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He and his half-forgotten literary oeuvre have been undergoing a bit of a critical resurgence in Scotland over the last few years, after the reprinting of some of his books and the biography the above quote comes from, and he is now regarded as a slumbering-but-waking literary giant in hipster wordslinger quarters.
As good as they are though, the finest moments abound when said troubadour is present - whether tumbling from the drum-kit, caterwauling about the place or overcoming his ailments to deliver ragged, impassioned cuts such as 'Lenders In The Temple' or a fine 'Milk Thistle' (which surely ranks way up there among his emotive best), his is an oddly magnetic presence; and in some of the newer material aired tonight - or the covers even, as we're served a wonderfully volatile take on 'Corrine, Corrina' (!) - there's a sense of the unpredictable, screaming wordslinger of old lurching through.