The Roman Imperialist Country Club

Well, maybe that's what we will be called. Today, Chris, Chris and I met up at Burbage House to play some music. The cellar was damp, the carpet on the wall green and musty, and the amps very loud. My guitar, dubbed 'the rig', starred: a few hacks with a hacksaw and the pickup fitted, it produced an awesome array of moans, jangles and crunching fuzz almost by itself. They each took a guitar, and ground out some licks while I pounded the skins, light of heart. We rocked for two solid hours, and I still can barely hear a thing. It was great.