Frustration is now this fully grown-up lion that has no intention of ending up as a bedside rug. The grouches that you only hear when the press hands them a megaphone, and that would be disarmed if their MacBook were taken away from them are still talking about the good old days. The king of the jungle is back to restore its order, reminding tourists that coming here as a casual observer is not an option, because this is no ordinary regional park. The great history of rock can take a hike because our softened nerves are yearning to be tense one last time, our voices get lost, and we want more of those poor attempts at stagediving if only we can see Frustration one more electrify a crowd like they did at the latest Villette Sonique, with their social-class comrades of Sleaford Mods. And this, is the only reason why we agree to give in to music, this intrusive thing that never asks for our advice. The rest is just a background noise of conceited babbling saturating the feed of our souls. Bollocks, basically.
