
neil mcsweeney plies his trade in territory that's been radio blighted by every guitar wielding blubbering hormonal sac with a plastic soul to bare, with blanditudes proffered to soft-faced men in shiny cars and bleary-eyed women drinking wine alone in over-decorated apartments. territory that once encompassed a buncha folks from sam cooke to hank williams to bob dylan to tom waits - fella's (and fellettes) that strap on a six string or piano and bash out an honest to god song – now reduced to the sad bit in hollyoaks or the credits montage at the end of some sporting [...]