They are called [a]Hobotalk[/a]. No, really. Kill them, kids.
Marc was always wandering. Couldn’t help it, dude. He was a wanderer. He wandered far and wide until one day he found himself in a beach hut on the East Coast of Scotland and just collapsed. “This is where I’m gonna write meself some beautiful music,” he thought. But he couldn’t. He kept writing other people’s songs from the
early-’70s. Oh well.
‘Bout this time Marc hooked up with some pals called Al, Ian and Ross, who between them had played in just about every bar in all of bonnie Scotland, and between them they tried to give Marc’s songs a bit of life. But they couldn’t. They still sounded
like other people’s songs from
And that should be the end of the story. But it isn’t. Because then Hut signed [a]Hobotalk[/a] and released ‘Pictures Of Romance’. And that’s where we are now, stuck at the very end of the ’90s with a band whose ponderous navel-gazing doodles belong ninth on the bill at the Palo Alto Folk Rock Festival, 1973. They are called [a]Hobotalk[/a]. No, really. Kill them, kids.