#12 Bunny F and the Tarnished Scone

For over twenty years Bunny F and the Tarnished Scone were the bastions of all that was good about the British regional prog scene. After all it was they who, against all odds and record company cheque books, brought stadium rock and all the pomp and excess that comes with it to the venue at the end of your road. By all accounts they were like the younger, poorer leper brother of 1970s prog rock bands such as The Colossians and The Purple Dishwasher Monkey. However, their music was immensely textural evoking vast soundscapes of light and shade (Bunny F liked to work both with and without the light on) whilst their album artwork screamed 'Magic Eye' years before we knew our peepers were capable of such conjurery.

Bunny F (b. Gregory F Bunnikins), was an eccentric loner millionaire with more money than Scrooge McDuck. (He probably even have enough money to recreate the now infamous swimming through money scene). Not to be outdone by the fictional anthropomorphic Glaswegian duck Bunny F felt both his future and fortune lie in music. In pursuit of his dream he put together a band the like of which has never been seen before, or since. Bunny was joined by Davy Davy (later of the Croquettes), Sid McParadis, Mitch Michaelson and Philip Frincton. Davy Davy provided the backing vocals and bass, Sid was on guitar, Mitch on keyboards and Philip the drums. Having said that all five were multi-instrumentalists who could play everything from the Altotron to the Zither-ree-doo.

Interestingly, the group's moniker was lifted from the pages of an obscure novel by 1960s beat novelist Allen Ginster (later of the processed meat-based pastry products of the same name). 'The Tarnished Scone' was a 300 page masterwork in which the scone itself was a metaphor for the American Dream. Yes, it's well-baked cheesy form looks enticing but is it good for you, and does it really taste that good? The answer is of course yes, yes it does.

BFATTS quickly became famed in the Telford locale for their outlandish stage sets. Indeed, 1972's 'The Rainbow Machine Pats o' Gold Tour' was accompanied by a set that cost over £2,000, which as we all know was 'actually quite alot of money in those days'.

Picture the scene. Chichester Community Music Hall, 15 June 1972. Whilst McParadis holds all the C# notes he can on his six keyboards and Davy Davy hums allegorical haikus about the price of the national shopping basket, a single spotlight appears, tracking an ominous dark shape suspended from the ceiling. The object is a giant piñata shaped like a unicorn, gliding effortlessly over the unsuspecting heads of the audience. The piñata is lowered above the stage, whereupon one hundred and one small children appear dressed as the characters from hit tv show 'Cheers'. Eerily, this in itself was way ahead of its time, as Cheers would not be aired in Britain for another ten years. The miniature Frasier Cranes and Sam Malones, using only their fists (and the more enthusiastic little tots, their heads) begin to beat the mythical horned-pony piñata. In a wonder of 1970s pyrotechnics the unicorn bursts apart, showering the audience with its wondrous contents. The contents of course, that's right, Bunny F, dressed appropriately enough as over-sized confectionery man Bertie Bassett.

Whilst Rick Wakeman was turning in his grave the rest of us basked, revelled and down right wallowed in the keyboard solos so long that there was an interval during each one and the at times cacophonic sounds created by the six flute troupes and chimp string quartet.

1975's album 'Tambourine Submarine' was the very long awaited follow up to the tour. The hook was epic rock symphonies, the premise was a musical underwater odyssey and the execution was lousy. The first single released was 'Quest for the Morose Tapir' on which the group employed some radical methods to get just the sound they wanted. The most elaborate of these were a bespoke triangle the size of two double deckers and a xylophone so big you had to play it with two tree trunks suspended from cranes. Apparently, passing tiny microphones through the bowels of small rodents also proved musically fruitful. The single sold thirty-six copies.

It was at this point that the inevitable cracks began to appear, as they always seem to this far down the page of a band biog. The rest of the group became weary of Bunny's attempts to shock audiences at every turn. The final straw came during the recording of 'Tambourine Submarine', when at Bunny's insistence the band found themselves recreating the underwater scenes of 'Bedknobs and Broomsticks'. Frincton took particular exception to having to don the original outfit as worn by Angela Lansbury which was of course to small for the 5'7 Frincton (It is a little known fact that Lansbury is a colossal 6'3).

