Crede tells his story

Long after the festival was over, out of the oozing post-party ur-slime crawled a new life. The mud, impregnated by stomping feet, music, kebabs, paper plates and spilled alcohol, cast forth Crede.

Like Athena out of the head of Zeus, Crede was born fully-formed, mature and beautiful. He left his festival Valhalla before the approaching winter froze the ground and made his way to the Capital City.

After days, months or years spent dashing from one darkened, band-infested watering hole to the next, Crede felt the power course through him. His desire, inflamed by rock'n'roll, lack of sleep and dionysian spirits, found its shape.

A t-shirt.