I want to play in a band with a crazy name.
Maybe something semi-emo with pseudo-poetic lyrics
about how miserable we are.
Toothpick Backpack, we could go by.
You can play the guitar and sing; I will play the drums.
No, the bass. Yes, and your name will be the known one, but
I will know that I am the backpack, and you, the toothpick.
Our hit single will be called: “If Only Yesterday She
Would Have Noticed Me Instead of the Rims on His Car.”
We’ll get a hip hop dj to produce it, and we’ll sound cool.
I’ll wear large-framed sunglasses. You can sag your pants
and wear a gold cross, even though you’re an atheist.
Or maybe not that. We could form
a Led Zeppelin tribute band, and call ourselves
Tin Blimpie. Oh? Too much like Thin Lizzy? Ok,
perhaps China Cabinet with Blonde Bangs. Better?
Crazy enough? It sounds mysterious enough,
and once we get famous as a cover band (acronym CCBB)
we’ll write our own songs and everyone will love them.
Or instead: something smoother, jazzy. We’ll call ourselves:
Saturdays in Saskatchewan. Just rolls of the tongue.
On the nights when we perform (including
but not limited to Saturdays and in more places than just the one
province) you will sit slyly at your drum set and nod hypnotically
like you’re constantly agreeing with the sharp rumble of your snare drum.
I’ll play the keyboard for this one. Maybe we could do something like
The Roots but call ourselves The Nodules. No? Ok,
now let’s imagine we’re on stage. We’ll need a singer. She’ll stand
in the front. And of course a bass player since I’ve switched to keys.
And whatever else (what else do jazz bands have?). You’ll look at me
and nod. And there will be at least one girl in the crowd who’s never heard
of us but liked our name and came with her boyfriend. I’ll look at her
while we’re performing our last song. And then she’ll make her way backstage
so she can see me smile again.
