The World's Worst Rock Band
Word Count: 19861
+/- (based on minimum needed per day): + 4851
November 9, 2003: 13305
+/- (in 2003): - 1698
Just wrote 806 words in about an hour on a plot-thread I thought I'd get 500 out of tops. (Side note: It's interesting how good I've become at visually estimating word counts. I'm usually off by less than 10. For instance, I estimate this paragraph to be 53 words. [It's 50. Ho ho! Look at me! I've got skills!])
A few months ago we got some new neighbors. One of these people is in a band and they now practice in the garage behind my building. I'm not sure what they call themselves, nor do I much care. All I do know is that they seem to practice incessantly and that their incessant practicing has done them no good, whatsoever. I'm not quite sure what makes them so bad. Is it the clumsy bass guitar work; the drummer who couldn't keep time if you shoved a metronome up his ass, the singer who sounds like a cross between Eddie Vedder and Ethel Merman; or the guitarist who thinks he's Stevie Ray Vaughn but plays like Stevie Ray Crap? What I do know is that in this garage, these separate elements combine to form a musical group so powerfully bad that they can not be stopped. They are The World's Worst Rock Band a force to be reckoned with.
I have seen the band members only briefly. At various times, they take breaks for cigarettes and cheap domestic beers in the yard outside the garage. They're a strange bunch, ranging in age from about 18 to 30 and seemingly from all walks of life. I could never figure out how they came to be connected with one another.
As I step out onto my back porch, coffee cup in hand, the band takes five. The oldest member emerges from the garage. I figure him to be the drummer: He is tall and thin, has grotesque drummer's arms and ill-advised facial hair and drives the kind of van that is inevitably used in a kidnapping.
I head down the back stairs. When I reach the bottom, I can hear the other band members inside the garage, discussing the intricacies of one of their songs. Moustache-man lights a cigarette, leans against the wall, and studies the ground in front of him.
"Morning, buddy," I say amiably as I near him.
He looks up at the sound of my voice and squints at me.
"Ey." He half-grunts and half-says this word. It is certainly vocalization but I'm not sure if it can be counted as speech.
"My name's Charlie."" I say, extending my hand.
There is a full five second pause while he looks at my outstretched hand like it's a threat. Finally he remembers how the ritual of introduction goes and grabs it and shakes. "Dustin," he says.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Dustin. I really enjoy your band's work."
"Yeah?" He takes a drag off his cigarette, exhales through his nostrils, nodding his head like it's a foregone conclusion. "Ey." I guess this means "Thank you."
"I really appreciate the opportunity to hear you guys while you're still working it all out, still ironing out the kinks and whatnot."
"Sure," he says, still nodding, though less assuredly so. "Yeah."
"You're the drummer, right?" I ask.
The nodding continues, but no speech accompanies the gesture this time. Either I'm correct, or I've triggered some sort of never-ending tic.
"Yeah, you can always tell who the drummer is," I say. I point at his cigarette. "You have an extra one of those?"
The nodding turns into a shaking of his head accompanied by a tapping of the foot.
"Is that a no?" I ask.
He resumes nodding, tapping and is now slapping his thigh, attempting to attain some sort of rhythm.
"Right on. Look, I was wondering if you guys could do me a favor," I say. There is no change in his mannerisms or gestures at all, so I simply press on. "We -- me and my wife, I mean --" He looks up at the mention of a woman, sees nobody else around, and resumes his previous stance. "Well, we've been hoping that maybe you could turn down the instruments when you're playing. Don't get me wrong; we're both really big fans. She even talks about being a groupie --" Again, Dustin looks up, remembers that the female being discussed isn't around and looks back down. "But we both work from home and it's really distracting to have you guys playing so loud. I mean, you guys rock. Er... You fucking rock, man. But you know. Just rock a little quieter, if you could. That'd be great."
No response at all. Dustin is oblivious.
"Dustin? Seriously, if I could just get--" I am interrupted by the arrival of one of the other members of the band. Bad hair, bad clothes, bad skin -- probably the singer.
"Yo, Dustin, dude, come on, we figured out how to go from the verse to the chorus in 'Rat's Live in My Veins'." he says. Hearing his voice, I know I'm right about his role in the group. "Wait, who's the old dude?"
Dustin shrugs and flicks his cigarette butt into the alley. The singer retreats into the garage and Dustin follows him inside. Moments later, the musical diarrhea begins again.
Time to head to the office.