Frincton instigated the split to form 'Scone', in an attempt to bring mediocre, prog inspired soft rock to the masses. He released the debut 'You Won't Know What You've Got Until It's Scone' a cheeky, patent swipe at his former band mate. In many ways Scone were everything that Bunny F both despised and desired in equal measure. They went onto countywide critical acclaim. Indeed, when if band's success is measured by whether they had a tribute band it's worth noting that Scone had two - 'Scone Away' and 'Scone But Not Forgotten'.

Having become the pariah of British prog Bunny went into hiding. He would emerge in 1982, proclaiming himself to be 'Prog's Son on Earth' - the resurrection of Peter Gabriel. Gabriel was thought to be less than pleased and went on to write 'Sledgehammer', a little-known and thinly veiled veritable assault on Bunny. Conversely, Scone remained a critical and commercial success releasing 12 albums in 1980 alone. Their latest venture is an ambitious tender for the comeback theme tune for hit eighties tv show 'Challenge Anneka'.

#11- Harbingers of Zoom

Poor bands buy bad pedals, make them sound good, get lots of money and then buy good pedals. But what if your whole ethos is about bad pedals? Where are you left to go? What do you spend the money on? Harbingers of Zoom found that conflicts of interests can pull you and your friends apart at the seams and leave nothing but slivers of tacking thread on the floor.

Young Michaela Chickenfeed (b.1979, Marton Cum Grafton) worked through the Summer holidays at Goosey's Greengrocers to buy parts for burgeoning interest in the electrified guitar. She had to endure the "Come have a goosey at Goosey's" jingle every 15 minutes for 198 hours but she eventually had enough money to buy a cheap guitar and amp. Enjoying the sounds she could create (including Am and Em7add11) she wondered if there was anything more she can do to the sounds after she made them but before they came out of the amp. She turned the sound up and down using the controls. Trying to play the guitar loud with the amp turned down was fun, as was finger-tapping. But there must be more, she thought.

Back in Goosey's for the Christmas holiday, Michaela had made a decision to purchase the cheapest multi-effect she could find. Her thoughts and dreams turned the to bizarre words she could find on the box: compression, distortion, phaser, volume, autowah. Her grandma gave her an extra £20 for Christmas and by the 27th of December she had a Zoom 505 in her hands. The next week she bought a second line to line cable. The week after that she purchased a 9v battery and/or a DC power adapter. Plugging in her guitar, she instinctively tuned it to C4- Choir Wave. The lapping chorus and flange sent her to a place Billy never could. Two weeks later, Billy had been replaced by Bobby and Bobby could play the bass. Bobby's friend Noddy could play the drums. Noddy's friend Roddy had access to a practise space and his mum didn't ask what that smell was. In a matter of weeks, Michaela had gone from a Goosey's pear-stacker to the figurehead of a striding new force for musical liberation in the greater York area.

Utilising all the creating talent in a 4 mile radius, the band baptised themselves Harbingers of Zoom in a manner not even Jesus Christ thought proper. The regular gig would revolve around the rhythm section knocking out some phat chops whilst Michaela used her inbuilt tuner to check her strings, pressed both pedals to stop the mute and played some open chords whilst switching between b4- Steel China and E2- JAZZY. By their eighth gig they had sculpted the bedrock of their first album, lovingly titled "Zoom Music Girl."

The following biding war was not quite a frenzy; although there was at least 2 contracts on the table at any one time, the A&R people found that they worked for the same company and the one offering the higher amount was suddenly recalled to London and never seen again. Michaela, flush with success celebrated by turning her amp to full and using patch E3- Octave Fuzz until she burst into a little jig.

Looking towards the second album, the band seriously considered buying a 505ii but decided that this would mess with their sound too much. plus there wasn't much difference and they would still have the same number of sounds. Michaela, becoming increasingly erratic would not let anyone else touch her pedal. Convinced that they were going to take it away form her in the night and play with the electronics inside, she would cradle it in bed and not let anyone else spend the night.

