IT'S FOR YOU, RABBI
I was telling you yesterday about the "branding conflict" over my band's name, The Burners. We ARE The Burners, but we can't CALL ourselves The Burners. I've come up with some new names, but the rule is, both my brother Voger and I must be 100 percent behind the final choice. Neither of us can compromise. Here are my ideas so far: Thieves & Liars; The Fallen; The Freaks; Mad Jack; Wicked Ways; Lost Souls; Black Dragons; Dust 'n' Comfort; White Horse Pike; Kipling Road; Whiskey River; School Daze; Rock Combo; The Original Burners.
This is the fun, easy part -- the fantasizing that goes on at the beginning of the project.
The best part of our recent kickoff practice was, as always, just hanging out with the guys after we've unplugged. Fro handed me his cell phone when he got his brother Ben's voice mail -- his brother who is now a rabbi in Florida, and who I was on football and track with in high school. We all left him a truly horrible, vile, disgusting message. Fro later said, "His only regret will be that he can't save it."
Ah, good times.
At the next practice, we'll have 12 new (to us) songs to work on. We're going to play three one-hour sets of music -- 36 songs in all. That's pretty brutal. I'm the eldest band member -- I'm "Elder," remember? It's going to take a lot of work. But this is just what I need. I need to hang out with my friends in my time of profound sadness.
All of us, in good times and bad, need something like this every once in a while. It's a tribal thing. When we finally step onstage, it'll be Four Morons Against the World. (Hey, maybe THAT will be our new band name!) We'll do our best to play a great show. But this humble venture is a journey, not a destination. Yes, it's a goal-oriented enterprise, but to tell you the truth, I'm not looking much further than the next practice. That's when I'll see my idiot friends' beaming faces as they get out of their cars toting their guitar cases, their coolers, their grease-dripping bags of chicken wings. That's when we'll say, Remember the time we went to see Blue Oyster Cult at the Spectrum? Or when Fro threw that corned beef sandwich at those construction workers? Or when that crazy dude tried to back his truck up a super-steep hill over a guard rail onto super-trafficky Berlin Road? Or when we got snowed in at Fro's? Or when we guzzled the fruit drink out of the fridge of that day school whose cellar we rented? Or the hundreds of incidents that can't be shared in polite company, even when recounted in impenetrable code?
Me and these clowns have FORGOTTEN doing more things together than today's young punks will ever DO. Thank God.
This is the fun, easy part -- the fantasizing that goes on at the beginning of the project.
The best part of our recent kickoff practice was, as always, just hanging out with the guys after we've unplugged. Fro handed me his cell phone when he got his brother Ben's voice mail -- his brother who is now a rabbi in Florida, and who I was on football and track with in high school. We all left him a truly horrible, vile, disgusting message. Fro later said, "His only regret will be that he can't save it."
Ah, good times.
At the next practice, we'll have 12 new (to us) songs to work on. We're going to play three one-hour sets of music -- 36 songs in all. That's pretty brutal. I'm the eldest band member -- I'm "Elder," remember? It's going to take a lot of work. But this is just what I need. I need to hang out with my friends in my time of profound sadness.
All of us, in good times and bad, need something like this every once in a while. It's a tribal thing. When we finally step onstage, it'll be Four Morons Against the World. (Hey, maybe THAT will be our new band name!) We'll do our best to play a great show. But this humble venture is a journey, not a destination. Yes, it's a goal-oriented enterprise, but to tell you the truth, I'm not looking much further than the next practice. That's when I'll see my idiot friends' beaming faces as they get out of their cars toting their guitar cases, their coolers, their grease-dripping bags of chicken wings. That's when we'll say, Remember the time we went to see Blue Oyster Cult at the Spectrum? Or when Fro threw that corned beef sandwich at those construction workers? Or when that crazy dude tried to back his truck up a super-steep hill over a guard rail onto super-trafficky Berlin Road? Or when we got snowed in at Fro's? Or when we guzzled the fruit drink out of the fridge of that day school whose cellar we rented? Or the hundreds of incidents that can't be shared in polite company, even when recounted in impenetrable code?
Me and these clowns have FORGOTTEN doing more things together than today's young punks will ever DO. Thank God.
posted by Mark Voger at 11:51 PM
3 Comments:
I'd vote for 4 Morons Against The World.
I'd second that, though I like White Horse Pike to. It has a certain "regional flavor".
There is no better bonding than a bunch of C.H. East "burners" getting together for some ear splitting rock and ridiculous alcoholic drinks. It doesn't get any better than that! Those who have never tried it don't know what they are missing. I'm also leaning towards 4 Morons Against The World, it's very sophisticated.
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