The West Midlands Story

West Midlands are a gang of weird pop magpies cranking out high-concept, no-budget DIY death rock from a dank room on an industrial estate, round the back of PC World. 

Their songs chart the decline and fall of a rapidly decaying musician, dropped by his label, forgotten by fans, and forced to return to his childhood home in the Black Country to confront his demons – some of which, it turns out, are actual demons. It’s sort of a documentary. 

Cosmic Scouse super producer and legendary Windmill soundman Paul of Sound provides the music, former Winter Olympics’ singer Andrew Wolfman plays the unknown frontman. 

Live, the band are bolstered by a gang of serious heads who transform West Midlands’ lofty ideas into an often hilarious, occasionally heartbreaking festival-ready rock show that’s long on stagecraft, self-loathing, and big songs.

BBC Introducing called them, “The best live show I have ever seen.” Joyzine magazine thought them a “Ridiculously addictive stone age riot… weird music for weird times,” while Kurt Vile just called them, “Genius.” 

The band takes the last 50 years of West Midlands music as a jumping-off point for their sound (and the reason for their name).  

It’s all there: the Hammer Horror heaviness of Black Sabbath, the chaotic post-punk clatter of The Swell Maps, the grubby grebo rock from that weird six-month period in the nineties when Stourbridge was the new Seattle. 

There’s a decidedly Dexy’s “whoa-oh!” here, a whiff of Zeppelin’s spooky village mysticism there, and more than a nod to the plate-eyed after-party poetry of The Streets and the Brummies-on-a-yacht pop swagger of Duran Duran. In the background, the dull throb of a secret rave rolls off the Clent Hills in the distance. 

This is pop music for music nerds, by music nerds. The musical proof that comedy equals tragedy plus time. Hard art by high friends in low places. It’s not for everyone, but it might just save your life. 

A History of Hits

Lyrics and Downloads

Let’s get the old band back together. One last job then we’ll quit forever. Try to find the surviving members of Annihilated Corpse Confessor. Let’s get the old band back together, the vocals never sounded better, the themes more relevant than ever. Super natural national treasures. Let’s get the old band back together and pray that someone still remembers, the victims of our reign of terror, the second side of Undead Pleasures. Let’s get the old band back together, wrap up warm for the stormy weather. Dig out the denim I’ll bring the leather, raise a middle finger to the corporate oppressor. Permanent Waves and high blood pressure 666 over 147.

I didn’t come here to dance, you’d know about it if I had. A little bit like Michael Diamond, a little bit like someone’s Dad. I’m not looking for romance, I’ve got a girlfriend you understand, but this girl’s got a line to a guy with the good stuff and she really wants to talk about the band. Sunglasses at night won’t do much for your eyesight. I’ve got some red eyes that you just can’t hide, I look like an extra from Twilight. We danced so much we thought the night belonged to us. We thought that anything was possible, and, you know what? It probably was. Give me the music, give me the lights. We’re gonna get through this if it takes all night. The third verse is the same as the first, trying not to cry when you’re mouthing the words. Friday night lights just make you look old. Whistle posse! It’s time to go home. Put your hands up like you’re ready to surrender! Put your hands up like you wanna be excused! Oh! You’re so polite, do you want to ask a question? I think I love you but I get confused. Give me the music. Give me the lights. We’re gonna get through this If it takes all night. Waiting for the breakdown. Waiting for the breakdown. Waiting for the breakdown.

The girls at the gym they were giggling again, they must’ve thought I had my headphones in. “Here comes The Undertaker, no, it's the Hairy Biker. He puts his eyeliner on with a magic marker. Those shorts of his are taking the strain, the dates on his tour shirt are starting to fade. Claims he used to be somebody back on the scene, but he’s going to need a Tardis not a Running Machine”. The girls on the counter started blowing me kisses. Shit business at the L.A. Fitness. You’re in the right castle, but you’ve got the wrong Princess. Shit business at the L.A. L.A. L.A. L.A. L.A. The kids in the car park are scary as shit, they’ve started selling ketamine from out of a skip. That’s not the kind of trouble that I wanna get in, you really have to wonder where security is. But then, I used to party. Hey! I still like to party. Maybe they know somebody who could sell me some weed. But it’s, “No deal Noel, dude you look like The Crow. Are you the jogging fucking dead? You’re like a thousand years old”. The kids on the corner doing serious business. High drama at the L.A. Fitness. Right castle. Wrong Princess. Bad karma at the L.A. Fitness. Amateur gangsters are making me anxious. Shit business at the LA. Fitness. Came for a spray tan, left as a witness. Shit business at the LA. Fitness. The people in pilates started taking the piss. I thought they’d be more flexible than this. I ain’t no yoga master, I’m more a Jägermeister guy, I’m only here because I’m trying not to die and ‘cause you can’t outrun the setting sun. The night is going to fall down on everyone. Just give me one more lap before I’m done, one more heave from these old lungs. Zombies on the treadmills going the distance. Shit business at the L.A. Fitness. The demons in the steam room? Completely dismissive. Shit business at the L.A. Fitness. The ghouls in the pool are uncommonly vicious. Shit business at the L.A. Fitness. Won’t  somebody tell me when my membership’s finished? Shit business at the L.A. L.A. L.A. L.A. L.A.

