Sabretooth Blackwidow
Gig Seeker Pro

Sabretooth Blackwidow

Band Rock Metal




This band has no press


Still working on that hot first release.



The name is Mr. Money$ign. I'd lived my life like any other multi-billionaire playboy living off the copyrighted money-sign of my great uncle Eustice Money$ign, shooting pappararzzi in my downtime-but I was unhappy; I had lost all will for my life to rock. One day while walking in the downtown metropolitan quagmire that is New Jersey, I was hit with a bologna sandwich on rye. Beside me shrieked a homeless man, dancing like an electrified Ethiopian shaman, screaming and gyrating while passers-by threw him coins and unused condiment packets. His tourretic dancing and rusty wailing sent me spiralling into a vision of a feeling of a sound; a sound that would satisfy the dudes to once again rock, to reawaken what it meant to be a dude in this age and time. It was then that I knew that I had been charged with creating the band that would be the salvation of sound, the masters of melody and the champion of chords. I had my driver sedate him and place him in the trunk for future revelations. Several weeks later, on one of my routine trips through my rhinestone mines in Glasgow, Scotland, I encountered an Irish dock-worker. The man had the beard of a Gaelic warlord and the sandy squint of a buccaneer. He was set upon by a crew of pirating pikey's, and picking twin 2 x 4's, he beat back the pikey hordes. This man would be my drummer. After telling him he had shown the drumming prowess of a small African village, I promised him fame and riches like no drummer before, the kind which even Phil Rudd could ever been aware of. He responded with only three things: his name was Bromos, that I not touch his lady love Beathag and that beating pikey's is the only thing he would ever be known for. Then he smiled as if he had always known differently. Learning of my quest, my Germany-wife showed me a news story of a man who had been incarcerated for playing electric guitar in nursing homes across the country. Supposedly he had created a sound so terrible it was causing cardiac arrythmeia's and severe annoyance in many elderly patients. I eventually found this man behind the glass of a minimal detention center and when I asked his name all he would offer was a curt 'Fahrenheit'. He explained how he felt a guilt for not having been alive during WWII, that he wasn't able to fight nazis and redeem his country and so he sought to inflict endless pain on geriatric nazis. I asked that he lend his sound, to our group, to which he punched me in the face in agreement. I then travelled the world for another member not born of human womb, but of human hands. My travels led me to a quaint mountain town in the heart of Iceland, and there I found it, the celestial ghost that lived in the spaces between the eight stringed guitar called MuHugininn. Before I could ask it's help, it told me that it knew of my coming, sensing my existence through it's two extra strings. I pleaded that it would end it's ageless and mournful groaning to my vision, and after bartering with the souls of 666 landscaoing personel, MuHugininn agreed. His escort and player, Kevin, also came along. Tales of the band spread across the world, and news that a bass player was the final piece led thousands to my door for a chance at an audtion. Each wore the sparkliest shirts, the barbiest of barbed-wire tattoos, trying to prove that they were the dudliest of dudes. I pit these men against each other in battle and when only one man was left alive, he remembered that he'd made prior commitments to a 'Winger' cover band tour and said he could not take part in our heroic venture to save music. It was then that I remembered Juan Gonzales Andres Barrantes-the book keeper and cock-fighting referee of one of my many famous off-shore brothels. I asked if he could come along and in his broken English he thanked me and asked when my birthday was. It was not important that he had never played the bass: only that he looked good doing it and of this I could be certain. Upon landing on soil, I rechristened him El Mulledor, explaining that he was a type of fruit to airport security allowing me to fly him back as luggage. He like the moniker and adopted it on his stationary. Apart they are just men with interesting back stories and limited musical ability. Together they become lazer spitting, atom splitting, wool cock-sock knitting heroes of a generation. A dock-working Scotsmen. A Nazi-hating minor criminal. A soul-eating abomination of musical instruments. His player, Kevin A gyrating pyrotechnic Spaniard. And a crazy homeless man. Have become the new nation of music on which we will dock and have lives filled with beers, breasts and bottles of bronzer. They are Sabre-Tooth Blackwidow and they are much better than you!