In which Leeds’ most active son emerges from the shadows wrapped in self-doubt, no doubt still waving his sword around (not a euphemism). Deep, dark vocals, deep enough to have troubled Lady Macbeth herself, sprawl over twinkling keys and plonking piano, as a repetitive mood builds to a finale with gently grinding guitar that melts into a nicely murdero…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Mick Mercer's Panache to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.
