Are you sitting comfortably?
The final chord rang in their ears for months, but eventually all things decay. In the house on the seventh hill, motes of dust spiralled in sunlight. The oak beams creaked and settled. Ivy encroached at the edges of the windows. Orange carpets faded. Time trundled.
In the town, tales were told of a beast that had made the hill its home. A strange, chimeric beast. For the townsfolk, it was talisman and protector. It had a tetrad of massive horns, so they said, and countless knees. A knowing smile on its thick lips belying the sadness in its eyes. Strange and charming noises it made. Its colossal head bore a shaggy mane with all bits of food stuck in it. And trinkets. Tacky, plastic trinkets. Atop perched a tiny little hat, which, the legend told, changed its style fortnightly.
All of this is bollocks, of course, but the truth is no less mundane. So it was that in the spring of 2012, and in real life, eleven good friends and true came together in a venerable Peak District farmstead. They brought lutes, lyres and crumhorns, an embarrassment of cheap lager and a vanload of abstruse recording paraphernalia. They found inspiration in the hot tub, some dangerously low beams and a renewed love for each other and their music. Pressing the Flesh marries what-we-did-on-our-holidays with five lost recordings of yesteryear. It has its own stories to tell.
The beast, they say, is not dead, but sleeps beneath the hill, waiting for the drums that will raise it from its slumber.