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The Greys, Brighton, England May 2003 Mercury, all over the stage. A leopard skin cowboy hat, a scarlet coat. Bootlaces fly from his throat. He wires the room electric, no need for a band or mic. His storm heel scorches the floor, his voice tears - a blade of grass, a signature inked through smoke. Bibles and guns, dams and despair - songs to break your teeth on. Soft cream in the centres bares night’s dreaming ears. Jane Thorp