#29 Fingers Like Fish

It's pretty hard to be legitimate when you've been sold out in childhood. Just ask Fergie; she had to go from being on American TV to joining the the royal family to do whatever it is she does now. The next band that You have Not Heard of tried to mark a similar trajectory but -as ever on this site- it turned out to be a pronounced parabola, as gravity's rainbow took it's toll once more.

We all know Captain Crowsfeet fish fingers: "Get your fishy fishy fingers and stick 'em in your face, don't let the cameras see you, or there'll be a disgrace." And of course we all remember the adverts, where our whiskered Captain would chase a group of children around an island and then reveal his "treasure", which happily turned out to be some fish fingers and not anything else.

Five of the children chased around the island were Cecelia Bloom, Hillary Essex, Sammy Pinkers, Iris Myandowski and Julie Burrows. Most of these young children had not really been asked or allowed to contemplate whether or not they wanted to be thrust into the spotlight. Their parents had always just assumed they wanted to be famous and didn't care how that happened. Whether this is true or not, after a couple of years on The Captain's Ship (and indeed, for Pinkers, on the Captain's Table) the children wanted nothing more than to be done with celebrity and fame.

But how does one redeem oneself? Is there any penance or indulgence possible for you to overcome the tainting process of blanket advertising? Could they waltz past pictures of their own faces in order to gain entrance to the back door of a toilet gig-house? Would they be courted by A&R people wanting to feed off their story into multi-platinum soul-free recordings? Would the Captain make a comeback to show them the rest of his treasure? To answer those questions, yes, yes and no, because he's fictional. But then yes.

Sure, not selling out was very hard. They had people trying to sign them before the gigs even took place, not having heard anything. Of course the back story was very easy to write into a press release and the media kit probably makes itself if left unattended for any length of time. The band had to try so hard not to get signed that they would avoid putting their name on anything, travelling under pseudonyms (would you believe, they used sit-com character names!) and avoiding all hand-based communication with the deaf. Eventually they succumbed to the sweet sweet soothings of indie-nerd label MUGAdeath. The label was known for its open ended contracts and that all of the business operations were conducted under a metal basketball net, which was itself in front of a soccer goal and next to some fixed cricket stumps with no bail. Here the band signed and their music was set to be produced, distributed and, who knows, perhaps even listened to.

The band hit the studio and the studio did not know what hit it. It was the band. 11 breezy, sweet, densely written songs were recorded in a little over 3 days. Someone at the record company suggested calling the genre applecore, but that had apparently already been done. Eventually they decided to call the genre Macawcore, as Essex's vocals matched that of a restless screeching bird. The album lyrics and title "Fortress of Solitude, Fortress of Peenemünd", referred to the band's constant insistence that scientific discoveries had a value on their own, unconnected with the way in which those discoveries are used. Self-elected social commentators have stated that perhaps the band were doing this in order to salvage their acting reputations from the grips of Captain Crowsfeet. Other social commentators have said that's just silly.

By the second album, "HyperHysterical Realism" the band were disintegrating fast. Recording in different rooms, using different demo tapes and recording different songs, the band managed to create an air of cogency through the production of Masso Much, who was lucky enough to hear music very, very well. Few people agreed and it sold fewer units than The Captain's Cod Conkers, a nutty brew of farm-grown fish and horse-chesnuts.

The band are in talks with the Captain for a reunion tour. Their dreams of artistic independence lie in tatters and all parties agree that everyone's careers can only be saved by an unholy reunion. A new generation will now find where he keeps his treasure. We can only hope he hasn't moved it.