We find ourselves in a moonlit English graveyard, in front of an ancient set of chained doors set into a dilapidated mausoleum, behind which we can detect a slow, stentorian breathing -- can you hear it? That labored huffing of an angry thing trapped inside, left to mark out its days in bloody hatch-marks on the wall of its burial chamber. How many years, we wonder, has it been trapped here, measuring the passage of time without a friend to help fill it? As we listen uneasily, we hear the trapped thing pause, stop; we imagine it sniffing the rancid air of its tomb, catching a whiff of our presence outside its doors. And with a last-chance strength, born of undiluted rage and a never-quite-vanquished desire to register its existence to the uncaring void of space, we hear it lunge forward toward the... More >>>
"Can't find your way home? Here, I'll show you the way.": Blind Faith and Peter Frampton emerge from their rancid tombs.