Dusk in Liverpool. The cities ancient curse hangs heavy in the air. Beatles, Beatles, Beatles. From somewhere deep inside the concrete fortress a faint melodious screech can be heard. Monkey Steals The Drum subject Paul McCartney to one last chinese burn, switch off their recorder and scamper into the night. Back in their teenage lair they play the tape over and over again, huddled together, howling along to every agonised yelp. Content in their work.

Monkey Steals The Drum are a band. They sing songs. The torture their instruments. They make a racket and they couldn't give a Ringo about anything. They are young enough to know better. They scribble on rocks blueprint and scream for attention. They are the proof in the pudding, if any further evidence was needed, that you can write great songs and still play them very, very loud. To put it simply they rock. And roll. OK. So it may be a little old fashioned but these kids make it seem like the most vital discovery ever made. Prepare to have your drum stolen.


© Circuit Magazine - Issue 3 Volume 2