Last night I stood forlornly outside the Zodiac venue. Ticketless.
Frank Black was playing inside. With the Catholics. A group of us excommunicated stood outside.
Inside the transguitaration was taking place. There was a girl in the hopeful queue with hips like Cinderella.
Many gig-goers were in their thirties. They are part of the Pixies generation. They don't dig Limp Bizkit, Swervedriver or And you will know us by the Trail of Dead.
They remember Black Francis, Joey and Kim screaming against time.