The Birds of Paradise, scabrously surveying the baron musical wasteland that lays pathetic and weak around them circle majestically before dropping their steaming musical nailbomb. Weighing heavy in its oblivious post modernity it obliterates the walls of sanity and structure without remorse! The smoke dissipates. They come in to land.

The Peel is its nest. And we are its prey.

These birds live in a world not governed by orthodox chord schemes; by any established forms; by right or wrong. They scale the darkened heights of castrated pomp metal, they peck at the crumbs of folk rock and emo only to excrete sludgy thrash hardcore resembling dBh and Charger. They frequent the fairy tale world of Breach and Botch only to return disturbed and more abnormal than before.

This is the world they inhabit onstage. They are Sigmund Freud’s nightmare. Contempt, fear, alienation – music is their weapon. They detonate. Microphones fly. Speakers fall. The venue is a mess of hair, limbs, adrenaline and electrifying, rock and roll energy! You’re working out where they’ll go next – Converge trash or disco pomp? But all the while it is connected by their esoteric minds.

This is their Paradise. And I want to live there.