THE WILDE & FELLOW SPONGES

It struck me, as I drove down from the mountain on that Thursday evening, how many leaves were still clinging on, the late autumn reds and yellows and browns threw majesty everywhere, like an intricate bohemian blanket draped casually over the slumbering warm body of the world's biggest stoner. It was nice knowing The Medicine Sessions was returning to form after a few months of hiccups. Tonight, I breathed to myself, tonight was going to be something special, I could sense a magical whimsy, a cold whipping wind with a succulent aftertaste. Winter was fast approaching, but right now, the watery glow of Autumn was reigning supreme and I was ready to suck on every last drop.

And so it arrived. All our musical creatures filled the Medicine Room. Stuart Wilde, stalked and skulked, all twiggy legs and maniacal beard growth, a tailored crow, sporting millinery, a long coat and a swagger. The trademark Wilde sounds rang through the room, all delivered from under glowering brow and hissing and growling. A pleasant fearsomeness. The Medicine Room sweated and breathed heavy under the weight of his performance, a cramming of thoughts, ideas and admiration's all being stroked by Stuart's playing. The clock ticked, the fire sparked, throats swallowed nectar and poisons, brains melted and were reborn, some just fused into a loop of longing, kicked off by some powerfully passionate love songs, the Wilde crow revealing a tenderness of heart that could make him vulnerable to hunting. By the break, a potential had fallen upon the room and sat in the corners, waiting to be unleashed.

Enter the skittish woodland mammals that are My Fellow Sponges. All twitchy noses, rambling eyes, sniggery laughter and delight at all things shiny and potentially enrapturous. They exude a comforting warmth fresh from their various nests and usher in such a wave of excitement that the room can barely wait for them to start weaving their worlds. Such worlds! Worlds full of juggling boys, lucid dreaming, feasting and futile protests. All the Fellow Sponges bring to the table a full store of goodies in the form of talent, word-smithery, tune-craftery and performancery. Their beautiful, funny little mammalian hides moved beneath their layer of music in short little bursts of energy, with darting knowing looks at each other and facial contortions at crucial moments of a line delivery. My Fellow Sponges just are comparable to nothing else. They own the secret forest that they dwell in and only they know how to gather the fruits that grow there. Luckily, they are all willing and generous enough to share their bounty with the rest of us mere mortals, big clumsy cows we all turned into under their cheery, rodentine smarts and sparkling witful eyes.

And so, winter is heralded in, with a gale and lone crow call and the scurrying and nesting of lovely little clever things.

The leaves can drop now. For I am full of comfort and have been utterly delighted by November Medicine.