There's no need for the exchange of overpriced trinkets to distract me from the agony of having to play the same old tired roles -- rankled adult child, tormented kid, alcoholic uncle -- that I spend the rest of the year struggling bravely to escape. Hardly. This Christmas Eve I sat alone, content with a bottle and the rediscovery of the brilliance of Mott the Hoople. Yes, Mott, and oh how the night was grand. One of the lovely things about mixing such great music with booze and solitude is how it makes the rest of the world disappear. A kind of holy trinity on a holy night, and all else is a warm, happy blur. All this and then the cycle begins again. And we forget that listening to a simple song just... More >>>