Bio
Four years ago two very young men put down a cheap low wattage amp and a cardboard drum kit onto a the corner at 16th & Mission, San Francisco, Ca and unleashed a sound that tore down the streets, bent over the hills, ran with the cables underneath the surface of the road and horrified the minds of anyone who heard it. They were called The Ferocious Few and the sound they had made would soon become a living legend, woven into the tapestry of SF sounds as much as the fog horns of the GG bridge or rattle of trams chunkering up & down the town.
Their name was simple and descriptive, they WERE Ferocious and they were few. In fact they were just two: Francisco Fernandez: a half crazed and vicious human being, raised by the carnivalesque cast of a moving theatre company and fired from every job he had ever been given, and Daniel Aguilar: a sensitive soul who disguised this aspect of himself by playing drums as if he was glued to his stool and his underwear filled with flesh eating ants.
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The two took to the streets again, lightning struck them metaphorically, literally and figuratively, Fernandez amp blew apart and at that moment he became the living embodiment of american traditional musical history as relayed by an angry robot staring at the ruins of a digital city. The people came in their droves, pretty soon the police were hunting them down for creating a sizable disturbance, but The Few didn’t care, they were outlaws of love and the sonic boom. Ask anyone who has been on any street in San Francisco over the last four years and they will know the Ferociousosity of these Few, ask any policeman and he will give you an accurate description and ask you for their whereabouts. The Ferocious Few have existed totally from the money thrown at them on the streets for nourishment, sustenance and recompense, they walk the line set down by the great bluesmen of American folklore, the great agitators of Sam Francisco history, the great gunslingers of the Old West. Tearing your heart and soul apart for a voluntary donation.
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But, luckily for you, they have been pinned down long enough to hue a portion of their large self-written songbook onto wax. Like the tablets of great change that were passed before them in the days of antiquity, The Ferocious Few give you “Juices”, their debut LP, a solid body living visceral and viscous testament to their stunning heartfelt brutality. You hold in your hand a document of a decade of hardship, the last gasp from the last true vagabonds of American music, a direct pipe from the vein of what once was good and true in this country, a desperate cry, put it on your stereo and it will drip down your walls, listen to it alone and it will feel like you have been flattened by a train and reabsorbed into the earth, play it at a party and a Bacchanalian orgy is likely to ensue.
These are uncertain times and we have to cling onto what we know we have got. One thing is sure, wherever they may be, in the darkest hills of Borneo, snaking down a Bolivian mountainside, their guitars in hand, or playing at a street corner right near you, the Ferocious Few are the real deal, and nobody can keep this music from surviving. Juices will alter your bodily juices, and the Ferocious Few will be the Ferocious many tomorrow.