The second album, "Christmas at the Zoom" was a holiday-themed spectacle utilising -amongst other patches- C2- Bright Chorus and A2- Clean Delay. Their fans bought the album and put it away until Christmas. Four people resigned from the record company after they released the album in July.

By this time the 707 had been released. Bands up and down the Vale of York were popping into Woolworths and making themselves sound almost as good as the Harbingers. Their success was running away with itself and Michaela -both at the centre of the storm and unaware of what was going on around her- neither knew nor cared that new, fresh bands were using the latest technological accomplishments (including ring modulator-type sounds and a greater number of distortion patches) and making superior music.

Beginning to fall apart, the band booked studio time in order to work on new material. The accounts of these sessions are varied and suffer from what the French somewhat racistly call Le téléphone arabe. Some stories centre on Michaela and Noddy's failing relationship, some on the inability of the rhythm section to tune according to the increasingly computer-senile diktats of Michaela's pedal. Almost all accounts include one incident that included a dog, Roddy's mother and the police being called and then sent away. The resulting "Zoom oh very Zoom, we are going to see the king" although an undisputed classic of the genre, could not save the group. They broke up 3 weeks before the Queen invited them to play at the Royal Variety Performance.

The rest of the band started careers unconnected with junior-electronics but quickly found themselves asked to perform tongue-in-cheeck versions of the Hey Hey It's Saturday theme for weddings, school discos and bar mitzvahs. Over time, people even forgot exactly why these guys did the cover version and were just known as the "Hey, Hey, guys."

Michaela took to buying large quantities of 505s and connecting them in ever-more intricate ways. Although she never planned to release this music she was convinced to do so by Billy, whom she decided to rekindle and kindle she did. The early experimentation she completed led to pitch bending and circuit breaking now being seen as slightly odd ways for a youngster to spend their Saturday afternoons.

#10 Saint Van Saint

French electro-disciple duo Saint Van Saint, better known for their 1998 dabble into the annals of Eurovision history, are actually one of the Massif Central's greatest exports.

They burst onto the electro-pop scene in 1995 with all the colour, light and energy of a 300 candlepower torch, like a French God-fearing Kraftwerk. Thaddeus James and Bartholomew John were soon entertaining the population of the greater Haute-Loire region with their keytars, minimoogs and "beats so meaty you'll partake in graffiti". The actual translation isn't great but the sentiment is there.

Refusing to conform to all expected stereotypes, the two shunned a quiet childhood growing up in their respective parents vineyards, crushing grapes with their bare feet and making cheese on the side. They just needed the hand of fate to visit them in the way only hands of fate can. It came knocking. In the summer of 1982 James suffered an horrific accident, and it was this which would ultimately lead to the veritable paradigm shift in the course of French music history. In what seemed like a harmless jape Batholomew challenged Thaddeus to inhale thirty-one helium balloons in five minutes. Only seven balloons in and James' voice was altered permanently. When his voice finally broke at the age of twenty it took on the now infamous robotic timbre. It was with this haunting man-machine tonebox that some of the greatest French electro-house would be sung.

Saint Van Saint donned instruments and became an overnight success, appearing on such national TV favourites as 'Vendredi Soir avec Gérard Depardieu' and 'Le Top, Le Pops'. No more would the French peoples have to endure the ridicule of a below par music scene. Sure, we had heard of 'Michel Michel et les Chanteurs Rouges de Poissons' but Celine Dion is actually Canadian and who was this Debussy lad they kept banging on about and putting on our mix tapes when we weren't looking? (as if we wouldn't notice).

