The Great T gave birth to two sons born with the spirit of his alcohol philosophy. He called it Vodka. These children would sing one day, but for now they would grow up in the east end of Glasgow, Scotland searching for souls of renown, with an uncanny ability to play a note in tune. For it was their destiny they proclaimed. And so it would be when all Scotland had given up hope, that a hero would come. Or at least one who owned a drum kit. Tony and Derek had heard the tale of such things but never did they believe it to be true. Money was not heard of in the east end of Glasgow never mind drums. Alas the evil Thatcher dragon had laid bare this once great heart of Scottish industry. And then the guitar players arrived. A procession of ethereal babes heralded their arrival. Rejoice for they have come they shouted. And then the great T spoke. There was silence. You have chosen your band members… wisely. A great cheer arose. You have shown yourself worthy to carry on the Scottish tradition of alcoholism and inbred spite. Go forth he proclaimed. Wherever you hear indie you shall step forth and destroy it with your brand of guitar driven commercialism. When the metal man screams out you shall cry that harmonies are worthy in British rock. When the punk funkster stands in your path, a melody will wrench his soul. For never shall they doubt the power of progressive, modern rock music, when you play. Underwood you shall be called.