The hearthside romanticism really kicked off with the prospect of Moody McPick; the name itself sounds like a grizzled Seadog who'd blast into a Rum Den to toast his salty socks in the corner. That the band themselves are a merry assortment of sizes and facial hair (eloquent female saxophonist excluded) means a brew of curiosity and hearty intrigue at the very least would stir in the minds of any unfamiliars. Those who were familiar were not surprised by the beards, nor the fusion of folk and reggae, the array of instruments to provide this (accordions, guitars, double bass, trap drum, ukulele, mandolin … and the aforementioned sax) and the masterful way they were employed.

Most notable (or unavoidable!) is the frontmen pairing. Big Ed is Bloody Big, accentuated by the biggest beard, the char-grilled voice and his decision to play all the smallest instruments available (mandolin especially well) so as to create some kind of Gullivan music box of the stage. This is evident even moreso alongside Doozer; the modestly heighted co-singer radiating his enjoyment through every bob and strum, and each cheeky lyric he'd dipped in the estuary. Size doesn't matter they say, but it doesn't mean it's not interesting. They would have been pleased with the size of the applause that closed their set.

Moody Mcpick made their first music video in a derelict shop in Haverhill last Thursday night. Being our own artistic directors, we spent all day creating the set by drilling and knocking down a big fuck off concrete staircase, and set our stuff up in the rubble that night. The no-expense-spent budget meant that the vast array of audio and visual recording equipment we could of used was narrowed down to Doozer's JVC camcorder and a tripod. It actually turned out sounding surprisingly o.k so check out the video and see what the mundaneness of  staying in Haverhill has forced us into!!!

More videos will follow as soon as Doozer's camera let's us have all the bloody files.

Moody McPick was born in a derelict shop in Haverhill on a cold January night. Before he could walk he had grown a beard and sunk his first Heineken. Depressed by the sheer lack of intrigue in the town he found himself in, he was taken by an overwhelming desire to smoke, drink heavily and play cajun blues. Gathering instruments from around him, he started frantically playing melodians, accordians, guitars, upright basses and saxes, until he was posessed.  The rest will be history. Sometime soon. Possibly.