Th'Booty Hunters Christmas Concert

On the night of 25 December, for the thirteenth time, we’ll slice through the sky with a rusty knife and pour the red juice onto the Paral·lel, where Sala Apolo will swell like a corpse in the River Llobregat, with balconies of frayed velvet hanging like cow’s tongues and the air thick with black tobacco smoke and the sweat of drunken Catalans. Th’ Booty Hunters burst onto the scene; they’re not a band of clean-cut cowboys in straw hats, but hunters of infected arses, country punk injected with morphine and dynamite, cowboy boots trampling the stage as if it were a rat’s nest ablaze. See you in hell.