| "Earth? EARTH?! You come and sit down at my table, and you want to know about earth?!" Tatterdash Pratt, an historian of several worlds, takes a medium swig of his pint and looks at you through 3-D spectacles. "Yes, I know about earth, silly planet actually, the only thing they ever did of any merit was this ale!" He holds his glass up to the light for emphasis, a yellow reflection slowly rolls across his face. "Oh yes, I do have one interesting story, about a group of musicians who call themselves Shadwell's Jacket. They were a most interesting lot, and they will move mountains with their music...eventually. Let us look back to their humble beginnings, back to a place called Oshawa. In a country called Canada, on a planet called Earth. |
The year is 1991 A.D., a young lad named Michael Bryant is frustrated with his position in life. Rather than try to make better for himself, Mr. Bryant decides to tell the whole world that they suck as much as him. A lofty goal, Mike concludes that the only things he can do, even marginally, are read books and write music, and as they say: 'you can't read someone how you feel, so you must do the opposite of reading.' So he begins writing songs, and shortly thereafter releases an audio tape entitled: Shadwell's Jacket, all by himself, and no one noticed. So he wrote more songs, and a year later released a slightly better tape, in a larger quantity entitled, wittily: Paisleymecium. This one was noticed by some, I remember a demon I was living with at the time purchased one. I listened to it, it wasn't my cup of tea...I hate tea.
One of the things you must do to be heard on Earth is perform, and Mike couldn't do it alone, well, not without extensive surgery and the technology on Earth wasn't up to snuff (I never understood that phrase). Mike enlists the help of a well-groomed guitarist by the name of Todd Howe, who at the time shared Mike's dream; and Rob Therrien, a drummer.
Things were slowly coming together, but something was missing. That something was called 'bass' not to be confused with a fish of the same spelling. Mike had a friend called Mike, and realized that many bands contained people with the same name, so he asked Mike to play 'bass'. There was a catch, he couldn't play 'bass'. But 'bass' is like Othello, a minute to learn, a lifetime to master, so thus began the first incarnation of Shadwell's Jacket. 
After a time of performing (or 'gigging' as the letter-G loving Earthling musicians call it), Rob the drummer decided to depart, and was promptly replaced by a machine, which does a much better job but isn't very witty, at least not in 1993. Drummers would often rush the stage after a Shadwell's Jacket 'gig' and enthusiastically inform Mr. Bryant that they didn't want to play in his band. That is, until a fellow of intermittent fanaticism named Jason Cheseborough offered to replace their machine. The machine was very upset about this, but no one noticed at the time. Then in 1994, disaster struck. Mike Bryant became convinced that he was the 'Celtic God of Music' and Todd Howe became convinced that he had become the 'Finnish God of Music'. Mike Dines thought that he had been fishing all this time and left for cottage country as soon as he found out how relaxing and peaceful fishing really was. (Something to do with the 'bass' thing). Jason was left out in the cold, bandless, and decided to get some more tattoos. 
Success, like teeth, is often spat out upon the gravel when fate deals you a cruel blow. And while that has little to do with he reason that, in fall 1995, Michael Bryant is once again bandless. (It is a good analogy, and I had to put it somewhere in this story, and here was as good a place as any.) Mike recorded and released a tape entitled 'Knurd' which was less an exploration of musical boundaries than it was a final cry for help. Things were looking pretty bleak as winter has blown every last leaf from the tree of hope. All, that is, except three... Local legends in Oshawa speak of two men. One played bass so fast it was rumored that no bass string could tame him, and strings would come from miles around for a chance to bring the young speedster to his knees.
The other was a lone minstrel who performed in a mask, because he was so handsome that if any female saw his face, they would die of ecstasy. Legends are very rarely true, and the truth was not as strange as fiction. The first man could indeed play very, very fast, and the second was handsome in a rugged, park rangery sort of way, and did wear a mask. But they were mortal human beings with no supernatural powers, and they went by the names of Scott Fitches and Rob Emoff (a.k.a. Shyface) respectively. After much searching, stalking and begging, Mr. Bryant did manage to convince them to join, on one condition each. Mr. Fitches demanding Mike tune his guitar to B as this would 'slow him down enough to make me look faster than lightning' and Mr. Emoff requested that he 'didn't have to wear that infernal demon mask, I just can't live the legend anymore'. 
