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When 'Cornwall's Best Drummer', Jason Brown, turned the ripe old age of 19, he uncovered a universal truth. A dusty book he found in the attic contained the secret of his bloodline. He was the Legendary, Immortal Drummer of Yore, as written in the Old Testament, and he would need to amalgamate his forces to create a band of such passion and ferocity that the entire Cornish Area would weep with dumfounded joy. With sticks in hand and a glint in his eye, his journey began.

It was beginning to look like an impossibility. Nine dead bassists spread out before him, the Legendary Drummer of Yore sighed forlornly on his drumstool. Just as he was about to chip off, the saloon doors swung open and the silhouette of Martyn Whitford blocked out the midday sun. Stepping over the nine smoking husks of his fallen comrades, the Man's Man carried a Bass made of Pure Platinum which he had alledgedly extracted by hand from the Earth's Core. He proceeded to lock into a groove so intense it has never, ever stopped to this day. Jason Brown allowed himself a wry smile.

Years passed. Frontmen came and frontmen left in tears. There was no-one who could fully communicate the complex and sexually-charged ideas that were being produced without turning into a gibbering wreck. All looked lost, until The Man's Man, in his best shirt, stumbled across an article in the Daily Star. Apparently, so the article burbled, there had been a report from Darkest Wales that a Unicorn had been raped by a Gorilla. The resulting offspring had been born Adult with a mental age of six, but with a voice so exquisite that honey turned to gold. The aberration's name was Bryn Powell.

A look was exchanged.

The band was formed.