WHEN some people want things off their chests, they opt for a therapist's couch and a few camomile teas.
Others insist on assembling 16-piece folk-rock monstrosities and declaring sonic warfare on an audience of bearded thirty-somethings who grunt and whoop with a kind of masochistic abandon. They don't deserve it, these university librarian types, having probably spent their lives cultivating obscure record collections only to experience unexpected joy as one of their staples descends towards the worst kind of chest-thumping, angst-ridden, Celtic guff since Big Country. And that's just the women.
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