Charlie Pigdog just sort of emerged from a pile of garbage one day. He smelt like rat shit, orange peels and cigarette ash. No one knew where he came from, and he didn't speak much at first. All he could do was grunt and bang the counter with his fist, that meant "Another drink, please."
Very slowly and despite an intense dislike of sound, colour and people, Pigdog cobbled together a loose, nebulous, more-gaseous-than-solid collective of film nerds. We still don't know why. Merely by chance they started getting briefs from local record labels, who were desperate and broke. They'd brief anyone, handing them out like Met Cops hand out fines. That's a joke only Melbourne people would get.
Anyway, Pigdog would prepare these awful treatments full of typos and inconsistent rambling chunks of text, it was like some Ginsberg beat poet shit. No visual references, maybe the odd hyperlink that didn't work.
But he's come so far, and the journey's just begun and he had to eat a lot of his own children along the way, metaphorically speaking like that Goya painting of Saturn.