I'm still in love with you

If ever the romantic poet in me needs a stiff drink then it's the whisky boy who craved to stick his neck in the jar that does it for me. 'She might think it over one more time before she go', 'call on me baby and let me see it through'. And teased notes catching the string against the thumb, enough to stop the fundamental and let the harmonics ring, the pick held flat to play notes full, or at an angle to the string. Well that all counts for nothing if there is no rhythmic core and there is a core, molten in the sense of rotten, solid in the sense of centred.

It is a wonder to hear Lizzy at their height.