Fashion. In 1972, when I was about 13 or so, I decided to get 'street'. In the thrall of classic, psych & prog rock, 'twas time to look the part. At the gulag end of Hope Street in Glesga', stood a mysterious wee emporium called Slack Shack. It was hippy paradise, swathed in jeans and 'extras'. Jeans I had, 'extras' I hadn't. Without hesitation, I plumped for an Afghan waistcoat. If the coat was good enough for the likes of Cream & Eric Burdon, it would do for me, though on a tighter budget, I elected to go without the sleeves. Sadly, as the skin wasn't cured properly, I was to discover a problem on a rainy evening visit to a pal. Sporting my 'cred' look, I clambered rainsoaked, onto the 38 bus & as I warmed up, began smelling like a dead or certainly close to dead, dog. In short, I must have looked a complete arse, in addition to smelling like one. Sloping home, I stuck on the eponymous first EC album, of which this is my favourite track. I feel sure the irony would have escaped me...
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