While the town was sleeping Joseph B. Eden took to wandering the coast under the huge pale moon. A northern English beach rat whose roots would reach out to all things dank and subvert. Attracted to the glare of the unknown, he replants himself deep down south. Far from the post industrial wastelands, where he hears dreams are realised and streets are clad with gold. With no map home he finds himself lost in the city of Bristol on the muddy banks of the Avon, making a pittance peddling his crude poetry at local vaudeville shows for like minded misanthropes and undesirables. They must come together as one force, unfurling from the undergrowths, face the sun, revel in the ugly and abrasive and stand to be counted. The air grows thick and madness settles in his bones, his higher purpose becoming more apparent moon to moon. Each evening more fevered than the last. He cannot complete his manifesto alone, a bird wheels above, cries and shits and epiphany on his shoulder from its mighty cloaca. Meanwhile south of the river, four familiars are talking obnoxiously over blown out speakers long into the small hours. Wookash, Otis, Hawk and Elo are pummelling their next vision into shape: can a rock and roll band rely solely on fuzzy riffs, driving bass lines, infectious vocals and rattling beats without the tired handle of post-punk tedium? There’s a tapping at the window... The Birdman has come.