Majorettes retrospectively became my reason for being there. Low-fi, deadpan, a little bit silly, a little bit shouty ... perfect, basically. I feared they might be from elsewhere; it appears they're from here - hurrah! I hope to see them again soon.
While watching the band before Majorettes, the abysmally named Wicketkeeper, a girl standing in front of me removed a sweater to reveal an Adidas vest and an inner-bicep tattoo. I vowed to buy this vision a drink, and later on she even ordered one right beside me at the bar, but I allowed the moment to escape me. Which in retrospect was probably lucky, because that girl turned out to be Colleen Green. Which little story I hope illustrates that - unlike, it seems, everybody else in the Windmill - I was not familiar with her in advance.
Such were the roars that followed every song! I was somewhat taken aback. It wasn't that Green wasn't good, I just hadn't expected it. I felt like a dad at a Lana Del Rey concert. Had I not been so clearly the least clued-up person there, I would probably be raving about Colleen right now... But she obviously doesn't need any bungling praise from me, and since I felt like the nonplussed ride home to a bunch of overexcited, sweaty teens, I'll leave it to others to extoll the virtues of the be-shaded one and her fat-sounding guitar.
Bushmills is £3 in the Windmill, as was the ticket. God I love the Windmill...
