Fiddling with timbers was never an ascetic pleasure. Futile constructions wrought from the recycled lumber of glossed and varnished memories. Broken dreams often surrender the truth, revealing splintered mock Tudor frames, inert rocking chairs and banished banisters. Yet our hopes reconfigure and renew the unrelenting, inescapable burnt out forests of modernity. Escaping from the pummelled woodland, like carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, the Hysterics Of Yore were a toxic shot to the ecosystem; a coven of bad tidings and bone rattling skulduggery. They celebrate the corporeal commotion of life’s final bow, the happenstance of morbid punctuality.

Timely demises. Expected ends. Prompt partings. Saddened swallows, with an insatiable taste for blood, swoop low over earth’s forgotten, least mourned cadavers. Filled with carnivorous intent, this feast, and a divine distraction from their ostentatious flights of calcified fancy. Jagged beaks tear and slash through the sallow, soft residue, sharpening themselves on what were once tender clumps of osseous matter that cosseted organs and provided a structural cohesion to an otherwise flimsy edifice. Strewn morsels of chewed flesh glisten and glide across luxuriously carpeted abodes.

Hysterics Of Yore once shattered the harmonies of nature with brute force abstinence. They used to cowardly carp from the sidelines, denying and decrying the possibility of a future swathed in gentrified sustenance.  Times have changed….tick…tock….tick…tock…People move on…Mrs Barabbas Cartland, bewilders with urgent regret lashing out at vague circumstances, yet ultimately ending on a note of dejected acceptance. “She died yesterday, for our sins, for our sisters in Clementine. She dies every day, for our sons, for our brothers in ermine…And she died when she did because she was old,” lead singer Sally Posh Larkers declares. Fay Wray Had To Go Before Hitting One Zero Zero is a shambolic turn of events; a lowly lament for King Kong’s one true love. The clattering Gone With The Hope summarises the life and times of Bob Hope in two words – ‘fickle splendour’. It heaves and hos up the stairs and through the chimney via a brittle harmonium-guitar freak out.

Timely Demises yearns and spurns the rituals the death. Hysterics Of Yore decided to stop chucking breezeblocks off motorway bridges. They wrapped their arms around a memory and relinquished their fear of life, celebrating its finite betrothal.