The OverCovers are a franchise—a frighteningly precise one.
The conglomerate exists to pump out a fixed repertoire of 214 current and classic, instantly recognizable pop tunes “by famous artists.”
The business model is a five-piece band where the keyboardist doubles as a saxophonist and triples as a woodblock percussionist.
It requires a blond male singer.
We have seen three separate OverCovers in action. On any given night, between two and five platoons are in the region, treating shallow listeners to stuff they’ve been forcefed by the mainstream radio stations pumped into their bland workplaces, a stultifying rock which they sadly crave even when they go out to drink and forget other aspects of their dismal day jobs.
We have talked this over with various OverCovers, who take the criticism with a bemused grin. After all, this is THEIR job, and not a bad one. If they work extra hard for the host company, Party Party Party Party Party Entertainiment, also DJing or doing a magic act, they can even get benefits.
We still find it sad. A waste. A shame. We like our shame to be original, and we like it to come in spurts of noncommercial rebellion, preferably bellowing out of the PA at the Bullfinch. When we are overcome with love for music, it is never because we have been OverCovered.

The Tower Treausure and Footprints Under the Window at The Bullfinch… Bombay Boomerang (a cocktail reference) and, looky here, The OverCovers (Model B) at Hamilton’s… Jungle Pyramid at D’ollaire’s, joined on this leg of the tour only by Sting of the Scorpion; other towns got Firebird Rocket…