By Michael Zonenashvili
Something seemed a bit out of place in the enormous and beautiful Hammersmith Apollo during Laura Marling’s performance. Like a baseball game, there were wandering beer-salesman patrolling the aisles with weird jetpack-looking alcohol delivery devices. As one circled around in front of my balcony perched seat, I could visibly see him struggling to grasp people’s attention without yelling and potentially ruining the show for a lot of people(3600, to be exact). At one point, he stopped, took …
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