The story of Gorillaz is a characteristally messy one. Saturday Boy Stu-Pot, a keyboard obsessive and nice kid dullard, is the star employee at Uncle Norm’s Organ Emporium, on course to make regional manager. But then comes a Saturday to end all weeks (just like a Sunday, but with shopping).
Murdoc, with his nasty bad boy crew, ramraids the shop in a tatty Vauxhall Astra. His plan: to seize the synths and form a chart topping band with the booty. He drives... SMASH!... through the shop window and... SMASH!... into Stu-Pot’s head, fracturing his eyeball. Result: 30,000 hours of community service for Murdoc, plus 10 hours every week of caring for the vegetabilised Stu-Pot.
Soon, Murdoc’s rotten driving skills again force life to take a different turn. While attempting a 360 doughnut spin in Nottingham’s Tesco carpark, he catapults Stu-Pot through the windscreen and into a kerb. Stu-Pot’s other eye is fractured, his mind is revived and he stands a young, black eyed god, with hedgehog hair and a vacant stare. Not only that, but his synth playing takes a serious turn for the weird.
Perfect pop material. Stu-Pot is renamed 2D (because he’s got two dents in his head). Now Murdoc needs a drummer.
Rewind a few years. In New York State, Russel, a middle-class kid, is forced out of his posh private school due to his being possessed by a demon. He lies in a coma for four years, until an elaborate exorcism sets him free. Russel joins Brooklyn High, where he falls in with a group of talented street musicians, rappers and DJs. Hip-Hop saves his soul. For a time. A random drive-by shooting kills all of his friends and as Russel, the lone survivor, lies in a state of shock, the spirits of his chums invade his body, turning Russel’s eyes a spooky white and giving him amazing drumming, rapping and general hip-hop skills.
His parents move him to England, where they hope he’ll have the chance of a quieter life. They hadn’t reckoned on Murdoc, who tracks Russel down in a Soho Rap Record Store. Now, all the fledgling group need is a guitarist. They place an ad in the NME. The day the ad is published, a Fed-Ex’d freight container is delivered to their door. Out jumps a small Japanese person carrying a Les Paul. She jabbers at them incomprehensibly, before launching into a riff to end all riffs, rounding it off with a hi-karate jump. The boys are speechless. Noodle has one word for them. It is Noodle.
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