The two had been brought up within creationist families who took particular offence to geologists, vulcanologists and the like. So it is no surprise that their strict creationist doctrine made for some interesting musical themes. 'Sur le Lapin' is a tasty anti-evolutionary rant verging on a musical take on Kipling's Just So Stories. The metallic vocals ring out over a synth/bass fusion so meat-based that, as promised, it would indeed make even the strongest willed at least scrawl something on a wall with a bic, and the meekest immediately purchase spray paint by the crate. The lyrics leave you equally without doubt where the heart of Saint Van Saint lies. Sur le Lapin itself is a great example - '...les oreilles du lapin sont un signe de puissance divine de dieux' or 'the ears of the rabbit are a sign of a divine god'.

1994 saw the release of their long-awaited first album 'Évoluez ce M. Darwin' or 'Evolve this Mr Darwin'. The first single released was the catchy 'Les Fossiles Ils Disent Le Non!' or 'The Fossils Say No!'. With reckless abandon and an innocence the like of which had never before been seen Thaddeus' spoken word epic exclaims '...like the rocks of the earth your face is unscathed and youthful'. Romantic, if nonsensical.

Performed live each song tended to descend into utter synth chaos and improvised rants. The favourite was 'Le Septième Jour il a Fait Votre Maman' or 'On the Seventh Day He Made Yo' Mama' in which Bartholomew would turn his Yamaha PSR 1110 on to 'demo' and improvise over the top using 'Orchestral Hit' (that one that sounds like a dog barking) for the melody. Not since Yes' 'Owner of a Lonely Heart' has that technique been used with such aplomb.

Despite the huge public following Saint Van Saint were not comfortable in the spotlight and quickly realised they would have to leave France to re-discover what it was that got them playing music in the first place. SVS chose to tour the lands that time forgot, Liechtenstein, Andora and Wales, before finally choosing to settle in Luxembourg. It was here in the unlikeliest of places and under the tutelage of Lux superstar Louis le Pasteur that they found music again. This time the music was breezy electro-pop, the politics were left to the infirm and the dress code was strictly smart casual.

Saint Van Saint had come of age.

In 1998 in what would have been an almost unthinkable move less than two years previously, the group entered the Eurovision Song Contest on behalf of Luxembourg. With their new sound firmly honed their choice of song was highly indicative of the massive strides they had made in such a short time. 'Na na na. Pop Pourquoi?' may seem on the face of it yet another ephemeral pop sing-along. For those who read deeper it was in fact a subtle dissection of the role of music in popular culture. Just listen to the lyrics - 'Pop pourquoi? Parce que, parce que'. It seemed that on the most unlikely of stages the duo had mellowed, found their niche and were finally at peace with themselves. The fact that Saint Van Saint went to score a final total of 'douze points', all awarded by the people of France, tells its own story.

In a triumphant return to French soil the pair were welcomed off the plane by then premier Jacques Chirac, who asked them to play a set at the home of Electro-House - Disneyland Paris. Following said gig the duo were immortalised forever by being conducted into the UNICEF sponsored 'It's a Small World' hall of fame. The pair's miniature doubles are to this day situated next to the clog stomping Dutch, just before the waffle munching miniature Belgians, and do their bit for world peace by singing out the shrill message for the children of the world.

They still perform to this day. You can catch them performing during the winter season in the 'Main Street' parade, daily on the half hour between 8:30 and 10pm.

#9- Minibarb

The things that have happened in hotel rooms are too numerous and sickening to tell. The music fraternity should just accept that caravanning is the only way to stay away from home and should then just be left to clean up their own mess. At only one moment in the whole of human history would there be anything beneficial to come out of a hotel room and that was the humbling, lonesome genius of Minibarb. Born Charlston Hippomouth in 1971, as Minibarb he would take over a small corner of the music scene and have a small and comforting set of walls built around him.

The early nineties are not a time associated with acoustic-noise bands, but Minibarb took no notice of the things going on around him. This is not hyperbole: Minibarb did not listen to any records, did not like being out of the house and only listened to the nascent talk radio stations on the wireless. As an agoraphobic alcoholic, Charlston took the guitar he had inherited upon his Aunty's death and crafted soundscapes that even the vaunted Silicon Graphics Computers could not reproduce at the time.

