"And I love the view out of my Glasgow window / And I love waking up on the floor of a flat in New York / And you don't know any of these things." And I feel in this packed room full of strangers sweating and singing, that all of us understand, even though we haven't been in Glasgow or New York. And all the secrets we keep to ourselves, we are not alone. In this packed place full of strangers, we all gaze at the wooden clouds on the ceiling and while we hear these desperate lyrics of poetry and cigarettes and chickens we watch the mirror ball sparkle, the old painted walls shine with disco glow and the drummer is melting under his yellow t-shirt and no one has ever been so sweet and beautiful in that small room. The words are spinning, those voices in unison fill the room with simple romanticism, tender laughter and invisible smiles. We drop the beer while dancing, we step on each others feet, we sneaked in drawing a black X on the back of our hands with eyeliner, we just love this music so much. We love this so much. It's been raining since the morning. The city has been wet and cold and silent all day. But something was still there. Alive. Underground.