It had been a tough couple of weeks. One of those periods when your head fills with cobwebs and the strategic picture flashes like a poorly fit neon sign pulsing an annoying buzz each illumination cycle. “Eat at Joe’s” it might say for a brief time but you’d know the gravy would be lumpy and the ketchup rimmed with crust. So you walk by. Inspiration. How I needed it more than ever and nothing touched me like others’ brilliance. When you’re alone at your desk as all writers must be, head on arms folded over cold Ikean beech, it’s not words or pictorials that’ll jumpstart your heart, a saying or a graphic treatise. Only music. Only music will do. But it couldn’t be testosterone-fuelled. Crue,…