Out of the Knight and into the Knightly

Last month Dominic Knight expressed to us that he wanted to leave the band to pursue other projects. He has made great contributions to our band over the past 3 years, from fierce gurns to psycharific videos, and some awesome gigs :

Our new partner in the sublime is Mr Andrew Knightly esq. & our dear old idiot Liam Dowling will commence bass and screaming duties henceforth.

Here we all are discussing our new set list in the toilet of the Foundry.

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We’d like to welcome Andrew our factory of dreams and wish Dominic all the very best in his future endeavours. You can catch him playing here : http://www.facebook.com/DirtyWhiteFever & http://www.facebook.com/pages/Screaming-Tupelo/77211036283

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BURNT!

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BURNT!

A trip through the minds of mad men.

This was never meant to be a moment of weakness and anger, frozen in time, laid on the table and thrown to the masses, gift wrapped with a sweet little bow.

What started as a frustrated vent turned into a journey of humility and friendship, the catalyst to build our bridges stronger rather than burn them to the ground with each little tremor. It is never the easiest thing to turn on your family, but at times it has to be done. Every person has a breaking point, each time a different trigger, and unless you are a complete lunatic, you cannot disown your family.

The precise details are irrelevant, the point is merely the struggle undertaken by each and every single person involved. Happiness is never constant and it is never truly that bad; simply an ebb and flow of life, affected at times by branches rippling the current, setting off different trajectories, all leading to the same end. Occasionally, these off shoots stick together and ride the water in unison, this is the result of one such bond, six people that no one else can stand to spend that much time with. Geeks, freaks, all Shit Chic.

BURNT! – a love story seldom told, sometimes even forgotten, but there none the less. The love and determination for a collective goal, one many pursue for the right and wrong, one that is lost the world over for more than ridiculous reasons. When we flail, we flail together, but nothing will drown us.

Emotional bile aside, this turned into a bit more than just a song.

Inspired by Alejandro Jodorowsky’s, ‘El Topo’ the BURNT! video is a psychedelic spaghetti western touching at the delicate balance of life, the madness of determination and each raw wound that fills with sand and grit.

We arrived at Camber Sands, an hour and a half late due to the usual BFL idiocy. Within seconds beach patrol turned up to make sure we weren’t filming. Someone clearly forgot to take the “MAKING A MUSIC VIDEO TODAY” sign off the side of the van. The area was too busy anyway, so we rolled on down to the opposite end of the beach in search of some big hidden dunes, no one wants ‘the Hoff’ wrestling a camera out your hands.

Now on red alert, we couldn’t just take all the ridiculous props and dump them around the beach. We had to go guerilla and ferry them up wrapped in blankets and hidden between bodies…even though we clearly did a terrible job, no one really batted an eye lid seeing some mannequin legs sticking out from a sleeping bag.

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The sun beat down like one giant fuck stick, holding back nothing, merciless and vile. Somehow we (the film crew) didn’t get major sun stroke, just a light dusting of red raw lobster back and nose, the rest of the band got away pretty much scot-free, sat in the (non) air conditioned van eating ice creams and stroking each others chins.

George the pig made it through the day without stinking the beach out, and thankfully, no one walked over the hill for his scenes, specially for the ‘sex’ scene.

With lookouts posted on the top of the dunes surrounding us, we had the joyous task of making sure the camera didn’t fill with sand, though the same can’t be said about the rest of our stuff: shoes, sandwiches and cigarettes.

Filming had begun.

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Sir Ross Crick of Moansville got the Oscar for best performance. From his dungarees to his ability to get inside the mind of his fellow actor, he stormed the set and gave one us one of the most moving scenes of the film, and without realising it, taking up half the day because we had so much fun making him massage sun lotion into a pigs head whilst making sexual noises.

I could go into great detail with each scene, but I think a little needs to be left to the imagination, and words can not really be formed for the image of Rich Fownes in the shortest damn skirt he could find with fishnets and a horrific blonde wig, you just had to be there. The children ran screaming.

There was sunstroke, re-writes and more than a few weird glances as people accidentally stumbled into their own private hell, I’m sure we ruined more than just one family holiday.