Fisher Price tape recorder on his knee, Hippomouth recorded a demo tape using his bath, airing cupboard and wherever else he found himself to create a close, echo-imbued sound. His increasingly complicated pre-microphone arrangements meant that any movement from his guitar sounded like a 1024 colour vista etched in feedback. His DTs provided more than enough background material even before he started plucking and the demo tape was quickly snapped up by Spinstaar Records. Released without an artist's name, the album, called Minibarb Blues shot to number 998.3 of the new world order, acoustic-noise and Jazz chart.

Many confused buyers -and the Our Price store in Ryde, IOW- thought that the album was called Blues by the artist Minibarb. Reluctant to upset absolutely anyone, Charlton took on the name. His next challenge was to play infront of live audiences. His first tour was set to take places in either very small pubs or pubs with tiny-enough booths. Successful gigs at the Blue Bell in York and in the central booth at The Princess Louise in Holborn could not stop the panic attacks that accompanied every attempt to get him out of the venue and away from the bar. Eventually Minibarb would refuse to leave his hotel room.

Faced with an artist called Minibarb who will not come out of Room 217, Spinstaar came up with a novel solution. The fans would come to him, would partake of the Minibar drinks (at a cost the hotel loved to charge them) and would get the gig for free. Touts unofficially connected to the record company would sell branded merchandise as the imbibed guests were leaving.

This business model suited everyone. The hotel had people actually use the minibar, (even to buy peanuts), the record company made money from the touts and the other guests at the hotel had already paid for their rooms. So they couldn't complain. Fantastic!

As it turned out, the en-suite toilet of a chain hotel was the perfect place for Minibarb to ply his pedal-heavy acoustic nonsense. The toilet room acted as a hall reverb pitched to one side of the venue and the bed was conveniently close by. Minibarb was in a form of heaven that only severe amounts of therapy could beat. But when he started attending said therapy, Spinstaar started to worry that they were going to lose their only profitable signing. (For the record, Justin Jus and the Saucier Sisters had a novelty hit with "Been Mashing Mash Potato Au Gratin Au Naturalle Pour Homme Pour Femme De Vin De Pain" in 1984, but due to reckless spending on other haute cusine-related singles Spinstaar was as good as broke when then received the demo from the artist who would come to be known as Minibarb.) Spinstaar, unwilling to free their man from his daemons, fed Minibarb a spiked drink and moved the lifeless body into a new hotel room with walls that did actually move in closer every day.

Minibarb, shocked at first by the dimensions of the wall actually changing went on record two more albums, "The Walls are Alive" and "If These Walls Could Talk (they'd say "We're Alive!")". Through his success and his ability to rationalise his thoughts into experience, as shown by his walls, Minibarb grew in confidence and understanding. His fragile mental state actually boosted by the record company's Machiavellian undertaking, Minibarb was able to go outside in 1994. He walked to Woolworth's and bought a dark chocolate Bounty.

Now that the smoking ban is in place, Minibarb goes out whenever he wants a tab.

#8 Baking Soda Pops

No one knows quite why the weasel went 'Pop!'. What we do know is that when early-nineties indie twee-sters Baking Soda Pops came onto the scene they did so with the combustible volatility of at least three of said long-tailed mammal.

The group formed in 1991 following the untimely demise of two of Blackpool's most promising pop groups - 'Coin-Op Tot' and 'The Jürgen Kilnsmann Project'. As if a small child powered purely by the insertion of assorted coins wasn't bad enough, yes there was also a band that paid homage to the 'swan-diving' German. The latter was the conception of one Jodie Ace, a child prodigy and son of Blackpool oil tycoon and magnet magnate Donald Ace II. Through his membership of Blackpool's only historical re-enactors of that good bit in hit movie 'ET the Extra-Terrestrial' where they fly on bikes, the young Ace became good friends with Sophie Abernathy then of New Wave funksters Coin-Op Tot.

