Excerpt 1
"December 22nd, 2032 New York City, United States of America".
"Trespassing on a terrain not paved in mud, drenched in the history of feedback and its cousins, a little delving doesn't go a miss. Kilo Grandma rise from the wrong side of the bed not prepared to sleep in on the revolution, should it ever rear its head. A dynamic line-up feeds into a self-delusional legend that paints itself in the bold colours of hardware sampling, analogue synthesis and death metal electric guitars, but, then, most typically, finds itself in the gutter after excessive outbursts of drunken drivel and needs to be driven home by an out-of-hours emergency drummer, who, for the purposes of this disclosure does not go by the name of Glasgow Fred.
Glasgow Fred winds up his motor and lets rip, whether he’s got a carpet under his feet or not; he’s fed up of the usual drivel that counts for music these days. It’s a cold Wednesday morning and he’s loading his kit into the knackered old Ford Fiesta that he drives around. There’s a saying that goes “If you’re a drummer without a set of wheels, you’re fuck all” – it’s a shit saying and come to think of it and I’ve never heard anyone actually say it. He’s off to the day job of teaching music to kids, then he’ll rehearse with one of the many bands he’s in straight after. Later in the week, he’ll drive his kit to a gig and load it up and take it down within an hour. Why does he bother? It’s not for the biscuits, put it that way."
Excerpt 2
“So what’s with the feathers Jimmy?” Jimmy looked surprised, as if he’d never been asked this before: “Oh these” pointing to the back of his neck where five pristine painted white and red feathers sat in between his coat and shirt. “They’ve always been with me, you can call them a safety blanket if you like, or just call them what they are – five feathers”. It was around this time that K started thinking she might need to re-think Jimmy’s inclusion in the band. But then he got on the keys and all became clear, as he sprouted wings and began to fly around the room, crashing into the ceiling and breaking a few lights, struggling to keep control as if this was his first time flying. Of course he didn’t actually fly - he just played a blinding set. He was in, warts and all.
Next through the door was Weedy Emma. It was a good name for her, because, well, she stunk of weed every time anyone saw her. “How do mateys?” She says with a Yorkshire accent, drenched in the saliva of a sticky THC buzz. After a slow start, she eventually gets her tenor saxophone out of its box, and starts to play."
Excerpt 3
"And then there’s Grandma herself. You’ll not find her rocking in a reclining chair with her feet up, watching Homes under the Hammer. She’ll be dead centre in the mosh-pit, assaulting young upstarts with wheel kicks to the head, and screaming “grannies to the front, grannies at the front!” She’s what some might call a ‘vocalist’. I, on the other hand, use the preferred phrase of “shit-stirrer”
