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I had spoken to Apple James only once and only briefly. He said 'Come out to the desert, bring some songs.' Well we had some songs, me and Tom, so we took them to the desert, just like he said. We figured we could make them hot or bury them in the dunes trying. The dust is all I remember about that time. The dust and the carrion. We didn't find Apple James. Just footprints and echoes and empty packets of Lucky Strike, crushed by his fists. We came upon the diner just as our water was running out. We'd shot our horses way back. Tom said they slowed us down. He didn't know what we were looking for out there in the sand and neither did I but he said we'd be better off on our feet and I agreed. We heard the sign first, whining as it swung on rusting hinges. Then in the shimmer of the sun’s glare and all that dust we made out the shape of a diner by a road. That sign told us the establishment was run by Louisiana Pete. We didn’t know him but our tired steps quickened anyway. Inside, Agne Motieciute was serving coffee. She wore her pink waitress uniform with disdain and sang some mournful ballad under her breath as she filled our cups. Her voice was the sweet elixir we'd travelled so far to find. We asked her to join our band. We told her we had songs. She muttered something we didn’t catch but knew it sure wasn’t pleasant and moved to another table. Colin Sutton, a drifter, drunk on cheap moonshine and past glories, looked up from his ham and eggs and said with that ashtray voice of his that he was the fastest bass player in anywhere. He flashed a gypsy smile, betraying teeth of gilded steel. We believed him. He wondered if we wouldn't happen to be needing a bass player in this band of ours. Seeing the ivory handled knives clipped to his belt, we guessed we might. 'Well then...' He said. We fell silent. Ben Ziapour, the local sheriff, young and dangerous, entered the diner. Seeing Colin he flicked his holster open in one hot second, ready for trouble. Colin laughed a jackal laugh and told us he couldn't shoot for shit, but Ziapour could handle a guitar. 'I'm the heaviest guitarist between here and anywhere.' The sheriff weighed in, spitting tobacco on the tiled floor. Motieciute cursed him in a language we may never speak but understand through and through. We guessed we'd need a guitarist too and told him so there and then. 'There ain't no band without me'. We turned. Sitting in a booth at the far end was Ben Wilson, a trucker from somewhere with a soul measured in celcius and a past measured in dead bodies. He said he didn't like the look of any of us people but he was sick of burning up the highways in these parts. He wanted to see Europe. Maybe even the world. He told us he would be doing the drumming. He told us he wanted to keep an eye on everyone. Colin laughed his jackal laugh and said: 'Well then...' That's how it happened. No word a lie.

The desert was no place to rehearse. We had to get back to England, to Leeds. They weren’t so sure but we told them that’s how it had to be and one by one they took up their belongings and stepped out into the desert. It wasn't easy, getting back. Colin threatened the border guards who tried to take his knives away. Ziapour had to bust him out of a holding cell and they travelled with the luggage. Wilson took care of the bribes. Agne saw the aeroplane from the terminal, shrieked a banshee wail and vanished. She turned up in Leeds alright. No one knows how. Once there we holed up in a house built on burial grounds and rehearsed. There was bloodshed. Colin used his knives as often as he pleased. Motieciute fought back with ancient incantations and black fire. Wilson just drummed, his eyes never leaving us. Many bass lines, guitar riffs, even violin solos were made and then dismantled, made and dismantled. Finally, a sound began to emerge that scared the blood from our veins and the wind from the trees. Ziapour thought this was just about right. Wilson told us we would be called Black Diamond Bay. He didn't say why. He just wanted to see Europe. Maybe even the world.

Through coercion and on occasion, violence we got our tracks played on Kiss FM, Xfm, BBC6 and BBC Radio Leeds as well as various internet radio stations, including Adam and Joe Coke Music Podcast. The DJs seemed to like the sound. John Kennedy used the word ‘Beautiful’. Colin said he didn't much know what beauty was. No one argued. No one ever did with Colin. We made the cover of Sandman magazine. They said we were as good as any in our field. That involved Massive Attack and Portishead. Metro said we were 'spine-tingling'. Who’s Jack called us 'a modern Classic'. Traffic said we were 'Poised and delicate'. They booked us to play at Kendal Calling. Ziapour wore shoes in the mud for days and days. He’s that kind of man. We played the main stage the following year as well as making our debuts at Soundwave in Croatia, Be2gether in Lithuania and Moorfest in Yorkshire. Music Guru described our performances as a ‘seething, strutting motorik funk charge’. MTV said we were ‘epic’. Motieciute was pleased with that. She didn't show it though.

Then one day in Tokyo, a guy named Bob heard a track of ours at a music industry fair. The track he heard was Philharmonic Bubbles. One of those songs we took into the desert all those days ago. He liked it a lot so he called us up when he got back to England offered us a two album deal with his label, Exceptional Records. Wilson told us we would be signing. He didn’t say why. So we did. One by one. Now, a whole bunch of days later, we’re about to release our debut single, ‘Worship the Sun’ with Spanish death anthem ‘Cold’ as the B Side. After that, who knows? You can bet on one thing though, somewhere out there, Apple James is smiling.

'Atmospheric, epic and yet still delicately intimate' - MTV

'Slick electro' - Mixmag

'8/10' - iDJ Magazine

'Beautiful' - XFM

'A Cracking Band' - Kiss FM

‘Different’ - BBC Radio Leeds

‘A Modern Classic’ - Who's Jack Magazine

‘Astonishing’ - Sandman Magazine

‘Spine tingling’ - Metro

‘Majestic’ - No Title

'A seething, strutting motorik funk charge' - Music Guru

'Poised and delicate' - Traffic Magazine