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A long time ago, a suburb or two away, a group of teenaged boys – confined to the monotony of maroon-tie-blue-shirt Catholic high school education in middleclass suburbia – found itself voicing its frustrations through music. It starts off as a group of close friends generally dissatisfied with the prevailing order and pretty soon our whole year group has reached the consensus that we’re a group Satanists who sacrifice goats on the weekends. Oh, the irony, given our hard-boiled secularism and the fact that we were all pretty concerned with animal rights. So, on the weekends – around the time we were supposed to be sacrificing goats (/babies/virgins) – four lads (Patty, Brendan, Aaron and Dave, at least one of whom is me) began jamming in Brendan’s rental house garage, wherein you froze if you stood still for longer than ten seconds at a time. Aaron, at the time our vocalist, spent less time singing than he did head banging with dangerous paraphernalia like hedge clippers, sledge