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As the sun began to set and the beach slowly emptied, we were nowhere near finishing the video, sand makes everything slower, and even though we managed to make one small dune look like an entire desert, there was still a lot of trekking…plus I also now know that I never want to be lost in the desert, EVER! Give me the jungle any day.

With literally ten minutes before we were locked in for the night, we scrambled back to the car park with arms full of stupid props, exhausted and dehydrated.

Back in the van, sand and all, we took the beach then let it fall.

Onwards to a dingy pub, to drown our brains in Gin and lugs.

Burnt we were, cooked right through, a fucking pain in the arse, never filming on a beach again!

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I would like to say a big thank you to everyone involved in the making of this video:

Daisy Fay Weekes for providing the cameras, filming and putting up with my erratic directing. My Father and Brother, Callum Church and Gideon Knight for making the journey all the way to just lay in the sand and get sun burn. Ravinder Salaria for always being the mexican. Kathryn Dore and Lewis Monks for absolute patience.…and without a shadow of a doubt, the rest of the band and Griff for putting up with my ranting, raving and general lunacy through the month of arranging and making this video.

Dominic Knight

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Bad for Lazarus VS The Isle of Wight.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this…”

                                                             Han Solo

 It starts like always: Pack. Idiot check. Shit. Tea. Wait. Retardis (our van) trouble. Wait. Half a cup of tea. Get in the van etc…nothing unusual, so I’ll skip to the ‘interesting’ parts. 

 Arriving at the port only to find that according to the ferry company our tickets have been used and we (apparently) departed hours ago, is always a great start to the day, let alone a festival you are supposed to be playing in a few hours. 

BFL: 0 – IOWF: 1

 After missing our ferry and scaring a few families heading in our direction, the port crew were Griff-napped to the max and gave us another ticket just to us get out of their hair, and onto a boat full of OAP’s, which we boarded with delight. 

 After getting hit in the head by and old woman quite intentionally, we dragged Rich to another part of the boat for some official contract signing business then onto the sun deck to get battered by wind strong enough to sit down/lean into/lose sunglasses…or in the case of the poor woman who tried to open the door, get thrown half way across a boat whilst losing all of your cans of Fosters to the deep blue sea. I think the picture says it all.

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 Ross, Lime, Richie, Griff (parting the seas), Rich & Dom squeezing in a quick pre-gig blow-dry. 

 Lime made friends with some Americans who hadn’t been sent their ticket. The most logical thing to do is smuggle them into the festival wrapped in sleeping bags and blankets, right? We powered across the tiny island, only for the clutch cable to snap two miles from the festival gates. The Gods of Valhalla shined down upon us: we broke down outside the only pub for miles.

 BFL: 1 – IOWF: 2

 Pint. Tree climbing race. Burnt out clutch cable. It was already a tedious day, and arriving to see a packed out tent for an Oasis covers band did wonders for our already sodden spirits, but we’ve played worse and come out on top, so we didn’t really think much of it. Lovely stage, a fairly drunk festival crowd, what could go wrong? Nothing on our end, if anything it was one of our tighter gigs…but I now feel confident enough to write a manual on how to clear a field, appendices and all. I say field, it was a glorified pub garden. They weren’t really ready for five, hairy, flowered, stick insects to waltz onto stage, swagger about like right tarts and play some heavy pop. They were all waiting for The Specials tribute band to go on. Can you guess the vibe yet? 

 You can’t judge a book by it’s cover, and you can’t judge a festival by the punter…well you can, and we judged hard. Unfortunately it was everything we expected and worse. Luckily for half of us, there was a ferry with three names on it. Myself, Lime and Ross Crick (on gangs) had the pleasure of staying the night and witnessing the full glory of a contemporary commercial festival. We saw the Killers live. Need I say more.

We were walking against a tide of the living dead. Hundreds upon hundreds of people heading towards the main stage, arms out-stretched, gormless faces all singing the words to one of the Killers many, incredible, pop hits. We had a long night ahead of us and had to find fun in whatever form it took.    

