The Grunge Years, Revisited

How the fuck are we supposed to make peace?

Talking about the way things were

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Indignity is built into rock and roll’s price of admission. When you pick up that guitar you should know that you’ll spend more time standing around pissed soaked alleys than playing on stage. With that said fast-forward to last night, my band, The Fruiting Bodies, were playing a poorly attended mid-week gig at an extremely professional rock club and I was working the door. (While horrible smells and two drink tickets are guaranteed by every club, having someone there to collect money to pay the touring band is not.)


As I was stamping hands a wolf pack of Cialis fiends entered the building. I asked the Business Casual Crew if they knew someone in the bands. The replied no, but stated they were familiar with the last band. This was very strange as I play in the last band and we don’t have (m)any fans, let alone fans who voted when Gerald Ford was on the ballot.

The pack was out of their element and the sounds of Terminal Fuzz Terror were clearly making them uncomfortable. It quickly became apparent that they were not there to see The Fruiting Bodies but Fruiting Bodies, the female folk group from Montreal. I did not offer them a refund and they did not buy a t-shirt.