Epics come and epics go, some will stand the test of time and others fall into the trap of becoming side-lined, browning with age, bleached in part by the weather streaming against the frames and forgotten, a dusty reminder of what they once stood for in the pantheon of music.
In the world of art, in whatever shape or form it should take, the brave, the courageous and those that dare stare into the face of the oncoming light are always those that should be highly prized. For some, just playing a guitar, penning an verse or putting a half made bed together and throwing a little bit of rubbish into the sleeping arena is enough to constitute a day well spent, that is fine, each to their own but it is like comparing The Orient Express to the coach pulled monstrosities that inhabit the tracks of Britain today, anything can be a train but it takes class and passion to be in a special group of Trains.
Time is both cruel and unusual, as well being the well thought of great healer. It asks so much of us and in many ways offers so little in return. To be able to find time to watch all the great bands that come your way, that visit your nearest venue is an almost an impossible ask; to follow round every possible staging post one of the great young acts that the city has nurtured over the last few years is sadly unworkable in the modern age, to do deprives your attention from others, just as deserving, just as enjoyable, and yet when Kevin Critchley comes on stage, Time does its best to hold back the constant ticking.