"The end is nigh, the end is nigh," sang Patti Plinko in her encore, spilling whisky beneath her feet.
If the apocalypse needed a mortal announcer, Plinko would make a dishy prophet of doom.
In her floral dress with bygone film star hair and murderous smile, it was little wonder she had such clout over her Boy, a superb guitarist who jutted and shuddered behind her, sporting a gas mask and winning the occasional fawn from his owner.
He turned out to be a charming chap called Joe, but no-one could fail to be seduced by the hiss and purr of Plinko's voice.
The shadow-swathed stage of this gorgeous venue suited her perfectly, ukulele-wielding gipsy campfire odes to dismembered corpses and dead husbands only increasing her debauched allure, a vivid dream of maddening, freakish talent.
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