Dancefloor Tragedy

The year, 1983. In a small town in Italy Angus Young sits at a bar with Jimmy Page, Slash, and Eddie Van Halen. Horny and drunk, the four stumble into the streets in search of a woman of the night in which to plant their seed. Passed out in a back alley, they spot the dirtiest whore in all the land. With panties already around her ankles they got down and dirty and dropped her a five before disappearing into the night. From between the legs of this Jezebel crawled out the bastard son of 1000 rock gods. The infant guitar virtuoso bestowed upon himself the name Joey Jaws and crawled to the port where he stowed away on a cargo ship bound for Ireland. Acting on natural instinct the young Joseph sets out on a mission to find the dirtiest, sleaziest, foulest group of musicians known to man.

Upon reaching the mainland Joey kicked over the slimiest piss covered rock he could find and out with the roaches and rats crawled a whiskey swilling baby eating sorry excuse for a human being. Knowing someone this worthless could only be a drummer, Joe invited him along on his journey. "I dub thee Pigpen." And it was so.

The two swam across the English channel to Norway where they found, swimming in the disease laden water of the shittiest commode in all of Scandinavia, a failed abortion clutching onto a rusted out bass string so he wouldn't be flushed away with the rest of the fecal matter. The duo fished him out with a rake and became a trio. The three infants searched aimlessly for a singer worthy of fronting such an audacious group of miscreants until they realized the only place such a pathetic human being could be found is the land of Celine Dion and hockey hair. 'Oh Canada.

Upon arriving in British Columbia the three came to the conclusion that Canada is nothing but talent-less toothless mountainfolk so they did what most bands do and threw a rock into a crowd of people and the scumbag it hit was Michael Mavid, A.K.A. Mikey Gunz. With the lineup solidified the four dirtbags made their way down to the big hanging cock of America, Florida, raping and pillaging everything that stands in their way on the path to righteousness.

Fast Forward to the year 2004. The four gave their disaster a name and a reason to drink more, added a fifth member for live shows and sexual favors, and began wreaking havoc across the dirty south. Since their conception, the crew has dished out three broken ribs to an old woman, three recordings and were devoured by zombies in a video directed by Steven Miller (not to be confused with 70's rock superstar and writer of Abracadabra). Completely dedicated to their craft of mayhem and disorder, DFT butchers their live shows with an onslaught of shitty guitar riffs, sloppy double bass and dirty diapers wrapped in Christmas paper.