The events that make up Blisters in the Pit of My Heart primarily take place in transitory places: buses, shopping aisles, streets, school corridors, low-paid jobs, gender-neutral toilets. It’s a record that wonders where it is you’re supposed to be going, what you’re supposed to be waiting for, and when might be reasonable to expect its arrival. It’s a record that celebrates life’s sharp edges, while recognising that they’re often just four isolated incidents on an otherwise uninterrupted expanse of white photocopy paper. It’s a record that could only have been written by a group of vegan, straight-edge anarchists who genuinely hail from an old pitting village in County Durham called Pity Me. Which is to say, it could only belong to Martha.
