Last week, I was camped outside King’s Cross, fighting a drizzle and plucking a slow chord progression when a Maserati MC20 zoomed by. The engine wailed so loud it threw me off my rhythm. Ten minutes later, a Dacia Duster rolled up, mud crusted on its wheel arches, and the driver leaned out to slip me a fiver. That’s the split, isn’t it? Glamour that roars and grit that sticks around. I sipped my cold coffee, adjusted my cap, and went back to playing. The Duster’s crowd’s my crowd.