We met Marston on the street in Palm Springs, where he had planted himself in front of his own wind machine – because you just cannot really claim to be awesome if you don’t have your own wind machine – and was rocking out on his six-string cello. His gold-look chest plate and head band and flowing leather coat made it clear that he meant business, and what a business it was:
If sperm whales were metalheads, this is the music that they’d listen to. It’s the Embodiment of Epic Romanticism.
We’re in love, people. Gods help us.
(Our California ‘Mama Needs A Break’ Getaway is courtesy of California. We love California. The Lord of the Cello, Fingers of Flame, was really just a bonus.)