The myth, the menace, the melody.
Stoic but intense, Johnny is the face and legend of Thistleblade lore. Leather jacket, eyes like a back alley after closing, and a voice that turns streetlights into confessionals.
He sings about backstreets and broken hearts and rips solos that “sound like he’s both chasing and escaping a Megabus.” When the lights cut, he’s still ringing out—feedback like church bells.
Deadpan queen of groove and sarcasm.
Brona sets the emotional tempo and the lyrical bite—stone-faced until the chorus hits. She loves a deep pocket and an even deeper drag on a cigarette, anchoring the chaos with velvet thunder.
Once fought a bouncer with a Buckfast bottle and still made soundcheck. The meter doesn’t move unless she says so.
Quiet until he’s not. All things glowing and throbbing.
The cinematic engine behind the neon—pads like fog, arps like streetlamps. Davie paints the alleys in pulse and vapor, wiring the backbone of tracks like “Trackies in the Moonlight” and “Craig Tara.”
He doesn’t talk much but he’s got six burner phones and every one of them only calls the future.
“This one’s for every wee fanny who ever left ye on read.”
Kilt, combat boots, and a grin that starts bar fights. Shay hits like rent’s due and the landlord’s knocking, throwing gasoline on every chorus and yelling harmony like it’s a dare.
Probably does motivational TikToks under a fake name. Definitely breaks sticks on purpose.