It was 1994. The clouds cast a gray indifference across the hilly, coveted landscape known universally as “The Music Capital of the World”. To Mason Evans, it was just Austin, Texas. It had been another rough day in the food industry – the same damned workforce that sucks the souls from all actors in New York and Los Angeles makes its mark on the cold, black hearts of musicians in the muggy Texas capital. Wading through the layers of damp, Evans made his way to a friend’s home, hoping for a little rest and relaxation. He could almost taste the frosty brew on his lips as he walked through the front door. Alas, this is not what awaited him. No, today he would be confronted with disdain, sarcasm, and a fiery mane that rivals that of the king of kings of the jungle. All jungles. What could only be best described as homage to a young Nero thrown across his ottoman, one arm and leg gracefully dangling from the rear of the couch, Will Little perked up. Glaring hard enough at Evans to burn a hole into his skull, he all but introduced himself with a snippy, “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my house?” The hate boiled over with a life of its own, much like a barrel of serpents works its way towards freedom from the bottom up. This was the beginning of the strongest rhythm section in Texas.
A lone Kansan warrior and his family made their way through the long stretch between Wichita and Austin. Uncertain were their futures, but driven was the warrior and his kin. These were the Clarks, lead by Ernie and his woman, Chava. They had decided it was time this warrior wield his six stringed axe over the heads of unsuspecting victims in a battlefield worth devouring. It was here they planted their roots. It was here Ernie Clark, all the while mastering the art with which he would slaughter his foes, charred the flesh and broke the eggs to be fed to those below him.
Years after his arrival, Clark made his way to a merry gathering. Friends here would drink and cheer and sup upon flesh that he was not forced to char. This is how it should be. He recognized this. How would he take his next step? As the cup was passed and stories were told, he pondered this question. Then, his mutual friends helped to answer that question. “Brother,” they said, “I wish you to meet Mason and Will.” Smiles were passed and the disdain Evans and Little had for one another had passed as well. This was 2003. They were all much nearer.
Evans and Clark began to wield their weapons in conjunction with one another. Clark on his axe and Evans introduced stick to skin creating the war-beat they both craved. In this first incarnation they were accompanied by the brother that introduced them all, Chance Polston. His was the tool of the low end frequency underlying the sobs of those who would soon find their way beneath their feet. The war-cry was taken on by Collin Stubblefield. Collin would remain for a short time only to pursue Evan’s role but with another tribe. The choice became clear. Little raised the flag for them. Little would carry the war-cry.
His bellowing was strong but would be short lived – for Polston would make his path not that of the tribe. In his wake, the other two turned to Little. Knowing his history with the four string hammer, though ages ago, they asked him to wield it yet again. The hilt in his hand, once more was not enough, and to this day he cracks this mighty hammer with thunderous fury. With none to carry forth their battle-song, Clark began to dual wield his axe and throat. The fury was great in him and the fury was known by all. Clark’s heart, however, was in the edge of his mother instrument. They needed a dedicated caller-forth. Not a leader, but another brother who could call the sirens from their rocks and pull the angels from their clouds.
They met with many other warriors – those who lead their own tribes in the past and those who only fancied themselves criers of all things dark and strong. The constellations tell us that it was the year of the Gregors, 2005. It was this year that the final brother made his way across the threshold of their lair. Fire was breathed, hands were clasped. Soon, however, the tribe had to yield to the call of their instruments. So they did and so they sparred. This final brother fought back, screaming into the heart of their battle frenzy. Energy, pain and joy from the knowledge of the inevitable kinship that would come of this laid the lair to waste. Surely if there were women and children present, the slaughter would have placed these four in the history books as the four horseman that destroyed innocents. But, this was not so. Instead a bond was formed and each now mark their victories not as a trio, but with Ven Scott calling all to war – as a quartet.
It has been years since this band of brothers was founded, known to those who fear and respect them as Dead Earth Politics. They made play with rhetoric in their propaganda disc, “Mark the Resistance”. Now, with the onset of “The Weight of Poseidon”, this hungry group of men stands poised and ready. What will the stars bring as their introduction to the world draws nigh?
The stars? Dead Earth Politics will fight their way to the heavens to meet these stars face to face.
