I stayed at a hotel in Vancouver called ‘Hotel California’ a couple of times, it was situated in the ‘cheap end’ of the city near the red light district and in the heart of all the gigs. It was an eye opener for sure, with noise that never seemed to abate, largely consisting of police sirens and the drunken bru-ha-ha of the revellers outside my window. The walls were paper thin and the carpets thinner, where pole dancing happened 24 hours a day even at breakfast which was, to say the least, bizarre.

The Eagles put the concept of excess and where to find it into that title with perfection and coming from a band that were no strangers to the Californian lifestyle with all that it meant in the 70’s, was autobiographical and as a result has entered the human language lexicon as a descriptive term. This is the genius of songs that dig in like ticks; the authenticity reverberates and entrenches itself into our very souls. The Eagles were more than a country rock band, they came to represent the soul of America, depicting – with no holds barred – all aspects of life with no fear. They held the mirror up and most of the time what steamed it up was the alcoholic breath of a country coming to terms with itself. The songs always reeked of poetry that at times – such as in this slice of surrealist venturing – entered the realms of hallucinational story telling where creatures have the ‘Mercedes Benz’ and there are mirrors on the ceilings and pink champagne on ice…

Sounds like my kind of place…

Genius.