There's one thing that The Bland can never be accused of being .......... serious. More drunk than punk, they tend to induce reactions ranging from nausea to true undying love. They could be stand-up comedians if they didn't have difficulty standing up most of the time, and they come from Chesterfield, which is nobody's fault but their own.

Live, anything can happen and usually does. Rat the idiot romantic on vocals, Ivan the realist on guitar and Didz the idealist on drums, kick up a storm, throw abuse and instruments at each other, forget words and tunes and generally manage to make a marvellous, massive mess. Dire Straits they're not but they usually end up in them.

They threaten meek and mild journalists with grevious bodily harm on their tortoise if they don't write about them, but they'll have to find out where it's buried first.

Music is murder they say and they do their best to be found guilty, playing songs with titles like We Go Whoosh, the great Harry Seacombe and Here Comes Jesus, all containing lyrics which aren't likely to win them any literary awards, but can be encapsulated in one word. Usually the same one.

You could say The Bland certainly aren't, but that would be bland in itself.

So Didz, have you anything to say for yourself. "Er no, not really." Well I never. Sheffield Star 23/01/88

Band Members:

Rat - vocals

Didz - drums

Ivan - guitar

Ivan - guitar