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Not just a strong and powerful voice, he such a great stage presence.

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This was their guy! The final piece to the line-up was the drummer. After a dozen or so of frustrating auditions and disappointments, Todd recruited 17 year old Brian McGuckin whom he had played with in a band before. With his high energy playing and influences from Bill Ward and John Bonham, he would become the final piece to the infamous Coven line-up.

With the assistance of Richie Karacynski, the writing process had begun. The Wicked Day was written after the King Arthur lore. They began playing the Detroit music circuit extensively. Mainly the underground scene. After building a fan base in the city, the band had enough original material to record a full length album. In the spring of , the band entered Spectrum Studios to record their first album which was recorded and engineered by Cal Sands and produced by Roger Cyrkiel.

Cal was the driving force for capturing the bands unique dark, doomy and gothic sound.

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All tracks were recorded on 16 tracks with the exception of Ruler, which was the only track recorded on 24 tracks. It was released in late on vinyl. Only were copies pressed. The band began to play extensively in supporting the new album. Not only playing The Detroit underground scene but also extending out to the N. The addition of the 13 came about one day when the band received a letter from the original band Coven of One Tin Soldier fame , requesting them to change their name and stated that they had copyrights and would impose legal action against them.

Respectfully, the band did. Joe won't let them! He's delirious but he's hangin' on. We diven't think for long, though. Joe's at home. He says he can feel his legs but not the rest of his body. It'd be reet funny, that, if it wasn't so tragic. Bloody cages! He'll not be the last they trap! Now scramble, lad, d'you hear?

And in those days, too, we had the phone; some of us. But Zachary Gardner hated them. Likewise cars, though he did keep a motorcycle and sidecar for making his rounds. Across the fields and by the copse I sped, aware of faces in the trees but not wasting time looking at them, and through the graveyard and up the cobbled track to the flat crest of the knoll, to where my uncle stood in the doorway in his shirtsleeves, all scrubbed clean again. And I gasped out my message.

Without a word, nodding, he went to the lean-to and started up the bike, and I climbed slowly and dizzily to my attic room, panting my lungs out. I took up my binoculars and watched the shining ribbon of road to the west, until Uncle Zachary's bike and sidecar came spurting into view, the banging of its pistons unheard at this distance; and I continued to watch him until he disappeared out of sight toward Harden, where a lone spire stood up, half-hidden by a low hill.

He came home again at dusk, very quiet, and we heard the next day how Joe Anderson had died that night. The funeral was five days later at two in the afternoon; I watched for a while, but the bowed heads and the slim, sagging frame of the miner's widow distressed me and made me feel like a voyeur. So I watched the gypsies picnicking instead.

They were in the field next to the graveyard, but separated from it by a high stone wall. The field had lain fallow for several years and was deep in grasses, thick with clovers and wild flowers. And up in my attic room, I was the only one who knew the gypsies were there at all. They had arrived as the ceremony was finishing and the first handful of dirt went into the new grave.

They sat on their coloured blanket in the bright sunlight, faces shaded by their huge hats, and I thought: how odd! For while they had picnic baskets with them, they didn't appear to be eating. Maybe they were saying some sort of gypsy grace first. Long, silent prayers for the provision of their food. Their bowed heads told me that must be it.

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Anyway, their inactivity was such that I quickly grew bored and turned my attention elsewhere. The shock came not to me, you understand, for I was only on the periphery of the thing, a child, to be seen and not heard only three days later. The first shock of several, it came first to Harden village, but like a pebble dropped in a still pond its ripples began spreading almost at once.

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It was this: the recently widowed Muriel Anderson had committed suicide, drowning herself in the beck under the viaduct. Unable to bear the emptiness, still stunned by her husband's absence, she had thought to follow him.

But she'd, retained sufficient of her senses to leave a note: a simple plea that they lay her coffin next to his, in a single grave. There were no children, no relatives; the funeral should be simple, with as few people as possible. The sooner she could be with Joe again the better, and she didn't want their reunion complicated by crowds of mourners. Well, things were easier in those days. Her grief quickly became the grief of the entire village, which almost as quickly dispersed, but her wishes were respected.

From my attic room I watched the gravediggers at work on Joe Anderson's plot, shifting soil which hadn't quite settled yet, widening the hole to accommodate two coffins. And later that afternoon I watched them climb out of the hole, and saw the way they scratched their heads.

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Then they separated and went off, one towards Harden on a bicycle, heading for the viaduct shortcut, and the other coming my way, towards the knoll, coming no doubt to speak with my Uncle Zachary. Idly, I looked for the gypsies then, but they weren't picnicking that day and I couldn't find them around their caravan. And so, having heard the gravedigger's cautious knock at the door of the house, and my uncle letting him in, I went downstairs to the latter's study.

As I reached the study door I heard voices: my uncle's soft tones and the harsher, local dialect of the gravedigger. I've worked out what was said since then, as indeed I've worked most things out, and so am able to reconstruct it here: "Holes, you say? Drilled there, like. Power of them. And anyhow, he's only been doon a fortneet. I told him, be as quick as you can.

It wasn't that I was a snoop, and I certainly didn't feel like one, but it was as well to be discreet. They left the house and I followed on, at a respectful distance, to the graveyard. And I sat on the wall at the entrance, dangling my long skinny legs and waiting for them, sunbathing in the early evening glow. By the time they were finished in there, Mr Forster had arrived in his big, shiny hearse.

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Mr Forster was a thin man, which perhaps befitted his calling, but he was sweating anyway, and complaining that the car was like a furnace. I never heard anything like it! Damage, more like,' and he glowered at Billy and John. Not only playing The Detroit underground scene but also extending out to the N. The addition of the 13 came about one day when the band received a letter from the original band Coven of One Tin Soldier fame , requesting them to change their name and stated that they had copyrights and would impose legal action against them.

Respectfully, the band did. As a band that has already established a name for themselves in the Detroit music scene and with the success of Worship New Gods, they quickly decided to simply put a 13 after Coven. It made sense, 13 witches in a coven. From that point forward, the band was to be known as Coven Recorded at Sterling Sound and engineered by Gordon Carver. During the time of the recording sessions, tensions had been starting to brew within the band.

Alcohol and substance abuse had become an attributing factor. This had led to poor production of the recordings.