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Right now, I’m a one-man phlegm-factory. Thick, evil wads of the stuff. My head feels like it’s in a vice, and not even in a moderately entertaining way like in Casino. I caught this cold from a baby. Babies always have the worst colds.

The only weapon against this kind of aggressively omnipotent mucus is – and this is true – very spicy food, black coffee, neat whisky and noisy music. If you’re unsure, follow this simple rule: all the things that sanctimonious 1950’s public service films warned you about are your go-to weapons of choice.

Today’s New Band, The Steppouts are from Texas, so probably know all about being told that their favourite leisure activities are morally corrupting and offending The Jesus. And, supplying the loud musical dosage I need, their songs are broad, rough, raw, rock.

Tiger prowls into a strut, ends as a stomp, and takes an uncompromising rock route – “I can quit any time, but then I’d have to stop.” Funnily enough, Venison Stew is a hearty, rich and satisfying concoction; bluesy, naked, and tough.

If this kind of testosterone-drenched description makes The Steppouts sound like the sons of Ted Nugent, then I apologise. They’re not crass or blunt at all. They’re actually sensitive and thoughtful. It’s just that they can only explain their feelings via the medium of gutsy, crunchy, pared-down rock.

If they were a meal, The Steppouts would be a rare, gristly steak, with another, even rarer steak on top. They’re man music for modern men – the kind who’ll play their songs whilst chopping wood, and then rub a Scandinavian hand cream into the blistered palms. Mmm, supple. Listen here!