Time to parse a few lyrics.
When Sonny Blitt of the Blats bellows “Honeypie,” he is talking about his wife, Helen Powell.
When Sissy Spangler shouts “ !,” she is calling for her dog of that same name.
When Yoost mentions “the old school,” it is because he is divorced.
When Arch Form erupts that list of girls’ names—“Annabellacarladonnaella,” etc.—in “Guerilla Girls,” it is because he claims to have slept with every one of them while in college. (Neat trick, since he apparently lived at home and commuted. The girls in Prunella/Zanella, by the way, insist that none of them are implicated in the tune).
When Millie of the Model Marvels sings that lanquid song about “Joooooooooe,” she has not actually ever talked to Joooooooooe (not his real name)—she is crushing rather severe.
Finally, and closest to our heart: From now on, when we write of Delia “Sykie” Sykes, you are to understand that we are writing about our girlfriend.

Some of the subjects of our stories have had trouble with this concept, but we are indeed ethical, honorable, and open. Pride ourself on that. We keep a suitable distance from the scene we cover—never liked those columnists who fronted bands, or booked shows, or who otherwise had a personal fame-or-fortune stake in the scene. We figured out our place, we thought, and that meant figuring out where our place was not.
Then we fell in love.
Have we overstepped? In writing about it, we mean. We’ll find out soon enough. For now, let’s go to the distracting ellipses and bow out gracefully:

The Ted Marks survived an actual harassment suit that actually went to court. That’s making your mark in clubland. They reappear, bruised but still smirking, at Hamilton’s Thursday with the bespectacled Unhatched Eggheads and Greenhorse (is that some liquor reference we just don’t get?)… Dollaire’s has a mystery local solo act, Wisest Man in the World, along with “…And If I’m Elected,” the side project of a former Selectman and two of his trusted aides. (You know who it is. We’re tired of writing his name, and if he decides to run again all this club publicity will only be subject to the Equal Time statutes, won’t it?). Basically, it’s a night out for bigwigs coming from the nearby Downtown Chamber meeting. Reliable bar band My Son the Double Agent (aka Teenybopper for the CIA when its female back-up singers are along) is there for support, and will do two full sets of corporate covers so the suits and ties can dance… The Bullfinch has Is Anybody Listening?, Eighth Deadly Sin and Girl in the Freudian Slip—three bands with blondes!—but even our favorite watering hole can’t hope to match the biggest show in town that night: a convention for sex therapists and licensed sex workers at the hotel on the hill. Appropriate (and appropriately named) bands—some members of which are in the sex field themselves—have been approached from far and wide, and the two-night ballroom blitz features (though not necessarily in this position, uh, order) Nude for Hire, Backyard Sport, Pussycat Transplant, Room at the Topless, No Good End, Henri’s Big Night and The Mislaid Brassiere. Beat that, or beat off…