recent music

Till Then Amigo

So, we’ve released a couple of EPs online (Jean Claude Naïve and EP2). Those of you who’ve listened have strolled hand in hand with us on a first (and indeed second) date, you’ve given us a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. Maybe you’ve even had a fumble and touched our naughty bits. And maybe, just maybe, you’re a tad moist over the thought of what’s coming next.

Well, good news. It’s sexy time. Our next date is going to be a dirty, hot and sweaty weekend away. The British latex industry is literally quivering in anticipation. Things are never going to be the same again.

But, enough of the foreplay. What we’re here to tell you is that we’re very close to completing our debut album – and in all honesty, it’s going to pork you silly!

Till Then Amigo (for that’s what it will be called) is going to be between 12 and 14 songs long and packed to the rafters with our own unique brand of gritty-brain-slapping-post-punk-slacker-gonzo-folk-rock. The tunes are all recorded and semi-mixed (in all honesty, tunes-wise, we’re not a million miles away from a second album – we ferkin loves it) – all we’ve got to do is tweak, twiddle and master the thing.

So keeps your ears peeled. There’s a brand new Manchester band in town – and we don’t want to be The Smiths/Oasis/The Fall/The Stone Roses/Doves. Music you can smell and taste. Get scratching, sniffing and licking….

Gateway Not Found (Lyrics)

Set me on fire, I’m on my way to Bordeax,
I’m saying, “O-oh, O-oh, O-oh, I’m made of polyester”,
I stress for hours just because I’m alive,
My French is shit, I’m singing, “Ce’st bon Jean-Claude Van-Damme le merde”.

There are no junkies in Uzbekistan,
My gland is not aroused by photo’s of sailors,
Put down your onion sandals,
I handle death threats like they’re titties on a Tuesday,
I bruise like peaches but you will never ever see me
Reaching for a bacon licker!

Holistic Peter,
Aggressive Sebastian,
Talking like the last bastions
Of a nuclear future vision.
Crafty spoonfuls of a creme brulee,
It’s not a Tuesday, it’s a Saturday,
Fuck off Dad I’m going to Bob Hattersley’s,
Coz he’s got a Ninetendo Wii.

What’s that you’re saying?
You smell of translation frenzies,
This isn’t class based, it’s not an anti-euro message,
It’s just a rural riot,
If I had piloted a plane in 9/11
I would of tolf the muslims heaven
Was filled with fat virgin lesbians,

Holistic Peter,
Aggressive Sebastian,
Talking like the last bastions
Of a nuclear future vision.
Crafty spoonfuls of a creme brulee,
It’s not a Tuesday, it’s a Saturday,
Fuck off Dad I’m going to Bob Hattersley’s,
Coz he’s got a Ninetendo Wii.

Put out my fire I’m heading back to Soho,
I’m crying, “Oh no, oh no, oh no, I look like Simon Weston”,
I rest on laurels like they’re benches in a park,
I spark the dark but it never ever turns into an early sunshine.

There are no junkies in Uzbekistan,
My gland is not aroused by photo’s of sailors,
Put down your onion sandals,
I handle death threats like they’re titties on a Tuesday,
I bruise like peaches but you will never ever see me
Reaching for a bacon licker!