I first met Freeky Teeth inside. Not ‘behind bars’ you understand, but in a bar near Braemar in 1997. ‘The Teeth’ – as the band rapidly became known for the sake of brevity and indeed phonetic decency – were fond of a libation or three, as was evidenced during the now infamous Secretary Tour of 1972 when bassist Keith Beaks attempted to write and perform the world’s first song entirely about cocktails. Packets of cheesy wotsits were distributed at the doors of venues, not unlike the great sport of darts, the better to appreciate the song’s louche sophistication.

Personally I had my doubts. But then again, what do I know? I was but a squawking bairn back then – helpless and incapable – defecating into some cotton towelling was a journey to the outer reaches of my ambitions in life at that stage. Indeed, the thought of exploring the outer reaches of sound in the ungodly sonic space bus that was Freeky Teeth’s challenging live album, Labyrinth Tramp, would have been an act of supreme folly

Colin is the author of 9 articles including 'A Farewell to Teeth: An Extract' from December's Leither

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That album, recorded at a gig held in a maze (crowd surfers became easily lost) went on to be regarded as a landmark in rock.

Quite literally, in the case of a later concert on the Isle of Man, where a crazed member of The Teeth’s entourage – extreme groupies known as ‘Molars’ – attempted to create an homage hewn from the sea-bullied stone of the Calf of Man, a famous (or now infamous) Manx landmark. Tragically he lost his grip and fell, consumed by the brine, after only managing to carve the leg of the Labyrinth Tramp from the eponymous triple album’s cover.

Sadly despite their three-legged Celtic symbol and their motto, ‘wherever you throw me I will stand’, the homely Manx frown upon the peripatetic life and alas this insane leggy monument to vagrancy and my favourite band is no more. It was torn down to the sound of wet applause ringing across the seal-infested straits.

So what now remains of Freeky Teeth? What of vocalist Bonjela Jones, bassist Keith Beaks, and enigmatic half-blood organist Merde? Not forgetting their, rather unexpected, manager Doctor David Alun? What of that night when they played an unplugged session in the old Leith Custom House using only found nauticalia for instruments? What happened to their back catalogue, which makes that of Argos look like a scrawled map on a scrap of foolscap? What legacy have these titans of the inner anvil left to us? Nothing.

I wish I could say it wasn’t so, but despite my best efforts to prise open their rock gobs and get to the bottom of their demise, on that maroon night in ’97 – when by chance I met The Teeth in that bar outside Braemar – there were no gaps in their collective front row. No caries in their stories. Just the limp yellowing grins of four once talented guys who gave the world their best shot.

Unfortunately the world reciprocated in spades. In that insane duel there could only be one winner. Goodbye Freeky Teeth. And thanks for nothing, you raggedy tosspots.

A, slightly soiled, Freeky Teeth T-shirt is available for sale or lease from The Leither…

Illustration by: B. Craig.