The two wound up their respective projects, joined forces and were soon taken up by Baby Elephant Records. The label was initially keen to promote the unique selling points of the band and endorsed the 'Pops as their flagship group. Under the careful management of label boss Terry Thomason the group quickly became THE twee indie pop band of any generation that regularly reference obscure mid-nineties footballers. This, coupled with their use of incredibly long song titles, carved them a niche fit for disconsolate pubescent teenagers the county over. 1991's 'We Sang on that Winter's Night and all because you said you loved me Matthew Le Tissier' and 'Oh, I thought you liked me, but then I found out you could do without me Tony Yeboah (Is It True?)' were just two of the 'Pops offerings that found small scale favour with the hebetudinous of the community.

Nineties scenesters united behind the 'Pops, and were quick to copy their look of white suits and black string ties, as originally made famous by one Colonel Harland Sanders. But, in the eyes of the critics, and unlike the southern fried chicken with which the Colonel found fame, the Pops musical outings were rarely finger licking good. Indeed, their only real success came with 1993's 'John Salako Stole Your Love From Me'. Daily local news journal the Blackpool Star gave the single 3 and a half donkeys out of five, exclaiming it to be the greatest song ever written about a Crystal Palace player in love. Bizarrely, the group were also contacted by 'Tweed Monthly' magazine, who although having clearly been misinformed as to what they were actually reviewing, decided to run with the article nonetheless. A small write-up followed which sat surprisingly well next to an article on twill. The piece also led to a notable surge in popularity amongst the hunting, shooting fishing fraternity.

Despite support slots with a number of local groups the band also failed to captivate live audiences. The ostentation of the music was matched with equally pretentious live performances. Ace would prance onto the stage proclaiming himself the Prince of all Pies and would ask members of the audience to come with him on a journey through the crust to the meaty interior, as he played his electric kaleidoscope and sang about how Newcastle favourite Ruel Fox was a dainty flower child for the thirty-seventh time.

In late 1993, as with all groups who base their popularity around twee-pop, mid-nineties footballers and electric kaleidoscopes the 'good times' came to an end. When it soon became clear that Ace was yet another child prodigy 'gone bad' and string ties were replaced with ruffs, Baby Elephant Records turned their back on the 'Pops. The group themselves released a statement which denied they had been dropped but simply that they had parted ways to concentrate on their historical re-enactments. Ace was last heard to be planning an ambitious re-enactment of that scene in Postman Pat when they finally realise it was Mrs Goggins all along.

#7- Spectrum Middle Age Non-Violent Direct Action

Who do you think you are kidding Mr Cobain? Youth was never all it cracked up to be and most bands whine incessantly about the lies told to them by advertisers whilst simultaneously peddling the same lies to an even younger audience. Spectrum Middle Age Non-Violent Direct Action sought to tell you a new story. A story about how being older was also not going to be as good as the television says, either.

SMANVDA was borne from the dialectic between fathers and sons in late capitalism. Allec Callender, Ben Parkinson, Lionel Hardcastle and Clive Quigley all had sons who attended St Humperdinck's grant maintained sixth form college in Boston, Lancs. Their boys, whilst a good sort at heart, did not appear overly interested in rugby; neither the league or congressional version of the game could wet their whistle. Oh how their father's lamented. The boys did seem eager to pursue a career in professional musicmaking and their father's were happy to buy them whatever they desired to keep them from mentioning their indiscretions to their mothers. Both the mothers of the sons and the mothers of the fathers.

The band the young fellows created was -to their father's eyes at least- dangerously subversive. They advocated all sorts of filthy, seedy things; including liberation theology and non-literal metousiosis. To their staunch protestant fathers even this left-wing and wimpy version of Catholicism was enough to boil their blood. The fathers were so happy when the boys ended up in different Oxford Colleges. The buoys became unable to see each other without a minder from their own college to check they were not passing on official secrets to each other. And so were not able to practice without 4 3rd year snots their to oversee their meetings. As it happened, they were the only 4 people to turn up to their gigs.

The boys quickly gave up the music and took to learning more about the inside of SIS and Toilette and Douche from the ever-so-interesting shoulder tappers who would come by every rainy Wednesday afternoon.

