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Eskimo Roll, produced by Rob Kendrick, is where the deep meets
the shallow end, when drowning despair turns to raise its head above the waves.
Selfless love finding itself,
the supreme love for a child, its undisclosed future and horizons. Love of the time we have before the next beginning.
Love of the mysteries of musical fellowship. Love which holds on when you want to let go and lets go when you want
to hold on. The spirit which makes you get back up again and resolve the sadness in the twelfth bar.
Love in control,
out of control and under control. Love unrequited, for those gone and those still here. The love you sacrifice and fight for,
the love you surrender to. The love which illuminates and redeems our days.
The Old Flames were
born beneath derelict railway arches outside Bristol Temple Meads,
having changed from the dreaming spires, a cottage in Ludlow and Courage's Brewery.
The Eighties heads were
Talking, Xtc it was to be young, to be a yahoo was even better. Gigs, demob suits, demos, spinal girlfriends and sensible
street beckoned.
Arising from the sand beneath the pavement and the irrepressible urge came a whole new songbook
and older heads prevailing, raking over the rekindled embers.
The half time Oranges were sweet and led to the
long awaited train pulling into Bristol Parkway with initialisation and the wrong kind of leaves on the line.
The
rest is history.
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