Satan's Cheerleaders Ben Cook: this is it, here we go (uses a computer to record the sounds) |
The original Satan’s Cheerleaders biography read like this. However, make no mistake, it was a different entity in those heady days of 2001. At that particular point in time the Cheerleaders consisted of two individuals; the mildly megalomaniacal Simon Ridley and the quietly dangerous Ben Cook. The initial incarnation of the band involved a great deal of abuse of cheap scotch and brandy, and late Friday nights screaming at an entirely unco-operative computer. Much time was lost in the bottle, electrocutions were not uncommon and the self-appointed creative genius (Ridley) played the musical nibbly bits until hand-eye co-ordination reached prohibitive levels of intoxication. Ben’s role was to record this musical gibberish and fashion it into some semblance of a musical entity. This process was as productive as a crippled, drooling sloth, referred to by his siblings as “the other brother”. When Triple J’s unearthed came to Adelaide it was decided that rather than submit the full first song which had been recorded in a combination of bathrooms, kitchens and cupboards (an early rendering of “The Cursed Hands of Automaton”), a far more insightful plan was hatched. The bare minute long “Cut Blood Artery Spurt” was submitted, which made it to air and caused some deal of on-air confusion and horror. Why bother with actual success when notoriety can be gained?
And so general wallowing in filth and inaction followed. Ben moved to Melbourne, Simon went to study fashion and politics in the Sorbonne under the tutelage of “Rantamahationatius the fasitidious”, and met long-term provocateur Black Jambo. After some years of intermittent writing Simon returned to the terrible black cauldron in which Satan’s Cheerleaders was festering and started piecing together the group of fine young musicians you see before you today. Rehearsals began in late 2005 and within some short months a set of terrifying volume and madness was established.
Satan’s Cheerleaders is also the name of a film. This piece of celluloid magic (possibly black magic), was discovered in late 1999, in the second hand bin of an out of the way video store, heavy with the smell of second hand smoke in the presence of a shelf which was home to every Steven Segal movie ever released. And so the idea for the band arrived, unannounced like a slack jawed, wide-eyed chap from Salt Lake City in a white shirt offering religious enlightenment upon your doorstep far too early in the morning. Offensive yet intriguing, begging the question “Why?” Strange noodling guitars start to drip down your ear canal, like beans escaping from a burrito. The odd aggressive blast of unadulterated distorted riffing periodically presents itself in a manner akin to that of an exhibitionist displaying all the hall-marks of attention deficit disorder. Actually, a lot of the music has that element to it. ADD, exhibitionism…etc… Versatile, distinctive drumming directs the music. Bass. Saxophone, yes saxophone and plenty of swirling organ to swim around in. Voices permeate the sound-scape sporadically.
Who are Satan’s Cheerleaders?
Simon Ridley.
As discussed above, the less said about him the better really.
Jarrad Payne
The drummer. But not a stereotypical drummer! He plays in time. He plays other instruments. He has incredibly managed to become the first person to cross the Atlantic Ocean in an Automobile. But a humble man is Jarrad, and unlikely to admit to such great feats. Other achievements include establishing the first hospital rehabilitation ward for sarcastic household electronic items that love too much. The needy toaster. The desperate, ivory related product-polishing machine. The hair-curling wand with the longing look in its eyes. Additionally, Jarrad is a “real” musician; trained and competent, ready and willing. He plays in other bands such as Salty, Fud and The Swan Song Release semi-Christian rhythm-o-phone duo-tet. No one has ever heard the final band listed, however it is rumoured that they once supported Def Lepard in a cave located in the outer reaches of Celtic Scotland during the late 1980’s. Having completed a solo album, and sporting a cracking pair of shins (which he often uses to fend off the more evil of woodland creatures), his legend is known throughout the land. I demand that you visit his website immediately.
Stuart Earl
Keen to play the saxophone, forced to play the keyboard, coerced into manipulating the theremin. Stuart was exhumed from the afore-mentioned cardboard box. No one knew that he had been residing there. But his time inside the cardboard box was well spent. After hundreds of years learning the ways of the box, the political intricacies and the cultural tensions, the man now known as “Stucifer” rose to the top of the society. He commanded great armies and was a legendary Casanova figure. But soon the confines of the box became tiresome. He bade the inhabitants farewell and travelled to the Adelaide jazz scene … where I stole him. He is mine now. You are too.
Lyndon Gray
Once described by Harper’s magazine as one of the foremost thinkers in arrangement and composition it appeared that all would be well if this fiend was recruited. But you must read the fine print. I implore you; read the fine print. I command that you and your children read the small print. Or I will cut you. The claims of “Composition and arrangement” referred to that of superfluous body parts of handicapped children! This was the talent that the young man in question was being lauded for in the publication mentioned! (Should have read the whole article.) While I would never suggest that assisting children born with web feet or extra long forearms to find new and inventive ways to make their appendages appear more like attractive accessories is pointless, it would have been helpful if it had been pointed out that his skills of “composition and arrangement” lay in this particular sphere before he joined the band. I appreciate that his work in “turning frowns up side down” is well recognized, but watching him mangle the bass is only comparable to watching a midget slowly removing all the unnecessary puppy fat rolls from their body with a rusty vegetable peeler. We reached a conclusion that the best course of action would be to masking tape the bass to the back of his head. It’s a double bass.
So that’s it. All you have to know. For now. The live shows are something else entirely…