Declarations are never easy. Because of the highly uncertain nature of the outcome, there are misses – many, many misses. As the story goes – or as the Hollywoodland rom com trope goes:
Boy meets girl, girl doesn’t notice. Boy starts drooling over girl, and yet girl still doesn’t notice (her friends do though). Boy fumbles; girl giggles but still barely notices (notice the pattern?). Boy’s family and friends (and the entire school and community) lose all faith in boy; but [idiot] boy’s obstinacy knows no bounds – much to the chagrin of girl’s father, older brother and football jock (strap) beau. You get the picture
As you can tell from my above text – that could easily be packaged and sold as a screenplay treatment for a coming-of-age comedic film starring Jason Biggs, a pie and a host of other 30-somethings playing at horny teenagers – such declarations are difficult. But what you’re about to read is a real account, and could be happening as you read this – and it’s not a comedy.
Now instead of “boy meets girl”, think of “boys meet instruments” – and no, not their own even though we’ll later refer to them as ‘wankers’, and make fun of them in conversations with our friends. These boys meet musical instruments (stop it), and they are of the idea to form a band. So off they go and form their band and “declare” as much – “We are a band.” Of course we all know that the only thing you need to be a band these days is a Facebook account, and to have your sister, your drinking buddies and the other unfortunates to “Like” your page – trust Facebook to turn the word “like” into an unlikable chore.
Instruments in hand (stop it) and gear all sorted, they start jamming “classic” tunage by the likes of Nickelback and One Republic (even though their idols are German cabaret act Tokio Hotel) – whatever has happened to proper musical reference? They learn to play the song “Hero” from the Spiderman movie that starred Tobey Maguire, and it’s not before long that they feel confident enough to perform the acoustic version of the song.
They play it at the drummer/ backing vocalist’s deaf grandmother’s 90th birthday party, getting an ovation – only the drummer/ backing vocalist couldn’t perform because the lead vocalist and other guitarist perform the acoustic version. It sucks that there are no drums in this version of the song, but gran doesn’t know this because she’s senile and doesn’t recognise half of the people here. All she remembers is losing her bloomers from all that rolling about in the hay with a few strapping soldiers who had just returned from serving in World War One – this of course is way before the twat swatting (female version of cock blocking) STDs. The band is well on their way to mediocrity.
Dressed in skinny jeans, pink shirts and skinny ties, and armed with industrial amounts of hair products, they set about telling everyone who will care to listen that their band is the best thing since The Pigeon Detectives – because if you reference an obscure English band then you’re too cool to ridicule. When asked where they are playing next, they don’t readily have an answer. All that they are willing to say underneath the Chernobyl level toxic seepage into their skulls is that they are “working on their sound” (newly acquired phrase) in the studio, and they will have a listening party where all the cool people will be along with some industry “heavyweights”. “You should come”, they say.
Weeks and months pass – actually two thirds of the year pass and you run into them and ask when their album is coming out. They tell you that they are still perfecting their EP – Michelangelo eat your heart out, Sistine what? “Music should not be rushed” you’re told. You’re promptly directed to Soundcloud where you can find their music, and are pre-warned that the music on there is not the ‘finished’ product and when it eventually comes out, it will be amazing. At this point you’re way past cynical, but you try and hide it well. That evening when you get home you sit in front of your computer and search for the band. “Success!”, you find the band’s page and you’re convinced you’re at the right place because there is not a sorrier looking bunch of wankers (now is later – see above) on the Internet.
Against your better judgement you ‘click’ on the song and prepare to be whelmed – neither over- nor under-, just whelmed. What happens next can only be described as “the complete evisceration of your faith in humanity”. They are useless. Utterly bad, and they would make Cacofonix (Asterix character) sound like Luciano Pavarotti. They are worse than bad. Theirs would be the music that irritates the savage beast – lead the beast to come down from the mountains on a rampage to destroy quiet villages in Nepal. You even go as far as re-naming the band, “A Fistful of Wank” – and forget what ever names their mothers gave them, from this day on they shall be known as Wanker 1 – all the way down to the last member.
Now do you understand why declarations are never easy? Why some things are better left to those who not only have the backing of their friends and family, but also the accompanying talent as well? It takes more than a Facebook page to be in a band, and before you entertain the idea, think carefully about what it is you’re undertaking. Do not declare that you’re in a band if only your families have heard you play.
* It has to be noted that the writer of this piece has recently been found out to having been kicked out of a boy band that never quite made it big at the height of Boyz II Men’s fame. He maintains it was due to “creative” differences that he was ‘voted off the island’. He laments the late arrival of Simon Cowell on the music scene, as he has since proven to have an ear for talentless hacks.
