Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐๐ค๐ง๐ ๐๐ค๐ฉ๐๐จ, ๐๐๐จ๐จ ๐๐๐๐ง๐๐ฉ๐ค – ๐๐๐ ๐ผ๐ง๐๐ค๐ฃ๐๐ช๐ฉ๐จ
Charles goes back in time to lose his mind once moreโฆ
There is a chunk of my life that none of you knows about. Not one. I used to a be a woman. No, no: with this beard, that would be most silly and quite unrealistic. Although I have always been quite proud of my eyelashes. I am going to tell you about that chunk. Cue dream-scene wavy lines – doodly doodly doo. And weโre here. The year is 2006. I am 22. My hair is quite long and naturally blonde. My beard is straggly and thin in parts, which makes me look somewhat like a terrorist stereotype. Nah, I canโt do this in the present tense – all too real and freaking me out. Let me tell you about the time anyway. Having recently obtained my music degree, I thought it best to have a lot of fun. And so I did. I was out every night of the week. Girls, parties, pubs, girls, drink, smoke, girls, drink, smoke, drink, smoke – ahem. I was YOUNG!! Leave me alone. So, there was all of that, as per usual. But as with today, there was one constant. Music. Always listening, always discovering, always playing, always going to gigs. But always PLAYING gigs. Good old giggity-gigs. I was in several bands through the years, but there was always one particular one that stays with me. We were really rather good – if you like that sort of thing. A simple four-piece consisting of guitar, bass, drums and vocals. Joe King was the incredible bassist. Yes, his real name was Joe King – his parents must have been having a laugh. Blah was the guitarist, and other blah was the singer. I say Blah because we didn’t particularly get on in the end, and the other blah was his girlfriend and so backed him up on everything he said or did. She also couldnโt sing and didnโt understand the concept of a melody. It was more of a drunk croon from someone occasionally walking on hot coals. You know these medic types (for that was what she was studying at the time)โฆ This guitarist though – he was good, but his fingers were like spider legs. The simplest movement on the neck of the guitar made his hand look contorted like someone suffering from rheumatoid arthritis. Basically, his fingers werenโt as good as his brain. He came up with really good licks, but couldnโt quite play them well enough. And then there was me. I was on drums.
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