If you could melt the last argument you had with your girlfriend and the way you made up, that melted moment, hardened and played would be a song already written by The Ferocious Few.
Four years ago, two very young men set down a cheap low wattage amp and a cardboard drum kit at the corner at 16th & Mission in San Francisco, and unleashed a sound that tore down the streets, bent over the hills, ran with the cables underneath the surface of the road and horrified the minds of anyone who heard it. They were called The Ferocious Few and the sound they had made would soon become a living legend, woven into the tapestry of San Francisco as much as the fog horns of the Golden Gate bridge or the trams rattling up and down the town.
Their name was simple and descriptive, they WERE Ferocious and they were few. In fact they were just two: Francisco Fernandez: a half crazed and vicious human being, raised by the carnival-esque cast of a moving theatre company and fired from every job he had ever been given, and Daniel Aguilar: a sensitive soul who disguised this aspect of himself by playing drums as if he was glued to his stool and his underwear filled with flesh eating ants. When the two took to the streets again, lightning struck them metaphorically, literally and figuratively; Fernandez¹ amp blew apart, and, at that moment, he became the living embodiment of American traditional musical history, as relayed by an angry robot staring at the ruins of a digital city. The people came in droves, and pretty soon the police were hunting them down for creating a sizable disturbance, but The Few didn¹t care, they were outlaws of love and the sonic boom.
Ask anyone who has been on any street in San Francisco over the last four years and they will know the Ferociousness of these Few. Ask any policeman and he will give you an accurate description and ask you for their whereabouts. The Ferocious Few have existed totally from the money thrown at them on the streets for nourishment, sustenance and recompense, they walk the line set down by the great bluesmen of American folklore, the great agitators of San Francisco history and the great gunslingers of the Old West. Tearing your heart and soul apart for a voluntary donation.
Luckily they have been pinned down long enough to hue a portion of their large self-written songbook onto wax. "Juices", their debut LP on Birdman Records, is a visceral and viscous testament to their stunning heartfelt brutality, a document of a decade of hardship, the last gasp from the last true vagabonds of American music. A direct pipe from the vein of what once was good and true in this country. Put it on your stereo and it will drip down your walls. Listen to it alone and it will feel like you have been flattened by a train and reabsorbed into the earth. Play it at a party and a Bacchanalian orgy is likely to ensue.
These are uncertain times and we have to cling onto what we know we have got. One thing is sure, wherever they may be, in the darkest hills of Borneo, snaking down a Bolivian mountainside, their guitars in hand, or playing at a street corner right near you, the Ferocious Few are the real deal, and nobody can keep this music from surviving.