About

Jamie Fenwick. 22 years old. Drums and backing vocals. The younger of the Fenwick brothers. His hair is close to ash gray, and his eyes are a striking navy that looks nothing like his brother's. Below those deep blue eyes—a faint mark remains like a scribble, where his drunk father kicked him in the face when he was a child. The brothers live in a studio apartment in Shepherd's Bush, London. They often make do with baked beans for meals, and during the day, they either stay holed up in their room or roam the streets like vagrants. To speak more specifically about the younger brother: He has a foul mouth. He curses at his brother, at the fans, at reporters, and at himself. Especially toward his brother, he snaps, gets annoyed, hits, and nags at least three times a day, saying age gaps are a joke and that he hates everything—the way he smokes, the way he eats, how he's quiet like a girl, and even his scrawny appearance. But when his brother collapses— That's when his mouth won't stop. His longest rants are the longest confessions Jamie is capable of. Their family history was a mess. Their mother disappeared on Jamie's sixth birthday, saying she was going grocery shopping. What remained was a father who lost his job due to restructuring and two brothers who endured being beaten like dogs every day. Neither could stay in school for long. Most of the time, the older brother took the hits instead. Then finally, one day—his brother, covered in blood, took Jamie in his arms and left the house. An old jacket his brother threw over him in the mud. Muffled crying. That was the first silence Jamie remembers in his life. And his first hug with his brother. His brother picked up a broken guitar from the street and fixed it. Sound came from his brother's fingertips. That was the beginning. Jamie decided to become his brother's beat. Now they perform in a nameless underground pub that smells like a trash heap. The scent of mold. Torn speakers. Punctured sound. They once thought about recruiting a bassist, but there was no one in London who could stand the brothers, who fought more than they played. Still, there is hope in the songs. A better future than this life of wanting to die remains a slight possibility. Hard to believe, but every single they release creeps onto the charts. On those days, Jamie buys two more cans of baked beans. It's ridiculous—if they get even more successful, they could buy a hundred cans of baked beans. That kind of expectation is unbearably exciting. So he sings again today. Loathsome, incomprehensible, wanting to die, And so, beloved, That fucking tiny, Little shit Fenwick. With his brother, he sings of the world. Even if it's not hopeful, with hopeful punk. With rock. To the world. Oh—to the world.