Born from a frothy puddle of drool dripping from the chins of a thousand musical zealots, Sister Peach clambered out of the primordial ooze on top of a small floating Tamborine zipping between the interdimensional heartstrings on god’s great marionette.
The star-born duo were not cast from the same mould. Joey London was a bearded flower child strumming through a field of digital daisies and Percy Peach played slap bass in a ska beach boys cover band. It was a timeless mix of Hippie and Hawaii, the classic odd couple. Their conscious clash of charisma was the perfect oil to grease the wheels of inspiration. They performed a mind meld using alcohol wipes, an Atari 2600 and an old yellow stack hat and the subsequent explosion caused the universe to orgasm. The pink cloud of aftermath painted their future on the wall; it was a picture of a peach and a million screaming humanoids. Sister Peach had arrived.
They stole a space ship, which in their universe resembled a giant fuzzy slipper, and hoisted themselves into the dark chasm of space with only misspent youth and wine stained teeth to light the way. The message is love. Follow the funk stains.