 Necking a hefty gin and tonic and then sprinting as fast as you can into a thousand-plus people going the opposite way is a good start, but can become boring once you near the end of the people-stream. We did what any other self-disrespecting, walking freakshow would do and strolled from one end of the festival to the other (it was in a straight line) trying to find anyone that looked vaguely, dare I say, alternative. Most people seemed more likely to jump you and take your watch than sit down, get mellow, and talk universe – or whatever else you kids do at these events. 

 We are good boys. That’s why when we fell out the van after [content deleted due to legal reasons] The Killers were all stood next to their behemoth of a tour bus clutching a beer, white knuckled as we rolled around on the floor puking luminous green god knows what and laughing hysterically. The night progressed very much in this sort of vein until the early hours of the morning. Things were ingested. Helter skelters were broken into. Trees were climbed…and subsequently fallen out of…

 We soon got told off for keeping Blondie awake. Not too bad for a pikey fun fair disguised as a festival. 

 The van was broken. You now have to change gears with two hands. Once again, our ferry ticket had mysteriously been used. If anyone sees a bright yellow van named the Retardis MKII driving around with us in it, it is more likely than not our doubles…doing everything we do but a few hours before. Shoot them on sight. Bring us their heads.

Lots of Love, BFL.

x

BFL: 3-IOWF: 89

Score count lost due to unforeseen idiocy 

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Dentifrice et le vin : A travelogue by Dominic Knight

Bad for Lazarus don’t do early starts, we also don’t do travel. To get us anywhere is a feat of nature and a damn near religious experience. Someone on high is looking down on us and laughing. Only out of pity does any omnipotent being clear a path at the last minute and grant us relatively safe passage to our destination. Our journey begins with catastrophes only reserved for a certain few, maybe our name does all the talking, maybe we are just doomed. Either way, it truly never gets boring. 

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we are sorry for the delay, Bad for Lazarus appear to be on the train” 

 

May 7th 2013

Paris, France

 

Dear Griff, 

you would have been proud of us, we all managed to be on time to some degree or another, with all passports and equipment accounted for, bar one set of tickets and a keyboard case.

The first idiot check of many and we left BFL HQ, only forgetting the spare guitar and a keyboard stand. 

With twenty minutes to spare and a heavily laden walk to Brighton station, we began the arduous assent up the most mellow of inclines, arriving tired and sweaty, not even leg one of our journey over and done with. Tickets to London collected, five minutes for the train, and Richie disappears, sauntering back with a bottle of coke and two minutes to spare. No matter though, the first of what was to be many train delays on our way across the water. 

 

BFL 0 – Travel 1 

 

We conquered St Pancras like the battle of little big horn, strolling through the worlds friendliest customs with the greatest of ease, a casual joke with the security and an interest in our cumbersome luggage, only to lose Richie again, this time to Starbucks. The tanoy makes the boarding call and the room around us empties. 

Of course, we all booked different seats, so spread across the train from carriage four, to sixteen, we slowly began creeping out of the station, heading south towards the channel. 

With what started as an ill passenger, the odds against us turned into ‘2-1 Bad for Lazarus don’t even make it out the country.’ The train had died at Ashford international and didn’t want to come back to life. No smoking signs are ignored. French, English and Australian alike, all poured off the train to gain some fresh air and puff furiously on roll ups, straights and electrofagamijigs.

 

Two hours late arriving at Gare du Nord, and only day one.

 

BFL 0 – Travel 2

 

We were late, but Black Luna were later. After an hour or two, a couple of impromptu photo shoots with confused tourists and countless cigarettes watching a confused teenager drive an imaginary train up and down the pavement, the van arrived. The tour began.

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{meeting the new ultra-fans at the station – this photo has a slight Comic Relief vibe to it}

 

A hot cellar, many bodies, and a stage that was convinced it was on the high seas. 

Our first French show was like playing in the amazon jungle; hot and sticky, with no room for manoeuvre, which meant no room for error. The stage appeared to be made from concrete that was held up by bed springs adding a seasickness to the show, but through the chaos and the sweat the whole thing went off, tops and all. Unlike England, you come off stage in Europe and people want to talk to you, give you drugs and buy you drinks, as well as buy your merchandise. The archetypal French hospitality was no where to be found, maybe the British were wrong? 