Their father's, now bequeathed instruments their sons no longer required. These instruments were, in their eyes, smothered with the sin of believing in something approaching Christian Socialism, so they had little other option than starting their own band. Parkinson took on viola, Quigley beat the traps, Hardcastle sang in a rich baritone and Callendar made the tea (Herefordshire tea if they were feeling rich, Woolworth's own brand if they felt asset rich but cash poor) and provided management services such as accountancy and happy endings.

To say their first record smelled would be like saying there are many types of cheese. It would be correct but it wouldn't really explain very much at all. The album was filled with good clean fun and ruminations on the leader section of the Telegraph. One of the tracks. "I see Sergeant Major Billy Rickingtons has died" was recorded more as a prank by their sound engineer than anything else. It still went on to sell 6 million copies. But why? The short answer is that it was backed with a cleaned up cover of a Zeilinople track, which they had called "Duck Everything."

The crowds went wild. The gimmick in place, the men took to pretending it was what they wanted all along. Quigley argued that "Too many good songs have got bad words in," and they searched to make a whole album as quickly as possible. So quickly indeed, that some people suspect that the band were happily listening to music with bad words in all along. Quigley explained the song writing process as "Changing all the F words to Duck, all the C words to Shunt and for all the S words we simply said hit." The album "Ducking the Suburbs" sold out all over the world, the young and trendy listeners using the words duck, shunt and hit to say what they would have already said. Though the album is not a classic, SMANVDA had learned a valuable lesson about semantics.

#6 Bunch of Clives

Three tone Ska favourites Bunch of Clives formed in April 1972 in the southern English metropolis and home of the UK Hydrographic Office, Taunton.

Cider drenched Somerset may seem an unlikely venue for such an insidious and heady mix of young male instrumentalists and the popular music of the day. And why the extra tone I hear you cry? (As we all did when we heard the laidback stylings of 'Knees Up for Camden' for the first time). For the seven young affiliates of Bunch of Clives two tone was "all a bit black and white". Whereas two tone was built around ska, punk and reggae The Clives subtly blended all the above with the apocalyptic sounds of 'viking metal' (popularised at the time by Scandinavian doom merchants Abbott Rabbit). And, surprisingly given their traditional West Country upbringing, the Clives' only had three songs about apples, one about cheese and only two named actual makes of combine harvester.

The band themselves comprised Timothy "Clive" Branson (tambourine), Neville "Clive" Hebblethwaite (vocals), Randy "Clive" McRand (snare drum) , Boris Clive"Horace (sousaphone), Steve M "Clive" Chambers (tromboneaphone), The Professor (kazoo/accordion) and Terry "Nigel" Grantham (guitar). Their unusual grouping of instruments was testament to their desire to infuse a little Somerset culture to their music, whilst not being the Wurzles. Bunch of Clives succeeded where so many before had failed - The Winzles, Hay Bail Bob, Wimble Hill and The Wazzles to name four. Where many failed theirs soon became the key sound and ethos of the three tone sound.

The septet's first and only performance took place whilst travelling on the 25a bus home from Cotsford St Luke. The group had partaken in a little light solo busking, had picked up their dole money and, after an impromptu visit to the local Woolworths, headed home.

Little is known about the hirsute hebdomad. One thing we do know is that the sultry seven never released a song. By the time they disbanded in early May 1972 three of the band had never actually got to play an instrument. Rumor has it the bus journey was shorter than they had remembered and they were yet to reach a part where two of the band came in. Timothy had earlier missed his cue - only later did he give his tambourine a little shake. By that stage the gig was over, the band had split up and the rest of the members were sitting at home watching hit tv show 'It's a Knockout' and were tucking into Postman Pat spaghetti shapes on toast.
Perhaps the group's longest lasting legacy is the Clives' patented dance (patent pending). Within a week of their vehicular recital, youths all the way from Creech St Michael to Cheddon Fitzplaine were copying the impromptu jiggling of Clives' sousaphone player Boris Horace. The story goes that whilst helping a hapless pensioner onto the bus Boris stumbled, fell a little and collapsed onto said OAP with fatal consequences. Despite the subsequent legal action his flailing leg and arm combination was hypnotic, and due to the lizard like movements which participants use, the term 'Skinking' was coined.

