When we met, we made a bet, we made a deal. It was like shakin’ hands at the hospital. Two hostile cowboys gambling in white paper dresses, trading pistols for cigarettes, coming to terms with the great fortune of anxiety. Hot as hell you know, never satisfied, never careful. Just thought, first thing’s first, “take the brakes out of the car.” Now lets play music.

No rules, just nothing medium. Everyone’s got that place in their brain that can’t be even-tempered. That sick inch. Or the mile. Revolutionary artists live there, drive it like the hunted, drive it for the crash. Beauty reversed, the head: a cursed rebel shack, once entertained, never escapable. Grace that land and grace vanishes. You’re left with the real thing, the incurable thing! An’ that thing makes a noise.

All else? What! What else is there? When words like dangerous, different, radical or even eventful, are so shamelessly pinned on every undeserving bag of shit and sugar. People these days are living too long. A million shrines of poor design. Ointments and care, Jesus, full colour, channel 1-7 million, preserved in a Zoo. Oh how can one say “No” without ever-present burdening regret?

Just like this.

Hotel and I had been sending tapes and ideas back and forth between London and the US for 6 months but I got sick, we couldn’t stand it at that speed. So naturally we figured, one of us is going to have to move. It took me about an hour and 45 minutes to get to the airport, 15 to check my bags, 10 for coffee, cigarette… an’ we got rolling.

There was an obsessive desire between us to turn the tables and completely instate a whole new thing. We wanted a new underground. Yeah, we want it. You know, pick and eat and run like the devil. That’s the idea. Let’s do everything we want, fuck the consequences.

Music all the time and documenting everything, film, video, ink, audio, in massive detail, history from birth. Making ourselves the art we’re starving to see… you know, no patience. Our own lawless leftfield Bonnie & Clyde.

We’ve both done music since we were young, but there’s something irresistible about screwing off and starting from scratch, shoving an x thru your old things. Kiss the new, the naive. Secrecy. Light as feather, brave as a tiger, that sort of thing. There’s a feeling of indestructibility whirling in the air now, getting caught in our hair and teeth and we never sleep anymore. +We got a bird in our hand.