Headrush, a local band, cranked out a killer Thin Lizzy riff with gusto. The singer sounded nothing like Phil Lynott, but he rocked the vocal line in his own way. A cigarette-ravaged blues whisper that scaled octaves like a Sherpa skipping up the Mourne Mountains. The guitars were tight and the drummer mean. Brian could feel the bass line in his ribcage. The semi-pro musicians really took themselves seriously around these parts, and these guys worked extra hard. Brian and Rachel sat in a booth with an excellent view of the slightly raised platform the five piece band had been crammed on to. They were completely at ease in their adopted local bar, Cearnogs. Brian, who’d failed Irish language along with most of his other GCSEs, had asked Rachel what the bar’s name translated into. She’d rolled her eyes and smiled. “It doesn’t mean anything, babe. The owner just thought it sounded Irish.” Whatever the origins of the name, Brian enjoyed his surroundings. He buzzed on a feel-good high.
