CONFESSIONS OF A PERVERT…
I was born into a mental asylum laundry basket in the Year of Our Whore 1982. I was classically trained, and my exposure to rock music began in 1999 when I joined Leek for four years of punk rock chaos. The band broke up at the beginning of 2003 at which point I tried to concentrate on my studies. No luck there though, and soon afterward I saw Sepultura while on potent Hawaiian shrooms and I understood that back up plans are for the weak-willed. It was that decision that hailed a new era in my life. I began playing with South African Ska-Punk Legends, Fuzigish, at the end of 2003 (made a member September 2004) as well as joining South Africa’s most controversial and brutal band, Architecture of Aggression, at the beginning of 2004. I play trombone, trumpet and bass guitar for a number of other projects. I am currently playing with myself in a cupboard.

MUSICAL INFLUENCES
Black Sabbath, Pantera, Meshuggah, Dying Foetus, Primus, Mr Bungle, Testament, Strapping Young Lad, FokofpolisieKar, Rancid, Aqua, PropaGhandi, SJR, Bach, Hog Hoggidy Hog, Louis Armstrong, Sepultura, Entombed, Sizzla, Slayer, Busta Hymen And The Penetrators, Oprah and Johan Stemmet.

VICES
Halucinogenics, bondage, depravity, filth and all-night jacuzzi parties with the freshly exhumed corpses of other people’s grandparents.

LAST WORDS
–Sorry Jesus.

THE LEGEND OF THE JAR…
–Stories have long been wafting across Pretoria, not unlike the results of a terminal flatulence attack, of an unspeakable foulness in the east. Babies are born without arms, singing ABBA classics backwards. Harvests are blighted and children starve. What little milk the people’s cattle produce is yellow and tastes somewhere between Black Label and rat piss. The stories tell of an ancient font of evil, a vessel so revolting that Beelzebub Himself has surely ejaculated inside at some point. Birthed in days of yore during a Crowleyan ritual involving the mixture of every conceivable form of human excretion or secretion, the Jar has since sat in shit smeared stupor, oozing sick lullabies to itself like some stinking, fat pet. Cannibalizing life force from its creator, a silly but nasty sonic necromancer known only as Skullfucker, it has gleaned a nasty preference for the music of Patricia Lewis and a sense of humour that is, in a word, unfortunate. Yea, and verily does it lie in wait for the time when it can be free at last, free to seep in putrid urgleburgle across the lands of Men, wiping them out forever, and afterbirthing a sick new dystopia where computerised handclaps are the only percussion instruments left. – fraternihilius.