Essentialy you take four guys who really, really want to be in a band. They slam out the same four chords really loud, really fast, and really distorted to hide the fact that their instruments are crap and they can't play them worth a damn anyway. The vocals are all shouted instead of sung because the singer doesn't know how to sing and the lyrics are about what we hate in society because we're not poets and can't think of something better.
But the drummer jumps ship. But it doesn't matter. We're all friends and we have a good time practicing, even if half the time practice consists of performing spinning kicks in a stairwell while holding instruments to see how good it'll look. And when that ends and you're locked outside it doesn't matter because you're laughing and already planning the next song you'll almost never record.
Start using a drum machine because apparently the last drummer was one in 7 billion and there isn't another to replace them. But it doesn't matter, we're not really serious about this anyway. We get better with the instruments, in fact we're pretty good and the singer can sing and we have a gig planned, things are looking up.
Then the bass guitarist jumps ship. More literally than the drummer.
So we're left with half a band and an ambiguous black notebook full of songs that don't seem to matter anymore. We're done with this, it won't be the same anymore. But there's one more song that has to be written. The last song, it's the end of the line so why not play punk rock? So we loaded up on guns, brought our friends took a black pen and wrote the last song.
"Drummer is just another word for target"
And we laugh over that title and our friends laugh too. It's a good title. And just like that the chords are strumming again. The last song has become the first. There may only be half a band but that doesn't matter. The music is still music, and even if the guitarist has to record the bass and the singer has to program the drums its still the same sound, it's still the same band even two members short of a party.
We're playing again in the basement and talking about making it even though we know we never will again. We're back to what we always were:
Punks without a message.
Rebels without something to rebel against
Menaces to a society that could care less.
But nonetheless, the band is playing. All's right with the world.
Cadence of the Fading
This is the band I got myself mixed up in. The band that somehow ended up on the opposite end of my documentary. I met them on the street after a Rise Against concert... you know the big one they just had down at the ACC? It's not important how I met them. I just started hanging out with them a bit while they tried to record.
Right away one of the first things that happened was the lead singer, John Guilt, had it out with the lead guitarist, Billy Slaughter, over some small detail. That's when I decided to stay. I could be romantic and say I didn't know why I decided to stay but that would be a lie.
I knew exactly why I stayed, this was the type of band where a crisis happened every twenty minutes. Where everyone was an emotional trainwreck waiting to happen. The old bass guitarist was dead, the new bass guitarist always felt like the replacement for a dead man, the lead singer and guitarist fought over everything, and the drummer chain smoked like her life depended on. This was the makings for a perfect documentary. This was my shot