ARTiST: Fury Of The Headteachers
TiTLE: You Took A Scythe Home
LABEL: Grace Records
GENRE: Indie
TiME: 32:27 min
SiZE: 34,7 MB
BiTRATE: VBRkbps
RiP DATE: Mar-31-2007
RELEASE DATE: May-07-2007
WEBSiTE: www.myspace.com/furyoftheheadteachers
Track List:
01. Fables 03:11
02. Me Minus My Plus 1 02:04
03. Misfortune 03:40
04. Lash 02:55
05. Right Is Right Is Right 03:20
06. Farewell Comrade 03:03
07. Optimism 03:32
08. 52 In 1 02:27
09. Not What It Used To Be 02:41
10. What Does For You Will Do Me In 02:38
11. Replicas 02:56
Release Notes:
Who, Why, What and When.....
Fury of the Headteachers are a 'band' that 'come'
from a bilge encrusted hamlet known as Sheffield, a
place described by the Encyclopedia Britannicus as
being 'like the moon, but with more gravity and less
flags.'
Founded out of a UN directive issued by Kofi Annan's
predecessor, Rod Stewart, in an attempt to 'bring
Britain closer together' they are accordingly fifty
percent filthy, penniless midlanders, and fifty
percent stinking, fossil-fuel obsessed Geordies. The
only thing keeping them from resolving all
difficulties with brylcreem-fuelled knife fights
over the bonnet of a T-Bird is a shared love of
being professional gits.
The music of these assorted librarians and betting
shop staff amounts to a sound at best described as
'miffed' and at worst as 'pissy' - usually just a
jumbled mess of insults directed at themselves and
their fellow inhabitants of their given demographic
- but perhaps most importantly, not described as
being 'soaring, epic indie' with lyrics about flying
and being a disgruntled, spoilt, overgrown baby.
FOTH - not very good with contracts
Although the present incarnation stands as being
only a year or so old, FOTH have been rutting away
in crumbling old workhouses masquerading as studios
for a number of years (4? 2? 59? Who cares? You? I
doubt it) and managing to produce an astonishingly
small amount of recorded music. However, following a
strictly administered regime of diet pills and
power-shakes they have managed to raise themselves
trembling out of their wicker bath-chairs and start
acting like a professional beat combo, with their
own friends, keys and hairstyles. This newly-found
state of ambulation has led them back to the studio
to start complaining about things again, which is
good for nothing but their spleens, and your ears.
They can be spotted, in the wintertime, sliding
about the streets of South Yorkshire playing gigs
and fighting bouncers (not really), and in the
summertime they gather on the rocks at Curbar,
spread their wings and set off for the North African
coast, where they spend their time mating and
rearing their young.