The Minutes believe in the power of rock ‘n’ roll. The power of dreams. The energy of rebirth.
The Minutes believe in Belief.
A thousand days have passed since they released the feral upstart of a debut album they called ‘Marcata’. A thousand gigs have followed hence; or it certainly feels like a thousand gigs. The timeless blur of the speed transfer, where did we lose that roadie: was it Cardiff or Malmo? The girl with the Minutes tattoo: was she Munich or Manchester?
Step away from the van. Come up with a new plan. Put the band on a plane to Vancouver, hook up with GGGarth Richardson at Fader Sound studios; lay down some dirt-devil, humungous grooves, watch some fucking ice hockey and bring it all home. Take the tracks down a back alley in Temple Bar and beat the shit out of them some more. Send them to New York, send them to L.A. Wipe the cigar ash from the mixing desk and bring them out into the light.
Meanwhile, back in the real world, the big bad adult stuff won’t go away – man stuff, Dad stuff. Wanna be a rock ‘n’ roll outlaw but you have to deal with the in-laws. Wanna sail the 7 seas but you’re stuck at the 5 lamps.
Drill deep down and this is where The Minutes live: on a daily mission to transform the temporal into the divine, cherry stones into cherry bombs. Their weapons of choice: guitar, bass and drums. Their chosen medium: rock ‘n’ roll. Ah… Rock ‘n’ roll: approaching pensionable age, looking a bit rough round the edges, too many late nights with the booze and the fags and the birds.
“Live Well, Change Often” – shake the mundane chains, drop your shoulder, send workaday the wrong way. Why settle for natural when you can be Supernatural?
Old Man Rock ‘n’ Roll: pump him full of melodies as majestic as mountains, transports of truths as old as time; turn him towards the stars and watch him fly.