Yeah, so… The Firedogs. What’s to say?
They’ve been around. Seen a thing or two.
Chasing cars, as dogs do.
Gone briefly, but back again;
The old new black.
The old, now back.
Lord knows what the bald one at the front is saying, but he yodels with conviction;
The bass is deliciously chunky and goes down smooth;
The guitar whines and screams and crackles
like the spawn of caged lightning and some cackling vixen;
and the drums, oh, the drums…
It’s all there mate. The real McCoy.
As good on stage as it is in the booth.
Thirty odd years in the making;
Grown near London town
but brewed elsewhere;
aged to perfection
in an oak cask
down by Brighton.
Fancy a drop?
Well, by all means,
so long as you savour the flavour
and aren’t easily frightened:
The back of the bottle recommends you drink the whole lot –
in through the ear-hole and prepare for a shock.
These ain’t your nan’s dogs.
Your old dogs.
Your sold dogs.
Your capitalist fat gods.
Dogs will be dogs – or no, not quite.
These are the Late Road –
Wait that’s not right…
These are The Firedogs
and be warned: