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Skitanja is...

STEVE POTATOES - guitars, keyboards, major morgan, programming, samples, various percussion, bells and gbloinks

with the immeasurable help of...

D.I. SIGNS - drum kit, keyboards, cornet trumpet, piano, yellow hooter and opera

THE POWDERED COW - keyboards, trumpet, percussion and shaky lettuce

BEN BLACKSWAN - occasional trombone and vocals

DUNCAN FANNYKETTLE - occasional keyboards, banjo, butt flute and vocals

For bookings and enquiries please email - skitanja@hotmail.co.uk

HAROLD FALTERMEYER, PHIL COLLINS, A-HA and R. STEVIE MOORE

"Sounding not unlike a 10 disc cd changer with ADD, loaded with jazz, gabba, skronk and opera, turned up loud and pushed down the stairs. Get with the NEW THING!" - RECKNO

"Martin Roberts, in a white mask and what looks like a sawn-off stovepipe hat, joins Steve Potatoes on stage; Skitanja, recently knocked down to a solo project, are back to full strength, even if Roberts doesn’t drum, as D.I. Signs did. Any organic elements in their rhythm have thankfully been expunged, all beats now taken by computer, amped up to gabba-strength and power; as they burst into what I think is ’77 and Mama Kiki’, Steve’s guitar playing – like Dick Dale on horse-strength steroids – is even more single-mindedly aggressive, spastic and maddened than ever, at times looking as if he might tear the thing apart – grating strings near the bridge, putting on the tremolo until it looks the strings might fall off, only changing chords when absolutely necessary. There are less left-turns and sudden razor-edit tempo shifts than before, and I think it works in their favour: their sound is more focused, deadly, visceral, less trying to impress with daftness. Martin’s trademark deadpan absurdity – asking the audience to make animal noises with not merely a poker face, but a poker voice – makes sure proceedings don’t go down the route of total confrontation, and his staccato trumpet blasts, usually tuneless, add a bit more random fun to the mix. So, we’re treated to all that, plus frightening synth blurts, sampled farm noises, razor-sharp guitar shards, and the sight of hipsters, attempting to consume their over-expensive meals, turning round and looking, wondering WHAT THE FUCK THIS RACKET IS. It’s the reason (one of many) this town is still (just about) worth living in, the reason I’m still here, heading towards the end of the year. Fucking chumps." - DAN BARROW