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                                                    {live in Paris…eventually}

 A cat, some wine, a bed, and the history of ants. 

 

As always, 

BFL 

 

 

 

A Breakfast of coffee, cigarettes, new remixes and a view of Paris.

 

May 8th 2013

Rouen , France

 

Dear Griff, 

we departed Paris full of good coffee, ready for the road to Rouen. Obviously, we managed to miss the vital turning, so we went the slightly longer way round for a change, viewing some lovely Parisian industrial estates and two storey hamburger restaurants. 

We arrived in Rouen with hours to kill. The city was deserted, everything was shut, it was Armistice day. 

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                              {The coolest man in Rouen. Yes. It was that empty.}

Our good mood wained a little when we saw the PA system and were told there would be no sound man. A 15€ bar tab each and glorious sunshine soon put our worries behind us and we relaxed, settling into tour mode. A new era of peace for BFL? Maybe…or maybe just a calm before the storm. The PA was the size of a shoe box and the whole town was dead, but you can’t judge a prick by it’s owner. 

  

A slap-up meal an hour before the show, Mustard coated duck and an empty venue. 

 

To our surprise, the venue began to fill up as soon as Black Luna went on, and soon you couldn’t see the fuzz-fuelled three-piece through all the bodies that kept streaming down the spiral staircase into the sweaty catacomb of a venue. The French appear to be punctual to the minute when it comes to gigs. To say it was our best show ever is a bold statement, but it was. Sweat box nom deux. DIY at it’s finest. 

 

A ten hour drive was on the cards the next morning; the promise of a hotel had disappeared into the ether, so a top floor Tudor style apartment and a cacophony of snores was the key for the night.

P.S – The promoter forgot to pay us, so praise be to Black Luna for getting up at stupid O’clock in the morning to bollock the shit out of him and claim our winnings. 

Born Toulouse. 

Sleepily yours, 

BFL

 

 

 

An early start, an empty stomach and a ten hour drive.

 

 

May 9th 2013

Toulouse, France

 

Dear Gurnal,

 

We awoke to Blueberry hill being blasted out of the next room and about twenty flies having a dog fight around the lampshade. 

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                                                  {Good morning, beautiful}

Uncreasing our floor-damaged muscles and bruises from the night before, we packed and stumbled out the door down the many flights of stairs and into the hot morning sunshine, only to find Fownes’ future (and French) self, lurking around the corner, clutching a can of their equivalent to special brew.

Obviously the cosmic connection was there, and as we packed the van… “Avez-vous un tabac?” Don’t make contact Fownes, the world will impolde! 

Our first proper French service station stop. A baguette, two shots of espresso and the most beautiful bathroom you would ever find in a roadside garage. A man sat in the car opposite eyeing us up…dun duun duuuuun! Stupide anglais. He came over, and after a brief chat in our broken French, he asked us if we were a band and did we like hash?…then produced some lovely squidgy and handed it to us, free of charge. A sting? Who knew, but we needed some medicine for the long drive. 

Pedal to the metal with a one way ticket to Toulouse, we blasted down the motorway, running out of Rouen / ruin -based puns a few kilometres from town. They had all been done before. A sad affair. With nothing much to do, we taught Black Luna the classic English game of ‘Eye Spy’…which ended up being the most fun we’d ever had playing it, though it only lasted all of an hour and a half. 

We arrived in Toulouse, when a man on a pushbike practically rode into us as we were stood stretching our legs. He asked for tabac, then  if we wanted to go round the corner to smoke weed / get bummed…we couldn’t really tell. We respectfully declined and unloaded the van as the day’s rain came around for a second go.

Big stage, the first proper PA / Monitor set up and an imbecile for a sound man.

The back stage was lovely and they laid out one of the nicest spreads we’d ever seen through all our years touring in bands, big and small. Tres bon indeed, did I mention you could smoke indoors? I think we could get use to this life.

