Plans for Fink's production rehearsals are plunged into a skipful of turds by one of those professional rehearsal spaces turning round at the eleventh hour and calmly announcing that they don't allow use of a smoke machine. Panic! Fink's entire live show is based around a smoke machine. I'm personally lost if I can actually see the rest of my band through lack of fog.
1984. The year a man called George Orwell predicated the world would end in a book of the same name. But the world failed to end. Thanks to one man. A humble, dishevelled man. A singer, a balladeer, a mere minstrel. A man who threw off the shackles of light entertainment and opened the eyes of the puffy, pinstriped masses, permanently. Like an Irish Jesus come to life.