It was not that The Clientele had never slain any monsters. Rather such was the stricken state of the beasts which they encountered that the process was more akin to euthanasia than any of them would care to admit.

Other more lauded heroes lured their prey to the gates of the city where they could create a spectacle before the enamoured and terrified public. The Clientele preferred to work in the depths of the heaths on the outskirts of the city, hiding their exploits behind foliage and scenery. They claimed to feel an intimate connection with the environment in which they worked, as if “the trees and the fields we look at, were secretly looking back at us.” They referred to this phenomenon as “hyperawareness” and sought to induce its occurrence by talking at length to old men in local pubs after dark.

At the height of their powers The Clientele met the Minotaur, who, as it turned out; Theseus had never found the time or the inclination to slay. Having left the Labyrinth the Minotaur had become jaded with and disorientated by the unfamiliar urban environment in which he found himself. It’s not happening anymore” he complained, “the city seemed to blur and fade.” The Clientele took pity upon the strange beast and elected not to slay him, but instead to recruit him into their roving band and prepare a mini-album in his honour.

At first, like many unfamiliar with The Clientele, the Minotaur was bored by their understated and gentle blend of brit-rock, chamber pop and prog folk. He was accustomed to duelling with fearsome warriors, not musing upon rain falling in gardens and other such trivialities. Yet as the Minotaur spent more time with The Clientele their simple melodies became less cloying, the insistent tempo of their songs became more motivating, their abrupt bridges more exciting, their moments of adventure –particularly on ‘Jerry’- more daring. The rough and calloused heart of the Minotaur softened and he became increasingly impressed. At length he realised that rain falling in gardens was “the only way death turns to life”.

In the five-minute long spoken word movement ‘The Green Man’, the Minotaur uncovered the philosophical heart of the band. It seemed to epitomise the interplay of the city streets and the vestiges of nature dotted between among the buildings and labyrinths where he had spent his time. Rarely in his closeted life had he taken the time to allow a minstrel’s song to wash over him, and yet here before him was a band which refused to acknowledge any aggressive search for hooks but instead demanded, and indeed merited, a passive surrender on the part of the listener. Sure, the Minotaur admitted to himself, at times their songs still rambled, or were a little too reminiscent of simple brit-pop, but those moments were fleeting and forgivable.

Having tamed the Minotaur and made him one of their own The Clientele had finally given him a home, and a little precious solace. And so they continued on their way through the wilderness of Hampstead and the tarmac of Stoke Newington while the people waited expectantly for their next great -but understated- victory.