This discography compiled, edited, and formatted by John Relph. Much information has come from the wonderful Wonderland XTC discography compiled by Shigemasa Fujimoto (Thanks!). Some information was also found in and/or verified by Brad Nelson's (Bremerton, Washington) XTC Discography.

I am indebted to the maintainers of these other discographies for additional information:

The Fine Print:

Oldje3some Miriam More Moona Snake Marcell Upd Apr 2026

They didn’t demand explanations. The group had learned that people are repositories of small departures and soft returns. The word “more” became their vow: to be open to additions, to tolerate mystery, to accept that some stories arrive in fragments. Snake unlocked not just doors but the idea that safety can be offered in patience. Marcell taught them that maps are living documents, updated as paths erode and new footways appear. Miriam kept the ledger—dates, melodies, little things—so that the arc of their gatherings could be read later with empathy rather than judgment.

They met each Tuesday beneath a plane tree that smelled like lemon oil. Conversation flowed in fragments: memories traded for sketches, a song swapped for the outline of a childhood home. Together they formed an informal ritual—an “oldje3some,” a coinage Miriam invented to mean an old, chosen circle of three-plus—because meaningful assemblies refuse tidy labels.

I’m not sure what that phrase refers to. I’ll assume you want a short, creative article inspired by the words you gave. Here’s a concise fictional piece: oldje3some miriam more moona snake marcell upd

Oldje3some: Miriam, More, Moona, Snake & Marcell — Upd

Miriam found the message scrawled across an old notepad slipped beneath the café’s sugar jar: “oldje3some miriam more moona snake marcell upd.” At first it read like a cipher, a memory half-erased. She traced each word with a fingertip and let the names bloom into a story. They didn’t demand explanations

On the night they finally found Moona, she was playing under an old pier, the sea pressing a steady rhythm against the pilings. Her music had shifted—darker, calmer—reflecting a person remade by absence and return. When she saw them, she smiled like a bookmark slipping back into place.

Their search didn’t yield dramatic revelations. Instead it revealed small connective tissue: a postcard from a seaside town tucked inside a violin case, a recording of a tune with a slow, oceanic cadence, a map annotation—“Follow the moonlit pier”—in Marcell’s precise hand. Each clue invited them to update themselves: upd. Snake unlocked not just doors but the idea

In the end, the phrase meant less than the practice it inspired. They learned to listen for returns, to celebrate partial stories, and to believe that even the briefest encounters—an exchanged song, a shared map, a folded note—could be the beginning of something quietly enduring.

Credits:

The Fine Print:

Oldje3some Miriam More Moona Snake Marcell Upd Apr 2026