In 1978, at age 2, two young French-American kids, Arthur and Thomas, met secretly behind the apse of Notre-Dame de Paris and decided to form a blues band. It took them fifteen years to find Charlie playing guitar on a bridge over the Seine River, steal Zim the bass player from another rock band, and hook up with Rosemary, who was singing since age 8 in the streets of Paris alongside her father, country-folk singer Wayne Standley. The newly formed family called itself Moriarty, borrowing the surname used by a few fictitious characters designed by Kerouac and Conan Doyle.
Moriarty is a collective made of six individuals, each bringing his own twisted musical and artistic culture into the game. Sometimes they clash, sometimes they get along and vibrate. The sound of Moriarty functions like a strange body, a Frankenstein creature. If Thomas’s harmonica is the belly, Rosemary’s voice is the heartbeat and the breath, Arthur’s guitars and keyboards are the hair and the brains, Charlie’s guitar lines are the hips, Zim’s basslines are the eyes and memory, and Eric’s drumbeats are the arms and legs. The fingers are everybody’s.