Joe Myles

After being found under a wheelie bin by a travelling tinker as a babe, then swapped for half a pack of sovreigns and a milkshake, I was raised by a herd of Moorish goats. Ucharacteristically for such beasts they had a fine record collection of eastern european oompah lompah music, whereas most goats prefer early electro, occasionally venturing into kruatrock. My adoptive caprinaean family raised me well, teaching the virtues of honest instrument driven music, and the importance of eating anything that looked like it might be worth a try. One day however I tired of their repetitive bleating conversation and, after suggesting a family holiday to Haiti, sold them all to Voodoo priest, who ave me a nice shiney Les Paul some Jimmy Page had given him in return for conducting a faustian ceremony. Upon my return to these unfair isles I meandered the land like a spilt jar of brine, occasionally meeting like minded characters with whom I would attempt, to varying degrees of success, to produce musical, or at least noise driven, collaborations of mind. My most recent meanderings have led me to a place they tell me is called Exeter, where I have come to reside with a man who blows a shiny golden horn that he tells me is called a trumpet, beyond this I have little idea....