Black Luna’s sound was terrible, the sound man had a problem with women playing guitar, and the huge room was practically empty, the shape of things to come. In fact, our show was so bad it is not even worth talking about. Bad JuJu. We shouldn’t have made all those ‘Born Toulouse’ jokes…

   

Bunk beds, strange dogs and cold showers. French hospitality is unsurpassed, a breath of fresh air. 

 

Yours faithfully, 

BFL

 

 

 

 

The Mediterranean heat, castles and a maze of a city.

 

 

May 10th 2013

Montpellier, France

 

Dear El Capitan Griff, 

when you arrive at a venue and they demand you have a beer before you load your gear in, you know it’s going to be a good night. Free beer all night and another amazing home cooked meal, obviously with a few sticks of baguette and cheese.

It turned out the promoter had fucked off to a festival, not told the bar owner till a few days before we showed up and not promoted the gig at all. Added to which there was another band playing a few hundred yards down the road. What a good start to a beautiful day in Montpellier. 

All hats off to Chris, the bar owner, for pulling it out of the bag and making it a night to remember. A slightly more empty show than Paris and Rouen, but still a blinder from both bands. We survived another sweaty underground cavern, aside from a broken bloody Lime. Head VS Keyboard – Keyboard wins. All in the name of Rock ‘n’ Roll. 

A lock-in, a few whiskies, and a classic Le mojomatic photoshoot later, we tumbled out into the cool night air, dragging a bunch of suitcases down the cobbled streets and right into the middle of a real French punch up. They were too busy trying to flatten each others noses to care as we walked right through the middle.

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                                                     {Lock-in for le win}

Chris had given us his beautiful flat for the evening and decided to sleep somewhere else, I’m sure eight people in a studio flat was enough to drive anyone away. A late night / early morning wine mission turned out to be fruitful and we whiled the night away. Tucking into a couple of bottles, sniggering at nothing in particular and trying to work out the best way to play three way ‘rock, paper, scissors’, to see who would lose out on a bed. 

It got stupid as we wrestled across the tiny room with bodies sleeping around us, but who cares when you’re wine drunk and in France? Clearly not us as we were told to shut up, which made the childish sniggering even worse.

Chris, the man of the match, turned up at midday and bought us a breakfast of baguettes, croissants and Orange juice with black coffee. you can’t win over a bunch of musicians more than he did that morning. 

We woke up too late for the beach, but we’d get enough sun being stuck in a van in the Mediterranean on the way to Lyon. 

Farewell Montpellier, we loved you the most, we will return! 

Drunkenly yours

BFL

 

Olive trees in service stations, Castles and Tailbacks

 

 

May 11th 2013

Lyon, France

 

Dearest Griff,

 it was sad that this was our last day of tour. As usual, time flies when you are having fun. The sun shone high as we left Montpellier and hit the road for the last time, straight to Lyon. The traffic came out of nowhere like a zombie-infested motorway. We went from 120 kmph to a mere crawl for such a long time it would have made more sense to get out with a hammer and machete and start blindly hacking at anything in our path. The sun beat through the windows and it became tedious quickly. 

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                                                                 {Hot.}

Somehow, before you know it you are almost there. The trick is to not think about it, or just fall asleep. 

Lyon is a beautiful city, and we made an entrance few would forget. The venue is situated up a steep public walk way, with a thin path in the middle for bikes and steps either side, we drove straight up the steps crashed into a parked motorbike and turned every single head sat outside all the bars and cafes…

Bad for Lazarus and Black Luna had arrived, in style. One last underground sweat box before we said goodbye.

The legendary Richard Bellia turned up to photograph us and we were guided into a little alleyway next to the venue. Four shots on a Hasselblad medium format later and he got what he wanted. Time for the show. Richard informed us that the legal limit for the venue was 23, take away 8 in the bands, the soundman and friends, the venue was full…there were about fifty people over all crammed into that basement and once again we were sweating beer and wine from every pore before the third song. The show was so full on Richie Monroe trashed his guitar (a rare sight) and Ross threw his drum kit everywhere, narrowly avoiding chopping off a head or two. 

An encore and chants of “DENTIFRICE!!” Pure fucking chaos of the highest order. What was left at the end was a pile of bodies and instruments, flowery shirts strewn across the stage, and so much hair it was like walking in on a barber fetishist fantasy. Bonne nuit Lyon, tu etais magnifique! 