The Clives' sound became well-beloved by many far-right skinheads who happened to be on the same bus. Neville in particular found this hard to deal with, as he was later quoted as saying "men without hair are like man-babies" and that it "just wasn't right". Neville's follicle prejudice had already gotten him into trouble on five previous occasions. One particular incident saw him charged with assaults on no less than seven threadbare celebrities in one night, including Sinead O'Connor, The Dalai Lama and all three of 'Blue Man Group'.

The group still hold the record for the shortest three tone song of all time. At 1.5 seconds 'Your Hurtful Words are Like a (Bullet in my Head Bone)' is a soaring piece of muscianship that in many ways defined the three tone sound. The group were soon visited by star of genre bending hit TV show Record Breakers, Roy Castle. Castle awarded the group with their certificate, branded paperweight and a signed photo of Noris McWhirter. McWhirter, who couldn't make the presentation, was overseeing a record for 'most Capuchin monkeys wearing trousers at one time'.

The attempt failed and the record stands at six.

#5- Dismissive Missive

It's not so long since the court of public opinion held that skinny guys with guitars were pathetic loners and people who could mix two different songs together were the envy of folks all over the world. We all know that Twickenham scenesters Afro-bet changed all that, but at one time even a fool with a whistle and a working finger that could increase and decrease some repetitive bass-heavy drone could gain near universal respect and admiration. The court of public opinion is -as political activist Martin B Hooker would no doubt say- in contempt of itself.

Dismissive Missive (b. Henry Plantaganet, 1421) was a street-smart London urbanite who owned some decks and a mixer. Due to an accidental ebay purchase he also found himself in possession of a spring reverb. Not knowing what it was, he instinctively hooked it up to his decks -somehow overcoming any impedance issues- and managed to drench Slinky Disco's 1991 classic 'Nightclub Communion Wafer' in reverberating goodness. It almost made the song listenable. Missive knew he had something going on.

The big shock came when he went to get some more crisps from the kitchen. Knocking the housing of his new toy produced a quickening and deepening of the reverb. He reached for some drumsticks, ate the sweet, succulent chicken and then used the bones to 'play' the reverb.

Of course, if he wanted to play this live he would need some bigger bones; perhaps those of a dog, a bricklayer or a koala. After being removed from London Zoo and summarily banned from there, The Planetarium and Mademoiselle Tussauds- he went to find his treasure at the Broken Duck Pub in Seven Kings, IG3. (This was opposite the same Woolworths where Roxy McTaggart met Enoch M Farraday and plotted the start of Melvin and Maureen's Musical Kissograms.) A wise old man in the pub sold him a fibular from a goat that had died of natural causes: as long as being killed for meat is still classed as natural. He also sold him 300 Benson and Hedgehogs and a litre of Hogarth's Gin for £25.

At his first gig Missive played his bones on the Spring Reverb, mixing ''aint got no feelin'' to 'Swollen Brain Gland'. The crowd appeared to appreciate the new set of sounds available to them and Missive was rewarded with a regular slot at The Ministry of Culture, Media and Sport. Playing the afternoon warm up to a regular crowd of 19 burn-outs and dealers, Missive gained a cult club following, even being asked to mix the Ministry's 'DeFAMEations' box set.

His name appeared on neon-coloured paper hoardings outside the clubs where he would play one-offs; his ITV chart show was sponsored by Roller Cola; The Queen was presented with a box-set of his mixes by mistake by the Turkish delegation to the G20 summit. Missive had it all.

And you know what? He kept it. He didn't spend it on drugs or women or men or cars or houses or food or nuffin. He just kept it safe in the Royal Bank of Pembrokeshire. In May 2009 RBP filed for administration relief following an over-investment in Icelandic Icicles. Missive was thrown into debtors jail with his son, Edward of Westminster. They expect to be released on bail as soon as Missive's good friend and distant relative Richie Gloss finds the money.