at the Red Lion, Honiton
by Eleanor Rose
A new act has been making the rounds of provincial pubs and causing quite a stir, so I decided to pop along to see them in Honiton.
The Red Lion is your typical old fashioned rural pub. The kind with beams in the ceiling and a clientele of be-sweatered locals that stop talking abruptly when you walk in. Nice.
A drumkit and a few amps are set up in one corner, but the amps aren't plugged in, and there's no sign of the band. I fish several twigs out of the pint of muddy water that passes for a drink in these kind of places and wait for the gig to start.
The first sign that anything's happening is a faint green glitter in the air over by the jukebox. The glitter begins to swirl and swiftly the sounds of Lady in Red fade away and the lights on the old machine dim.
"'Ere, it's starting again, Pete."
The old codger opposite me nudges his neighbour. I put down my DS Lite as the show proper commences.
A cloud of sparkling purple dust draws itself into being over the drumkit and the snare drum starts to vibrate. There's a low humming noise as puffs of green and yellow drift over to the amps, and breathe them into life. The atmosphere is electric - quite literally - all the hairs on the back of my hands are standing on end, and it feels like it's about to thunder...
With a loud CRASH! that nearly makes me spill my pint, Purple Cloud sounds an introductory cymbal and they launch into a quite passable cover of Honky Tonk Women. This is followed in swift succession by note-perfect verions of Killer Queen, and Addicted to Love and by the time they play Come on Eileen they're really starting to cook.
An hour later they play their third encore of Wichita Lineman to a standing ovation.
"Phew! What did you reckon to THAT?" I turn to the old codger, grinning madly with exhilaration.
"Aye, not bad." he says dismissively, "They'll never make it big though."
"Why not?" I ask, a bit irritated by his reaction. "They've got everything going for them surely?"
"No original material."
"Aar, that's right," chips in Pete, "Don't know what it is, but them Epsilon lads never can seem to create anything of their own. We'm reckon it might be summat to do with being immortal, don't we, Reg?"
"Es. Bein' formed from primordial dust, like. See they'm can't get hurt and they'm don't pro-cre-ate (if you'll pardon me mentioning it, Miss), so they got no call to create anything, see? They never developed the capacity, like."
"Aar, that's right," agrees Pete, taking a long pull at his pint, "Fancy another do 'e? Tes last orders in 5 minutes..."
"Aye, go on then." They turn away from me and head to the bar. Over in the corner, the landlord opens the window and glittering purple, gold and green clouds swirl out and up into the night sky.
A drumkit and a few amps are set up in one corner, but the amps aren't plugged in, and there's no sign of the band. I fish several twigs out of the pint of muddy water that passes for a drink in these kind of places and wait for the gig to start.
The first sign that anything's happening is a faint green glitter in the air over by the jukebox. The glitter begins to swirl and swiftly the sounds of Lady in Red fade away and the lights on the old machine dim.
"'Ere, it's starting again, Pete."
The old codger opposite me nudges his neighbour. I put down my DS Lite as the show proper commences.
A cloud of sparkling purple dust draws itself into being over the drumkit and the snare drum starts to vibrate. There's a low humming noise as puffs of green and yellow drift over to the amps, and breathe them into life. The atmosphere is electric - quite literally - all the hairs on the back of my hands are standing on end, and it feels like it's about to thunder...
With a loud CRASH! that nearly makes me spill my pint, Purple Cloud sounds an introductory cymbal and they launch into a quite passable cover of Honky Tonk Women. This is followed in swift succession by note-perfect verions of Killer Queen, and Addicted to Love and by the time they play Come on Eileen they're really starting to cook.
An hour later they play their third encore of Wichita Lineman to a standing ovation.
"Phew! What did you reckon to THAT?" I turn to the old codger, grinning madly with exhilaration.
"Aye, not bad." he says dismissively, "They'll never make it big though."
"Why not?" I ask, a bit irritated by his reaction. "They've got everything going for them surely?"
"No original material."
"Aar, that's right," chips in Pete, "Don't know what it is, but them Epsilon lads never can seem to create anything of their own. We'm reckon it might be summat to do with being immortal, don't we, Reg?"
"Es. Bein' formed from primordial dust, like. See they'm can't get hurt and they'm don't pro-cre-ate (if you'll pardon me mentioning it, Miss), so they got no call to create anything, see? They never developed the capacity, like."
"Aar, that's right," agrees Pete, taking a long pull at his pint, "Fancy another do 'e? Tes last orders in 5 minutes..."
"Aye, go on then." They turn away from me and head to the bar. Over in the corner, the landlord opens the window and glittering purple, gold and green clouds swirl out and up into the night sky.