It's April 2003, Highbury Stadium. Bombs are falling on Baghdad but in a corner of North London all is serene. Stephen Yeates (Hoxton Market) meets Josh Surtees (Finsbury Park), and coaxes him into starting a band worthy of dragging the nation into a new era. They bond over Interpol's 'NYC' and share a love of The Smiths debut album, The Beatles' 'Revolver', Small Faces, The Jam's 'The Gift', The Kinks and The Who amongst others.
Over cups of tea, they talk girls, leather shoes, Charles Dickens, pornography, football hooliganism and Radio 4's declining coverage of Test Match cricket. Above all else, they agree on one thing - for too long, music fans, kids on council estates in Wigan and Dalston, have been cheated by pop music. The March Hares are born.
Four months later, Jimmy Mulvihill (back streets of Colindale) arrives. Fresh from his last band splitting up onstage, he scours Denmark Street. He finds ads plastered all over the street titled 'What Ever Happened to the Great British Bands'? He calls the number on the ad, Yeates answers... The March Hares have their third member.
The search for a drummer began, many were tried and many failed. Some were dragged off of their drum stools and escorted away. One had a 30-piece kit, but he may as well have had an arm less than Def Leppard's Rick Allen.# However, one day, Yeates, strolling through the halls of his erstwhile Alma Mater (Hackney College), turned a corner, and stumbled upon a young boy-genius giving a drum kit the most beautiful thrashing of its life. Yeates immediately thought: 'Who is this young Keith Moon and where has he been hiding?' As if psychic, the young man replied, "Daniel Uwagbae (Dalston) and I ain't been hiding, I've been waiting."
There are murky streets in this cold, grey city. Behind the mansion houses and the royal parks, the five star hotels and private member's clubs lay the council estates and the boarded-up pubs, disused railway tracks and burnt-out shells of cars. The city has everything and nothing. On a freezing, wind-swept day in January with an empty stomach (and pockets) you can stand by Blackfriars Bridge and contemplate hurling yourself into the dark, bulging Thames. On a beautiful day with sun shining and fluffy clouds in the blue sky, you can stand on Waterloo Bridge and feel you are at the centre of the universe, at peace in the greatest city in the world.
Our aim is true, our message is clear... The March Hares are here to dress properly, sing properly, write proper fucking lyrics and, if all else fails, to bundle Franz Ferdinand, Kings of Leon, Bloc Party and The Others into a mini cooper, tape the doors shut and push them into the Regents Canal, waving to them as they sink beneath the murky green water.
With love and a huge amount of respect...
The March Hares x