Saw Jim Jones in New York a few weeks ago and my god, what a brain-melting show it was, a feral sweat pit filed with waif thin male models in town for Fashion Week and the Williamsburg rockerati, all bouncing of the walls, part-mosh, part-jitterbug, while the band raced through amped up twelve bar blues barn-stormers like this, Dishonest John. This is rock and roll in all its dirty, fiendish glory, set to destroy souls at The Falls Festival.
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