Born under heavy grey smog laden skies in a dreary corner of a north London boozer, the nucleus of what became Hagstone sat and supped on several pints of a thankfully nameless ale. The deciples of the stone watched on in awe (All be it unknown to them yet) as ancient incarnations of heavy riffage and thundering drums began to build. Summoning his denizens around him the God of Doom looked down from the iron temple and took another toke on a crystalline bong. 'Woe unto thee' he chimed 'that doth not heed the sludgy feedback of the overdriven stack, for he that is born too late is cursed to misery' And Lo it was at a standing stone on the cliff edge of some forgotten shore, as the sun rose in the east, encircled by dancing nymphs and antlered mummers painted in woad. The druids of the Hagstone chanted and bought forth the demon of the rock. The circle was complete and the enchantment had awakened the slumber of the wyrm. Dazed and confused they walked back to an old warehouse whose doors had been scared with pentagrams and filth, drenched in the odours of sweat and stale booze they cranked up the gain, tuned down the guitars and laid on the doom!