We played a good set, or at least it felt good and nobody threw things. We seemed popular!
But we also didn't talk much, played the hell out of our instruments, sang like drunken angels and kept our between song blather amusing and fairly short.
And every song about murder, blood, falling down wells and bursting levees we described as "love songs".
No metaphor intended.
It's still too frakkin' cold. And there's more snow in the forecast.
BLECCCCCCH!
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