Beyond The Dreams of Avarice...
Late in early 1981, a strange light was seen in the sky over the leafy suburb of Plankton.
Three disenchanted noise merchants and their pack animals trudged wearily along the towpath on the south bank of the mighty River Tom, bemoaning the state of popular music and fomenting political rebellion (the pack animals' attempted coup was overturned by the Evil Empire some months later).
Suddenly, there was a tearing scream from overhead and the noise of mighty engines, as a Vauxhall Turbo- Supernova, pursued by a bullet-spitting squadron of black fighters, tried to pull off an impossible diving turn, stalled and plunged into the icy waters.
Smoking debris bobbed to the surface and floated off down-river.
Ten minutes later, a figure, seated on a battered flightcase (which later turned out to contain a battered Casio SH-1T synthesiser) and paddling with a battered Spanish guitar, emerged from the mist and made his way to the shore.
This must be some musician, thought the noise merchants, he's certainly no pilot, so they kidnapped him and forced him to sign in his dentures for a new career.
The noise merchants stowed Time Lord Tim (foritwashe)'s salvage on to one of their llamas, threw their personal baggage to the backs of their minds, waved a damp finger in the wind and resumed their search for the Muthalode. Behind them, a huge explosion and a ghastly cloud showed where a cruise missile from the Evil Empire had bombed the leafy suburb of Plankton into oblivion.
The noise merchants navigated with the aid of a map that appeared to have been xeroxed on a goatskin, and spoke in a grunting language that seemed to be devoid of verbs. The sun came out and birds began to sing and the Time Lord's spacehoodie began to dry out. That night, under a canopy of stars, the noise merchants took out cheap guitars and a drum (apparently made from an old vacuum cleaner) from their packs, passed around a bottle of a throat-searing spirit, laughed a lot, and grunted something about an audition. The Time Lord, mindful that the SH-1T was his main weapon in his mission for the Trilothonian Stromblastula Conglomerates of Ni, was loth to waste its atomic battery, but soon the night was pierced by its eerie howls and piercing squeals.
"Perfect- you're in!" voted the noise merchants.