Imagine the gloved hand of a beast as dark as sin itself suffocating you in the middle of the night as you lie in a bed in a cottage in the middle of some Eastern European back woods miles from any form of civilisation, the rest of your friends and family mutilated and pasted across the walls downstairs.
LCJ are the sound of your nightmares licking at your exposed legs, before they jerk you out of a paranoid state and into the reality of hell itself. This is the face of the thing you dread.
A live spoken word/noise and performance group specialising in the macabre, they are as intensive as a hot poker to the urethra. Watch out! Beadle’s hand is about.