L: Hello, Rychard
R: Hello, Lorna, how’s it going?
L: Terrible. I’ve just about had it up to here with urban life. All this alienation and that. The announcements that disturb my daydreams on the trains now; the way they roll the credits much too fast at the end of television programmes.
R: Oh yes I know, it’s awful, isn’t it? But guess what?
L: What?
R: There’s a band on at The Junction tonight that’s guaranteed to obliterate your urban blues and transform you into a walking idyllic rural landscape. What a lucky fluke.
L: Oh. Who are they, then?
R: They’re called Flook. They’re very good. Three guys, and a girl. With occasional cameo appearances by a baby. Also featuring a guitar, an accordion, a great big bodhran, and two whole boxes full of flutes and whistles…
L: Oh, I am already starting to feel transported…
R: Instrumental music, flute-orientated (obviously), from Celtic and English sources…
L: To a beautiful remote island, where time has stood still for centuries…
R: Subtly compelling rhythms…
L: Rustics frolic gaily, with a deep sense of the immanent spirituality of Mother Earth…
R: Interesting time changes…
L: While getting pissed on Guinness and cider…
R: An enthralling bodhran solo…
L: A bit like The Wicker Man…
R: Lots of nice dedications to members of the audience…
L: Only, instead of a burning, in the final scene they all give each other a massage.
R: A killer version of Happy Birthday to You.
L: Do you know what?
R: What?
L: Lets go to the Hebrides, or somewhere like that, for our holidays. In fact…
R: In fact what?
L: Bugger holidays. My atavistic spontaneity has been rekindled. Lets go right now.
R: But what about the Flook concert?
L: Concert? What concert?

Writer: Rychard Carrington

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