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Picture the scene: it's the mid 90s, curtains were cool and emo fringes were only to be found on narcoleptic maths teachers. I had already ditched both piano and saxophone lessons because I wanted to be in Nirvana, or pre-shite Manics. Just before my Standard Grades and much to my mother's displeasure (rebel, rebel, your face is a mess), I bought a hugely shite bass guitar and an equally shite amp, and started playing loud angry pop music with Neal and Rob.

Now, at the risk of sounding like an OAP, things were different then. It wasn't cool to be in a band at our school. In fact, I think that there was only one other band going. So, after getting turfed out of our music department by one Tony Bottone (now Eddie Thompson's bodyguard or something), we decamped to Rob's house to record on a ghetto blaster and infuriate his neighbours.

Somehow, the racket we made ended up becoming our first band, Nikita. We recorded a few songs at Dundee's now defunct Riverside Recordings, and had a couple of releases. One was on the "We Started With Over 100 Members" compilation cd, and the other was on the rather horrifyingly titled "Hi-Fi Songs For Lo-Fi Hearts" compilation on Paperheart Records.

Unfortunately, our youthful zeal and obsession with being less together live than At The Drive-In on Jools Holland meant that we tended to get very drunk, fall-out and generally self-combust at gigs. I do remember a couple that went well though, and the recordings were good. Cult status baby.

So, we hit the late 90s and I moved through to Edinburgh to go to university. Nikita eventually petered out despite our best attempts to stop it, and so I started playing with another group of reprobates who were to become Deadenstereo.

Initially, we followed the same "drunken horror" approach to gigs, but we eventually got our shit together and recorded some really good music. We played all over Scotland, got in the Daily Record and lots of people said nice things about us. Four drummers later, we eventually wound down when Chris moved to Spain with his wife. To be honest, we'd probably run out of steam by then anyway. Nevertheless, it was my first band that actually did anything, and I still love those recordings. I sometimes even play the songs solo. In fact, there's oodles of that shit on Youtube. Back. Of. The. Net.

So, we rumble on to the early noughties (shite terminology). My long standing obsession with Weezer and good pop music came into play, and I began playing surf music with a new group of ne'er-do-wells who eventually became To The Rescue. Ours was a somewhat fractious existence, but we recorded lots of home demos and we even made it into the studio to record some really rather pleasing pop songs. Unfortunately, it wasn't to last and, in 2007, I left to join Baillie & The Fault.

Mine was to be a relatively short stint (I was in the band for about a year), but we played lots of lovely festivals, opened for Idlewild on three dates of their Greatest Hits tour (including the mighty Barrowlands) and generally met some charming people. While a cloud hangs over the end of it all, it was one Hell of a learning experience, and I'm now old enough to be philosophical about that sort of stuff. Hat-trick.

So, fast forward to today. As the Fault scenario played out, I was busy recording loads of demos at home, and I played them to my man Gary (he is That*Flying Machine, and I have whacked a bass for him on many occasions) who assured me they weren't mince. Then I got an email from The Mighty Griffindor asking if there was going to be a band and, if so, offering his services on bass. That was enough to prompt a rehearsal, and we roped Mert of Verlan fame in on drums for our first Bambi steps back into the world of earbleeding rehearsal fun.

Things went well, but sadly Mert couldn't do it full time (he's got enough on his plate being a full-time sexy rock star), so the hunt was on for a drummer. Step forward Rich, the stick-twirling dervish of rhythm - band sorted. Champions League.

Naturally, the course of true love never runs smoothly and so John's job sent him to Egypt. This was something of a spanner in the works, but happily the enigmatic Peter Harold Hopes Esquire accosted Gary and Jon at a party, and so Bass: The Next Generation was born. The footballing analogy probably has to stretch to Le Coupe de Monde now, the Jules Rimet in the crown.

Music's a funny old thing. Despite being the cruellest of all mistresses, you just can't shake it. I think I need to win the lottery...