The Mother Black Caps want to mean something to people. The fire in the belly, the fight in the dog. "Crossing our fingers will never stop, hurricanes and bombs still drop," they snarl, with the same wisdom as a young Joni Mitchell, over a backdrop of Clash-like rhythm and scratching guitar. Not for the faint hearted, The Mother Black Caps want to be a mouthpiece for the untold story of injustice the world over. From Rusholme to Russia. Crowds nod in agreement and smile in realisation that this is not a band content with spouting the same old familiar tripe about drinking and dancehalls. Fascists and scenesters beware. Rebels and rudeboys unite. If the world's about to end, The Mother Black Caps won't go down without a fight.