England. Jet lagged in a budget hotel somewhere outside Kings cross. The room is a shoe box, nearly everything is purple. Purple carpets, purple drapes, a purple cover on a bed too big for the walls surrounding it. Outside my window, through a pail white shade I see brick churches and once council flats mingling among freshly blossomed spring trees. It is grey as the pacific dawn and I'm still waiting for the affects of my last sleeping pill to wear off. Through the thick walls and not so thick windows I can hear Johnny Cash's "Ring Of Fire" blazing skyward, heaven-bound from the street below. My mind drifts to the newly released Phosphorescent cut which pays such haunting homage to the track now ricocheting between hotel walls and old church steeples. With haste the mariachi brilliance is cut short as a megaphoned man wretches commands both muffled and muscular in their delivery. It sounds like hate speech or religious proclamation. It's hard for me to tell the difference these days. One way or another I was really enjoying that Johnny Cash song.