The way of the Spooky Man is complex. Our path is strewn with fallen hair and lined with black fabric. We come together in various combinations determined by geography, circumstance and whim. Each of our journeys, both individual and collective, is different, as we explore the vast territory that lies between the thug and the wimp.
We bond around the call to sing. Loosely organised (and both loose and organised) we form a single rank: from tops, though bottoms and ultimately to the middle. We sing what we are told, but we do so in our own way. We remain motionless, but we each have our own way of moving. We are both fleet of foot and slow to move. We are first among our peers, but often last to arrive. In our private lives we can be found on the loftiest academic peak and on the vilest sinks of human depravity. The spooky Man is both special and an Everyman in black.
Our colourless costumes span our varied histories and approaches to life. We are one-horned Viking. We are the pirate, the lost and confused, the overly-confident and the wise. We are occasionally in complete command of all before us and sometimes lost in our own crowd. We are often just jazzed to be on the show. We are pointless. We are grand.
Beards, hats, and a black-clad wall of sound. We are the Spooky Men.
