Taxidermy: model’s own
The chandelier shatters from the heinous force of one of the king’s cavalier’s stolen blunderbusses, and suddenly the groomed congregation of aristocrats fall silent. As the gritty haze of gun powder and crystal fragments settle on the ballroom floor, the silhouette of a new hero is revealed… Sir Max McElligott esq, the dandiest rogue this side of the Watford gap, stands a-jaunt, supping on a goblet of fine 87-year-old port. As he ascents a near-by table, demolishing the pyramid of bubbling flutes, the band strikes up and the mysterious highwayman conducts them through an impromptu whirlitzer that somehow snail-trails the dots between Mozart and David Byrne, a waltzing hirdy-girdy of symphonic post-punk bombast. Huzzah!
And as quickly as he appeared, he’d snatched the Duchess beneath his arm, mounted the rafters and swung his way across the room and through the ornate window at the bottom of the hall, into the frosty black night, leaving nothing but a wax stamp of his alias branded on the Duke’s finest gold-gilded china serving dish, reading just: ‘Wolf Gang x’.
It all sounded a bit like this (click track name for download): ‘Night Flying’