Rich Patina emerged full grown from a strange egg case resembling a rather large Hefty lawn bag in Atlanta, GA back in the later days of the 1980's. Hiding his true identity he presented himself as Phreddy Vomit to an unsuspecting public and involved himself in such long forgotten escapades as Bamboo Steamer; Teenzinheat; Bedlam; Run Amuk and Plastic Jesus and the Toots's. On the advice of his detractors not to quit his day job, this strange, mysterious being vanished into thin air only to emerge as a beat poet wandering the wilds of the North Cascades an undisclosed amount of time later.
Sonny Veranda sprang from the mind of Zeus with lightning leaping from his fingertips. When the child picked up a guitar it literaly played itself. Huge anthems, the likes that no one had heard since Jimmy Page or Hendrix, fell effortlessly from his finger tips, and yet he, like Mr. Patina, would remain relatively unknown in a time of mass media and unparalelled marketing.
One warm spring evening, Sonny was putting his guitar through its paces, an eerie orange glow emitting from his amplifier and damsels swooning all about at a street party, when Rich came strolling down the ally to see what sort of God could be laying out such beautifully executed slabs of sonic bliss. After a pint or twenty the two found much common ground and the rest is tucked away neatly in some dusty archive in a cold celler someplace that only the Gods care to take an interest in.
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