This is a direct copy of the official Mantra biography...

Let's get this much straight; Groop Dogdrill weren't born at midnight on some crossroads down in Georgia. The full moon didn't shine down on some black-clad man leaving the scene with a scroll daubed in fresh ink.

Naah. Pete, Damo and Hug Dogdrill would've taken one look at his flappy cape and forked stick - and laughed him all the way back to hell.

Groop Dogdrill, y'see, don't need much mythologising. They are not just another Rocket From The Drunk Explosion, vaudeville 'n' roll cartoon. They make the devil's music. Without his permission. Besides, there is no more truly rock 'n' roll beginning than being born in the arse of a no hope town.

The Groop came together two years ago in darkest DC - that's Doncaster, to you, mate - over a pint and an ad in their favourite reading matter, Guns 'n' Ammo.

Hug Kelly (quiff, Catholic kilt, drums) sacrificed a promising career as the local grease-monkey to pound out voodoo beats for all the whiskey he could drink.

Damo Fowkes (dermal punch, braces, bass) gave up on the dole and his vocation as a tattooist's canvas to prowl the country's stages, flick knife at the ready.

And Pete? Pete Spilby (gaffer tape, brothel creepers, guitar and vocals) just wanted revenge. Revenge on all the liars and fakers and the impure of heart who were grateful for a life of mediocrity. He quite fancied writing some 'lived, loved and lost' songs as well - like Elvis and Sinatra. But they just came out as primal howls of punk rock discontent: more Girls Against Boys than boy-meets-girl.

No one, of course, understood. Which just made Dogdrill angrier.

The firste recorded fruits of their loins - 1996's very limited edition 7" Gentleman's Soiree (backed with live fave Silver Boots) - wed the Dogdrill's trademark carnal hollering to Brylcreamed savvy, and sounded like nothing else around. All existing copies were snapped up like hot cakes after rave reviews in the NME, Kerrang! - and, very probably, Soldier Of Fortune. They still couldn't get a gig in their local, mind. Maybe it was The Knife Game that worried the promoters; or Pete's habit of gaffer-taping the microphone to his face during 'That Texaco Feeling'. Or maybe they weren't quite ready for a band that mocked their humdrum lives and ran off with their daughters in pretty much equal measure.

Whatever it was, Dogdrill's follow-up single, Gracelands, set the rest of the music press alight with its raucous promise to put someone more deserving of endless sleep into Elvis' patently empty tomb. It was to be Dogdrill's last release prior to signing a major record deal and the beginning of several months of frustration as business wrangles took precedence over rock 'n' roll.

Rather than slack on their critical laurels, Dogdrill did the sensible thing and went on the road. Forever. The tail end of 1996, and all of 1997, saw them tour with fellow Sabbath-lovers Cable, swap quiff tips with Goldblade and Penthouse, and put their boots up with the Wildhearts - as well as headlining their own increasingly high octane shows. Along the way, they recorded their debut album, Hug got into some menages-a-trois with female fans north of the border, and got shot at by an irate farmer. Damo acquired some new tats, and pledged his troth to his beloved. And Pete? He lived, loved and lost a little more, and waited patiently for the ink to dry on Groop Dogdrill's new contract with Mantra Recordings.

Now armed with a lascivicious new single, Lovely Skin, Groop Dogdrill are officially back in action. They're wiser, sure, but no less devoted to the spirit of rock 'n' roll than they were when a 48 hour drinking binge first cemented their union.

And the black-clad man? He's wringing his hands at the three that got away.