The gear packed for the last time, and one last lock-in to keep us unhealthily filled with booze and we were on the road to the mountains, dropping Dimi (Black Luna’s drummer) off on the way, a quick goodbye, just before Richie tried to jump out the window and beat the shit out of a guy that was trying to sell us drugs… through a window that didn’t open. 

 

A mountain roller-coaster derby, the night sky as you never see it and legions of cats.

 

Bonne nuit,

BFL

 

 

 

Ping pong championships, grass fights and country jams

 

 

May 12th 2013

St Julien-molin molette, France

 

 

 

Dear Griff,

nothing to report. It has been such a lazy day in the mountains that I can’t think of anything of interest to tell you apart from these bullet points. Ping Pong tournament, Ross won hands down. Big lunch on the patio surrounded by the most amazing view you could imagine. Some horses. A BFL acoustic jam. Lazing around. Sleeping, smoking and drinking coffee whilst staring wistfully into the distance and hoping never to come back to reality, day jobs and most of all England. Who would want to?  

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                                                             {Fatigue}

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                                                  {The wilderness. Bon.}

Day ends. Sleep. Preparation for a quest home. 

An early morning of no breakfast, covered in dog hair, a double decker train and too much stuff. I vow never to travel by train with a bands worth of equipment again. 

We left Fownes and Monroe at Gare du Nord, seeing as they lack the resource to book the correct return train, and placed bets on if they would ever return…the likelihood being roped into some sort of street gang and forced to dance for tobacco…or overtaking us and somehow getting back to Brighton before us.

Smooth sailing all the way into London, then the slow train back to Brighton. To make our life harder we decided to chance it and hop off our scheduled train in rush hour, and jump to a faster train from Victoria. 

Causing a scene and a lot of grief to all boarding the train at Croydon, we fell out the train, and got the next one…supposedly the fast train. It wasn’t. 

Arriving at Brighton to an unearthly rumble, akin to a hoard of advancing vikings psyching out the steadfast Roman legions, Brighton Albion VS Crystal Palace meant that the station was full of hundreds upon hundreds of thuggish morons chanting poetic sentiments, whilst being herded like cattle onto the Falmer train. A delightful rarity, we were greeted to a hero’s welcome by our adoring fans. 

“Play us a song mate!” 

The police had shut almost EVERY street around the station, and having to beg your way through police line after police line, only to get stuck smack bang in the middle of charging police horses in front and stumbling Crystal Palace supporters in the rear is not a good return home. 

Forever fatigué    

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BFL VS TRAVEL – Score lost in translation – End of feed. 

 

 

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Making A Muddle

My Muddle cover

We finally did a thing. A good thing!..we think.

First we made a song. It is called My Muddle. Then we made a video. That is called My Muddle as well. It was hard, but we like it hard. We went for one take in public around Brighton, with a finale of a band of children playing the song (amongst other weirdos along the way). We were idiots for trying, but the Gods of reason, truth and impeccable choreography were smiling down on us, and by gum it worked.

Here’s a glimpse into the (severely controlled and child-friendly) madness :

We released the video as an exclusive on NME.com and within a week it became the second most popular video on the website! (second only to Placebo’s top ten songs…outgunned 10/1. It was a simple numbers game.) So a massive thank-you to everyone who watched it and liked it. You. Are. Safe.

So we had ourselves a little party daan Landan, and it was sold out! You are good people.

So the single and video finally come out Monday the 12th November. Vinyls soon after. Gigs all the time. Come and say hi! We owe you a drink!

Godspeed!
Rich

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Toooooooo wet.

Half of our two-headed-production-superbeast, Pablo Clements has an impossibly cute little girl called Sky. She won’t talk to us because she thinks men with long hair look gross. She says our hair is too wet…apparently she says the same to Nick Cave, so at least we are in good company. Still though…AWWWWWW x

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We like fun

Here’s a sneak peek of two new tunes you haven’t heard before. Cut to a training montage from the last coupla months. We are now ready for the climactic ending. Yeah.

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