+/- (based on minimum needed per day): + 4851
November 9, 2003: 13305
+/- (in 2003): - 1698
Just wrote 806 words in about an hour on a plot-thread I thought I'd get 500 out of tops. (Side note: It's interesting how good I've become at visually estimating word counts. I'm usually off by less than 10. For instance, I estimate this paragraph to be 53 words. [It's 50. Ho ho! Look at me! I've got skills!])
A few months ago we got some new neighbors. One of these people is in a band and they now practice in the garage behind my building. I'm not sure what they call themselves, nor do I much care. All I do know is that they seem to practice incessantly and that their incessant practicing has done them no good, whatsoever. I'm not quite sure what makes them so bad. Is it the clumsy bass guitar work; the drummer who couldn't keep time if you shoved a metronome up his ass, the singer who sounds like a cross between Eddie Vedder and Ethel Merman; or the guitarist who thinks he's Stevie Ray Vaughn but plays like Stevie Ray Crap? What I do know is that in this garage, these separate elements combine to form a musical group so powerfully bad that they can not be stopped. They are The World's Worst Rock Band a force to be reckoned with.
I have seen the band members only briefly. At various times, they take breaks for cigarettes and cheap domestic beers in the yard outside the garage. They're a strange bunch, ranging in age from about 18 to 30 and seemingly from all walks of life. I could never figure out how they came to be connected with one another.
As I step out onto my back porch, coffee cup in hand, the band takes five. The oldest member emerges from the garage. I figure him to be the drummer: He is tall and thin, has grotesque drummer's arms and ill-advised facial hair and drives the kind of van that is inevitably used in a kidnapping.
I head down the back stairs. When I reach the bottom, I can hear the other band members inside the garage, discussing the intricacies of one of their songs. Moustache-man lights a cigarette, leans against the wall, and studies the ground in front of him.
"Morning, buddy," I say amiably as I near him.
He looks up at the sound of my voice and squints at me.
"Ey." He half-grunts and half-says this word. It is certainly vocalization but I'm not sure if it can be counted as speech.
"My name's Charlie."" I say, extending my hand.
There is a full five second pause while he looks at my outstretched hand like it's a threat. Finally he remembers how the ritual of introduction goes and grabs it and shakes. "Dustin," he says.
"It's nice to finally meet you, Dustin. I really enjoy your band's work."
"Yeah?" He takes a drag off his cigarette, exhales through his nostrils, nodding his head like it's a foregone conclusion. "Ey." I guess this means "Thank you."
"I really appreciate the opportunity to hear you guys while you're still working it all out, still ironing out the kinks and whatnot."
"Sure," he says, still nodding, though less assuredly so. "Yeah."
"You're the drummer, right?" I ask.
The nodding continues, but no speech accompanies the gesture this time. Either I'm correct, or I've triggered some sort of never-ending tic.
"Yeah, you can always tell who the drummer is," I say. I point at his cigarette. "You have an extra one of those?"
The nodding turns into a shaking of his head accompanied by a tapping of the foot.
"Is that a no?" I ask.
He resumes nodding, tapping and is now slapping his thigh, attempting to attain some sort of rhythm.
"Right on. Look, I was wondering if you guys could do me a favor," I say. There is no change in his mannerisms or gestures at all, so I simply press on. "We -- me and my wife, I mean --" He looks up at the mention of a woman, sees nobody else around, and resumes his previous stance. "Well, we've been hoping that maybe you could turn down the instruments when you're playing. Don't get me wrong; we're both really big fans. She even talks about being a groupie --" Again, Dustin looks up, remembers that the female being discussed isn't around and looks back down. "But we both work from home and it's really distracting to have you guys playing so loud. I mean, you guys rock. Er... You fucking rock, man. But you know. Just rock a little quieter, if you could. That'd be great."
No response at all. Dustin is oblivious.
"Dustin? Seriously, if I could just get--" I am interrupted by the arrival of one of the other members of the band. Bad hair, bad clothes, bad skin -- probably the singer.
"Yo, Dustin, dude, come on, we figured out how to go from the verse to the chorus in 'Rat's Live in My Veins'." he says. Hearing his voice, I know I'm right about his role in the group. "Wait, who's the old dude?"
Dustin shrugs and flicks his cigarette butt into the alley. The singer retreats into the garage and Dustin follows him inside. Moments later, the musical diarrhea begins again.
Time to head to the office.
posted by adam at 1:18 AM
1 Comments:
"...and drives the kind of van that is inevitably used in a kidnapping."
Or to sell shady audio/stereo equipment....
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