Love and fat kisses to the tubby push-tit with the beard/black-rimmed specs combo who continued to smash my toes with his giant size 12 or whatever boots whilst traveling in and out of the Atlas Bar. The tops of the feet this a.m. are hued in peculiar shades of crimson. Neat. Could only hope the very pretty and sparkler-like flickers shooting from the old, yellow-y smoke filtration machine on the Atlas' ceiling wouldn't spark some Great White flare-up, as the venue was double capacity before 9:30 p.m. The (audible) sparks gave Matt Jones' timely and soothing "Holy Light" the allusion of a patron clapping off-time in the corner with wood chucks ... the sparks became otherworldly, against the cello and violin, acoustic guitar and the rise and fall of Jones' underrated and perfectly pitched croon. Push-tits aside, the set was all goosepimples, and Battling Siki played clean-up wonderfully at a good 115 db. Daniel Johnson echoed my observations (in his post below) about the night overall and the sparks became the metaphor ... they were everywhere, on and on, as beer and cries and shouts and sweat flowed. One of the better attended Blowout night in the seven festivals that I've seen.

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