The Schizophonics are four self proclaimed musical visionaries from Oakenshaw. An untidy band of noisy dudes that insist they’re “Britain’s most misunderstood band”, despite never explaining anything they do. Blending punk, reggae, poetry and rap with the grace of a shopping trolley falling down the stairs, they’ve built a loyal following of insomniacs, bus drivers and people banned from karaoke nights.
Nobody’s quite sure how they met. One story claims they formed after all reaching for the same reduced price Jamaican patty in a corner shop. Another says they accidentally barricaded themselves inside a youth club overnight and emerged with an EP and three parking tickets. The band refuse to confirm either story because, according to them, “the truth’s copyrighted.”
Their gigs are beautifully unpredictable. Half the songs are two minutes long, the other half stop halfway through because someone’s remembered they’ve left the oven on. Their rapper forgets half his lyrics but confidently replaces them with whatever he can see. They’ve written verses about pigeons, dodgy landlords, chicken shops, supermarket meal deals and a bloke called Keith who may or may not exist.
Their rider is legendary. They demand a crate of Special Brew, seventeen packets of Space Raiders, a traffic cone “for artistic reasons”, and one garden gnome. Preferably looking disappointed.
Critics have called them “a public nuisance”, “alarmingly entertaining”, and “the only band capable of starting a mosh pit during a reggae song.” The Schizophonics themselves prefer to describe their music as “urban council estate jazz”.
Their mottos?
“If it sounds wrong, play it louder.”
“If they throw beer at us, drink it.”
And “If you can’t fix it, fuck it.”
It seems like their mother’s Gorillaz, and their father’s The Prodigy. And that’s probably where I nicked this idea.
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