their most recent composition on us, dropping in the occasional favourite, like Orgone Accumulator and one I'd never seen live before (by Hawkwind or Motorhead), the sinister Watcher. Warrior On The Edge Of Time took the roof off. Sadly that's where I left, my companion eager to get back to Lewes before the Witching Hour.

As one does after such an evening I revisited my own personal favourites this morning. Quark Strangeness and Charm has always been a good album. Listening to Hassan I Sabbah's prophetic tale of a world enslaved by oil raised a chuckle. But the stand-out track for me is the still futuristic Spirit Of The Age. A space traveller writes home as he sails on towards the outer rim, bemoaning a malfunction that could make such a journey a short trip to insanity.

Your android replica is playing up again
Ah, it's no joke
When she comes she moans another's name
That's the spirit of the age

Great drugs they had back then, eh?