Since his first gig, opening for a jazz-punk fusion group in York Cemetery, Trio Thaddeus's career in performance has been more than a little unusual.  Despite having been on the scene for less than a year, he has already been featured at venues across London (including Woolfson Tay and The Camden Eye), and been a featured artist in numerous shows at the Edinburgh Fringe, notably including A Slightly Dangerous Comedy Occasion at The Royal Mile Tavern (**** The Scotsman), a stint at The Zoo Theatre, and performing as an actor with The Rep Theatre Company at 'C'.  Together with his backing band, The Firing Squad (described by one critic as "gifted with the soaring drunken musicality of Tom Waits, the dazzling wordplay of John Cooper Clarke, and the endearing confusion of Tim Key"), Trio Thaddeus is currently touring Derbyshire, London and Yorkshire.

Silent Disco

 Come dance with me, among the moshing tatters of mankind, The broken folk, the malcontents, the speechless and the blind, The kind to let yesterday’s sweat dry on the clothes they find, The wanderers, the dispossessed, the clubbers left behind.

With clammy hands, on clammy feet, they drag their clammy minds Through living streets, hoping to meet fresh bands with shirts to sign.

They walk and walk and lurch and stalk and soon enough they’ll find The DJ’s gone, the beat’s moved on, they’re clubbers left behind.

The DJ bloke buys a JD and coke for the lady by his side, With nothing on but bra and thong, she’s got nothing to hide Those needle tracks that track those needs that left her doing time And now she’s out, she shags about with clubbers left behind.

The DJ dons his new striped suit, bright red with crimson lines, His seedy best, it seems he’s dressed like Satan past his prime, He’s mixed his disks, assessed the risks, and now he starts to climb The stage, to entertain the crowd of clubbers left behind.

He spins the decks, then checks to see he’s running out of time;

5 minutes left - the crowd expects more trip-hop, house and grime.

With great regret, he ends his set, descends into the night, But as he leaves, he turns and sees a sight that scars his mind; The ghostly silent dancing of the clubbers left behind.

Mortality’s the only thing we’re given in this life, There’s a bullet with your name on it, or else a kitchen knife.

Some turn to science or the church to search for some great sign, Some people find a thumping bass a safer place to hide.

So ask me for no remixes, and I’ll tell you no lies, We’re off our heads on life and death, a cocktail no-one tries A second time.  It’s hard to find the words, hard to make them rhyme, But maybe we are all just clubbers - clubbers left behind.

Click to listen to "3,000 words," a poem about the feeling you get at 3AM, with your work incomplete and a deadline starting to bear its teeth, and  the page in front of you is decorated with the first half of an illegibly smudged essay title, and precious little else.  A poem for students.

3000 Words (MP3)