In October 2009, under a red hot moon, when the stars aligned and Neptune was firmly situated in Uranus, a cosmic power chord was released deep in a galaxy far, far away. The supernova seismic sonar, travelled light years through space (and time, probably) until it crashed into a disused church in Milton Keynes. The intergalactic vibe was transmitted through a barrel of cider and permeated the minds of 4 unsuspecting guys with a love of all things punky. A chance encounter in the chat room of a left-handed website led to a meeting of minds and the spark of an idea was conceived. A long and arduous pregnancy was embarked upon, with many swollen ankles and a few haemorrhoids. Finally, after a troublesome labour, Crash Induction were thrust violently into the world, feet first. Raised on a diet of Pistols, Ramones, Clash, Rancid and Lionel Ritchie, they were nurtured and shown the true path. A difficult puberty ensued, with much experimentation, before discovering that their true purpose was to bring Punk Rock to the masses, and have a fuckin’ good time doing it. So, they saved up the money from their paper rounds, bought their instruments and commenced on their Holy Quest. The rest, is history…
At the age of 7, vocalist Neil ran away to join the Russian Ballet, where he developed his penchant for wearing skirts and eating tissue paper. After a number of years, whilst on tour in Coventry, he was kidnapped by smelly goths, confined to the Bat Cave and forced to rub patchouli oil into the armpits of his captors. Although he found this ultimately rewarding, Crazy was suffering from vitamin D deficiency, so he nabbed a shiny guitar and disappeared into the sunlight where he knew the goths couldn’t follow. He took a job sweeping hair in a barbershop, where he fantasised about being able to play the songs on the radio. During his time in this establishment, Neil suffered a tragic industrial accident involving a bottle of bleach which left him permanently disfigured. Undeterred, he learned to live with his follicular disability. Years passed and Neil practiced secretly until he was able to string three chords together. He’s still working on learning to sing…
Guitarist Mike’s childhood was just like any other abnormal boy, consisting of football, conkers and being forced to do PE in his underpants when he’d forgotten his kit. Until one fateful day. On a school trip to Sellafield Nuclear Power Station, Mike tripped in the changing room and fell onto a searing hot Morphy Richards Steam King iron. Almost overnight he gained super strength ironing powers, stay-pressed trousers and pleated skirts were no match for him as he breezed through the laundry pile with ease. His proficiency did not go unnoticed and he was selected for the 1996 Olympic Ironing Squad. Mike trained hard but on the eve of the games he was dealt the catastrophic news that he’d failed a drugs test and was no longer able to compete. Crestfallen and crushed, he found solace at the bottom of a bottle. After a few years off the radar (and off his tits) Mike re-emerged in East Berlin following a lengthy spell in rehab. During this time he’d picked up a guitar to try to take his attention from his ironing ban and also developed a penchant for hirsute women. A daring escape over the wall using a hot air balloon fashioned from nylon undergarments and an industrial steam iron allowed Mike to return to his native Blighty. He has since forged a successful career as a pundit for peak-time TV show, ‘Sunday Night Ironing.’
At an early age, Swin knew he was special. Whilst all his school friends were listening to The Spice Girls, Peter Andre & PJ & Duncan, Swin could see that the future of popular music lay in boy bands. Every night after school, he would watch his favourite Boyzone and Backstreet videos, learning all the moves and practicing how to look ruggedly handsome, but he knew this wasn’t enough, he needed proper training from a Boy Band Master. A chance meeting at the local church fate led to him being taken on by Brian from East 17 as padawan. Years of intensive training ensued until one fateful day that was to change Swin’s life forever. Whilst studying what he thought was a team of synchronised dancers on a GAP advert, it became apparent that Swin was actually watching a Blink 182 video. This was enough to plant the seeds of discordance and the young trainee became corrupted by the West Coast Side. Secretly, Swin began learning to channel his feelings through the teachings of Fat Mike Sidious and he decided to take up drums instead. He soon put them down as they were far too heavy and opted for bass guitar instead. His transition was complete and he became known throughout the universe as Darth Swin, infamous for his gut churning, rumbling bass lines that can cause the weak-minded to evacuate their bowels when encountered.
Orphaned from an early age, Mart was raised by a troop of baboons on Gibraltar. He learned to forage for his food and smile for tourists whilst rifling through their bags for valuables. He spent many happy years in this way but, despite his best attempts to conform, his arse just wasn’t red enough and he was often the butt of jokes amongst his simian peers. After a particularly uncomfortable jape, involving a banana and no lubricant, Mart resolved to find a new family and stowed away on a container ship. After days at sea, Mart pitched up in London, lonely and afraid. He soon learned that baring his arse and grinning inanely wasn’t going to impress the unflinching London public so looked for a new way to earn his crust. He found his salvation in the refuse of the underbelly of the city, where he learned to bash out a rudimentary beat on the dustbin lids and also discovered his one true friend, Mr Sniggly, a discarded blue puppet. He spent years, honing his percussive prowess and forming a lasting friendship with his right hand. But the solitude took its toll on his mental state and to this day, he can often be heard in the alleyways in the dead of night screaming, ‘He’s not a puppet, he’s a real boy!’