One hundred years ago, a boy-child was born in Mississippi – a dirt-poor African-American who would grow up, learn to sing and play the blues, and eventually achieve worldwide renown.
Some distance away, some time later, an Anglo-Celtic Melburnian with no great disadvantage would grow up, learn to sing and play the music partly descended from the blues and eventually achieve a modest level of encouragement from his friends and family.
Known to friend and foe alike as “Ben MacLeod”, veteran of many a fevered late night discussion on the nature and importance of pop music, Ben joined Peter Dickybird before togas went out of style the first time.
Armed with only a Fender Precision Bass, a winning girly voice, and a persistence that would have had James Brown asking for little lie down, just for a few minutes, Ben is engaged in a constant battle to reach your hips and get them a shakin’ and your lips to get them smilin’. In unguarded moments, Ben admits to ambitions for the band to be bigger than the Beatles, but the Kinks or the Smiths would do.