The Hand Musuem

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One day in in a land where only the weird and deranged are given the rights of kings, a young lad called DOM sets off to claim his throne. Not that he looks and acts like a freak or anything - he just wanted to see what he could dishonestly acquire (being cunning and devious, as well as not at all freaky). On the way he runs into a bunch of gold miners. They talk of being close to the main vein and entice our hero to stay. Distracted from his mission he learns the way of ale and smooth soul. Soon he has forgotten why he ever left home and contemplates this life of chancery. Unknown to our man, there are other things afoot. Fire rituals in a small South American province foretell of guitar play to equal the dead and harmony to match the Chanters of Cohen; they say nothing of dire indie hell and obscure death.

On reaching the shores of England, and reaping its rewards in the style of our Viking ancestors, Pedro's first mission is to kickstart a new outfit to secure him warm nights of the flesh. He is non the less interested in the guitar vision that cost him a good nights sleep and his life's worth of sanity. Sticking to the low notes in VITAMINA he wanders whether the shamen ripped him off predicting him 6 string infamy.

But here is where the two stories merge. It could be stretched to a novel but the facts of the tale can be broken down to that age old rivalry of opposing forces working to make and/or break man/woman kind. De ire or da beer. Obviously there is more to life than a choice between these two drugs, and, one does not exclude the other. However, if you were to consider a life without one or the other a clear definition can be drawn - in the sand, all out war mutherfu*kers. In the mine, DOM's new friends fed his ire to the sheep and fermented their dung to lamb sherry so no vertical position could be maintained during prayer. This prompted the lad to question why he had given up his quest.

He left - returned - left - returned and then finally left for good.

He followed a scent that had long vanished from his senses. It filled his nostrils like heaven's waters, cleansing his inner ears with monk's chants and purifying his head as only the axeman can. It lead him away from the mines and into the business district of town. Now the smell was very strong indeed. He found the building where he perceived the origin to be and entered through a secure doorway. Up some stairs he found the fumes to be coming from a room worryingly near the toilets. Used to the smell of dung he reassured himself that he had not followed his nose to this city centre toilet, and chose to enter the only other door. Sitting on a purple throne surrounded by silks and women sits the buda Juan: my religion forbids me to say more but I will impart that the smell most definitely came from said guru's glowing carrot and his eyes told the stories of a millennia of dens and fractalled reality.

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Since I Was Last Here
The New Times
Born Bored
Too Many People
Trade Traduce


up and coming appearances by The Hand Museum may will include:

Sat 28 August @ The Caledonian, Liverpool FREE ENTRY

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