You’re a pile of bones, I’m a dinosaur. A pre-historic monster that just washed up on your shore. You’re a scientist, I’m an artefact. An undiscovered relic from a party band. DINOSAUR! Count the rings around my eyes. Experts couldn’t date me and heaven knows they’ve tried. My glass will shake uncontrollably. Some things in the mirror are much bigger than they seem. DINOSAUR!

It’s time to lift the curtain, it’s time to hit the lights. It’s time to sound the siren, I’m going out tonight. Oh my God! Are you ready to rock? Oh my God! Are you ready to rock? I keeled over on the way to the shops. Oh my God! Are you ready to rock? I thought I was under water, my shirt was soaking wet. Somebody call a doctor, somebody call a vet. Oh my God! Are you ready to rock? Oh my God! Are you ready to rock? I keeled over on the way to the shops.

I had a dream, but it didn’t quite come off. The world wasn’t really ready for sarcastic arena rock. The party ended prematurely when the band got dropped. Now I’m back in my parents’ house putting CDs up in the loft. In the wild, wild, west, wild West Midlands. The wild, wild, west, wild West Midlands. I had a plan, but it didn’t quite come together. Our little band wasn’t strong enough to cope with the stormy weather. When the ship ran aground there were men overboard. Not everybody missed the nineties quite as much as I thought. In the wild, wild, west, wild West Midlands. Wild, wild, west, wild West Midlands. If life is a movie then I guess that the lesson would be: Don’t stop believing and reach for the stars, but don’t expect you’re going to get them. I had a vision, I’d become an apparition. I lost a lot of friends there, baby, I made some bad decisions. Now I’m back in the bedroom where we started this mess with ‘where do we go now?’ carved into my chest. Wild, wild, west, the wild West Midlands. In the wild, wild, west, the wild West Midlands. .

In the late nineteen eighties a friend of mine gave me the greatest tape she ever made. She claimed if I played it ladies would strip naked and worship me like I was some kind of deity. Well, I was just eighteen, that sounded amazing to me. So I took the thing home and I stared at it meaningfully. It came decorated with a terrible painting of a vampire bat by a grave. I tried to decipher the hearts and the spiders she'd biroed deep into the sleeve. The names of the songs had blood curdling fonts and the tape case was spray painted black. Twenty years later the smell of the paper put me on my ass. She called it Covered in Decay. Covered in Decay. Covered in Decay. Covered in Decay. When I looked inside it said, "Sorry, I lied about the girls, I was just being weird. But now that you're listening there’s a couple of things that I would still like you to hear. See I'm like the tape, you pack me in crates and you don't listen to me enough. And you’re like the box, you always get lost and Andrew, you know that that sucks. Not all tapes have to end getting palmed off on friends, taken to parties and left. They don't all self destruct, they don't have to get fucked, take care of yourself, before you're covered in decay.” Covered in Decay. Covered in Decay. Covered in Decay.

You walk through this town like a ghost. All the old haunts are empty or closed. Who you gonna call? Who you gonna call? No one here believes in you at all. Your old friends can see through your act, you’re an outlandish fake in an old photograph. Is there anybody there? Anybody there? You've been dead to everyone since the start of the affair. Unexpected static on your TV screen? A tired old man in a single sheet. You’re a terrible reminder of the lives we lost, a warning from the past for the local goths. You make a lot of noise in the night time trying to reach the people that you left behind. The bar staff said that they heard you cry. You’re a poltergeist. Back in the house on the hill; a burial ground is a strange place to build. Step into the light, step into the light. Is this a surrender or a sacrifice? High school photo flying off the shelf? A terrifying shadow of your former self? You’re a story that they tell just to scare the kids, a campfire classic from the wild West Midlands. Long, lonely nights in a locked museum, a graveyard of high hopes and good ideas. The bar staff said that they heard you cry. You’re a poltergeist. Get out of my house. Get out of my house. Get. Out. Of. My. House. And stay out.

Our Katie got so tired of waiting, she was sick of chasing down teenage ghosts. The books and the letters didn’t make it any better; listening to records made it worse. What happened to the radio? What happened to the songs she knows? The kids at the festivals? They’re acting supernatural. We don’t believe in miracles, we don’t believe in God, we don’t believe in anything, this isn’t what we want. Feel the shadows growing long. Teenage ghosts, we’re teenage ghosts. How Katie just dreams of escaping, she’s sick of staying in with teenage ghosts. The thought of karaoke only makes her feel lonely; the ghouls at work thought she ought to go. Songs from twenty years ago are mapped across her chromosomes; this generation needs a visitation. We don’t believe in miracles, we don’t believe in God. We don’t believe in anything, this isn’t what we want. Feel the shadows growing long. Teenage ghosts, we’re teenage ghosts. We were following the bouncing ball; an apparition came right through the wall. She stepped out of the shadows into the bright white light. And in the empty orchestra with everybody watching her, she turned to the audience and blew us away. We don’t believe in miracles, we don’t believe in God. We don’t believe in anything, this isn’t what we want. Hide inside your favourite songs. Teenage ghosts, we’re teenage ghosts. She didn't have an instrument, she didn't have an amp, she started singing something that I didn't understand; floating six feet over ground she’s a teenage ghost.