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Well, they timed this one well. Just as the autumn is caving under the weight of impending winter, as the icy gin and tonics give way to a full-bodied bottle of red, and just as walking around the flat with no socks on slowly ceases to be a viable option.
A.A. Bondy’s songs encourage the kind of semi-nihilistic amateur harmonising that I have not offered up since I first listened to John Doe’s solo work. He’s got the spirit of Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson, but his work is more considered; sounding like it was conceived in a coffee house rather than a crack den (sorry, MBAR, it’s a compliment, of sorts). His voice sounds heavy with tweed and leather-bound books and I shall happily pay heed to his advice not to “go round when the devil’s loose.” He sounds like a man that has encountered the devil on a dark night, even if it was in his local branch of Starbucks.
If ever a religion was formed around my shaky beliefs regarding my existence on this planet, I’d have Bondy as a regular in the church on a Sunday. I say ‘church’, I mean ‘pub’, obviously… I say ‘Sunday’, I reckon Thursday’s usually a better day for most folks to meet up. We can iron out the details later. But he’s on the list.


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