Kipp & Dean were formed in the swampland of Huddersfield in the early noughties. No one is sure of the exact date but it coincided either with the appearance of an epic meteor shower, the biggest electrical storm since records began or that time Centro’s accidentally gave an extra portion of chips to an undeserving out-of-towner. Many songs and gigs have been written since that fateful date. Kipp & Dean wrote a few and played some too.
They blazed a trail through the dormant acoustic scene of Huddersfield, West Yorkshire, UK – blowing the minds of all who were fortunate to witness their powerful brand of original rock/blues tunage. With a generous dollop of charisma, smattering of skill, BTEC in banter and shares in VO5’s [matt clay] look, they took no prisoners. The womenfolk of that backwards township stood no chance…it was only a matter of time before Dean began his man-journey; wrecking a seemingly endless stream of confused girls as Kipp filled his diary with stories of the epic adventures he heard nightly through the cheap, thin walls of his stale, broom-cupboard bedroom.
The hits began to drip off their strings like some kind of freakish, musical STD… Little Derek, Apologies, Lorna, Generic Love Song, Dusty Room, Careless Sodomy, Uni Blues, Tonite, Southern Comfort with a Judas Kiss and many, many more. There seemed to be no limitation to the inspirado flowing freely from those two six strings and their devil-masters.
The legend began to build with stories of near-missed gigs due to stalking landlords; shots of jagermeister handed out at gigs like tissues at a bukkake party; x-rated posters that drenched pants on sight; mammoth drunken performances designed to belittle others and create hysteria in the venue management; classic rock songs desecrated with altered lyrics designed to stroke inflated egos… it was a glorious adventure. And a pointless one. But still they pushed on; creating and coercing new, admiring fans whenever they changed jobs. It was a smart move and one that ultimately paid off with their final gig culminating in an unholy mix made up of the great unwashed staff from four different casinos (Kipp) and 17 different bars (Dean).
That night is still talked about in feverish, hushed tones in the indie bars that line the deserted streets of Huddersfield’s once nearly-deserted social scene. Bar owners pass on the legend of the two hometown heroes who riffed, writhed and rocked their ways into the hearts of the 60+ crowd – pausing only once to check their hair and do a couple of cock pushups before ending the night in self-declared glory with a clitorial-stimulating acoustic rendition of Primal Scream’s Rocks.
The years in between have brought little to fruit other than a handful of new (unheard) classics and the continual deflation of their once, God-like egos. But something strange happened recently. Kipp stumbled across an idea while deep in one of his (now weekly) depressed, bourbon-induced states: they had to ejaculate their music and legend to the very country that inspired the faux transatlantic tones Kipp is legendary for and where Dean once said he wouldn’t mind going “If I could stop spending all my money on getting women drunk enough to see past my butters face and stroke my goddam length!”.
And so the idea took hold and filled them with the gleeful, giddy enthusiasm usually only found in newly pubescent boys as they swap stories about a girl they once nearly fingered. In the end it was the only place that made sense. The only country that would appreciate their undeserved sense of righteous entitlement. The only place that was less than 9000 miles away, spoke English and offered burgers and a blow job every other road sign. It had to be the good ole US of A. And it HAD to be a fuckin’ Road Trip….