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They play for laughs. New songs ‘Where is the love?’, ‘Ronan Keating’ about the Future President Of Ireland show an indolent indifferent edge the band had hitherto kept well hidden. The seams pop open, dirty sludge and laziness there. Where will it end? They still love music. They help the infant Now Infamous David Kitt find his teeth and trade noise with the Now Infamous But Dead Schroeders Cat, the Now Defunct Braid, of America, USA, their friends Burning Airlines, also from America, USA. These are good shows, against the adversity of non emotions. They promise that soon there will be the RELEASE of some material for the people, lined up queuing, wishing they’d brought their winter leathers.

The Year Of Our Lord Nineteen Ninety Nine. For some it would never go away. For others, they cannot remember what actually happened. The gig is arranged. Alan from Decal rigs up the room for all to be perfect. The recording is made. Kittser lends an air of quiet authority to proceedings. Simon is late for sound checking. Dee argues acoustic dynamics. Paul will play with the band, one last writhing time. Vincent borrows Nialls minidisk without asking. Dee warms the skins of his drums and John drinks to reconstitute his lungs, crippled and flapping. They play for the good folk who turn up. The usual people, the not so usual people, the people in the know, the ones who know the people in the know. They play for all these people whether they like it or not.

The show is recorded. The music runs screaming from the disk and hides in a tundra where the band cannot find it for many years. Nobody likes anything anymore, except the good people who pay through nose and ring for the privilege of the experience. The band are too good now. Too good to attract the maddening intensity they used to have. The way they eschew the morals of music and turnover the topsoil to pelt the audience with worms. They way people would look at them and try to decide whether or not they had a fucking clue what they were doing. That used to scare them. They miss being scared.

The last show in the Funnel. A crowd of emotional refugees crowd along the dance floor. Each drinks his lot. The band have been reconfiguring in the ‘studio’, a decrepit hole located underneath a railway track, which stinks of damp and negligence and houses porno on the walls. It suits the mood. They record tracks meant for delectation. But it goes awry, in a way inevitably. Simon loses the tapes for months, by then too busy to be working on them. John is brought to the Bone house, where they lay his frame on a bed and poke him with tubes. He looks like a angel, too white and disturbingly beautiful. The band pray and pray to whomever will listen. A beneficent ear heeds. John pays in kind for the worlds grooviest scar, women swoon at him. The kittens are now suddenly scared.