Whatever it was, it must have been mean't to happen. As unlikely a combination from different cultures, something really 'jells' when the 4 of us get together and play. We all live in Frankfurt Suburbia, but the musical journey for each of us couldn't have been more different. It’s not that our sound comes from where we live, but where we have been influenced. Is it the vibes from the London Underground scene or the firmly embedded rythm of growing up exposed to Australian Pub Rock? Perhaps it’s the Deutsch romanticism for British New Wave music? It’s hard to tell which parts of our music are related to our collective musical socialization, but the heritage doesn’t matter, we just know something special is there. "The guitar is like an extension of your subconscious", Robin tells us. "It has something to say, it’s tonal expression". The rest of us look at each other in utter bewilderment, thinking he has lost the plot, but then a wild emotional melody twists our ears and grabs our attention immediately. We put his white coat (the one with the long sleves that curve around the back of the body, with the solid leather buckles) back in the wardrobe. It’s not for wearing today. The melody is infectious and it’s hard to not want to be a part of it. Frank, perched high on his drum stool, meticulously adjusting his percussion pieces, feels a pulse, a sense of urgency which cannot wait. He instinctively picks up his sticks and lays into his kit with a slick mechanically controlled force. Patte is putting on her lipstick in the mirror, but the music has already permeated her aural perception, and shes tapping her foot and humming a descant harmony line before being fully aware of what shes doing. Ian stops tinkering with his bass stack knobs and clicks Standby into Drive, his fingers spontaneously hitting the strings and filling out the fat space reserved for bottom end groove, like a solid driving foundation. This is Thanks Frank, this is how it happens. It doesn't seem to work without all the ingredients together.