I generally embark on a journey of self discovery and exploration before I write Last Supper. For this week's column on Spints Alehouse, I hooked myself up to a bio-feedback machine and coaxed my subconscious into a state of pristine quietude. When my mind was completely still, I introduced the image of an octopus. The octopus was the key to unlocking this review.


Once my meditation had ended, I approached my computer like a somnambulist and the words simply poured from my fingers. The resulting review may be a bit difficult to read, but that's because it was meant to be sung as a madrigal. Or read aloud by someone British: