A band with actual talent, a band we can actually believe in, has ascended the national pop charts. Such unexplained phenomena calls for a bout of excessive drinking at the Finch. In our revelry, we decide that there’s only one explanation: someone has juiced the stats.
We know that the talent exists in our humble burg to engineer such an upset. Breaking into a database and tweaking a few 0s and 1s comes as easily to some of this college town’s scenesters as does drumming one’s fingers to Tide’s “Freshness” riff.
Why, just over there at the next barstool is Persil Gel, well-known bassist, indie music enthusiast, ace engineering student and suspected hacker. Could he have pulled off this magnificent heist of public adulation for a band that actually matters?
“Of course,” he smiles when first approached for a confession. Later, when the accusation is amiably repeated (we are on our fourth rum and ginger ale by now), he’s asked why he wouldn’t send his own band, Pure X, up the charts instead of an act from outside the city limits? “Too obvious,” at first he smirks. Then, “that’s your shtick anyway.”
It takes us a moment to get our head around the phrase “shtick anyway,” due to the inebriation. Then, when we get it, we feign umbrage. Then, six g-and-rs to the wind, we feel it for real. How dare…?! Who does…?! Why, we…!!
We believed we stood accused of patriotism for personal gain, of impure passion, of compromised community-fueled fandom. We’ll restate again, for the congressional record, that we love this town. We love the sounds of this town. We’re sorry we caused a disturbance. (We left of our own accord, in case you’ve heard from anyone that Q had to eject us.)
The meteoric rise of one of our favorite misunderstood national bands was shorter-lived than our hangover—a hallucination, probably. We have apologized to all concerned for our fervor.
It’s in the clear, sober, light of day now that we consider this burning question: Why do we get so excited about this stuff? For a moment it seemed that our team was winning, and we went wild. We jested about how this couldn’t possibly happen in the real world, and when a decent person bought into our joke and twisted it a little too hard, we went bonkers.
We love this town. We love its sounds. We love the folks who love the music we love. We love those who translate it into the language of far-off lands, or who journey perilously to bring our immortal poetry to the ears of other, less fortunate cultures.
What we can’t do, clearly, is take a joke. We’ll be working on that. Meanwhile, if anyone wants to jigger the chart standing of Zanella a few notches upward, we’d be happy to buy you a drink.
Coming clean about upcoming gigs: Ecos accosts the Finch, shattering the day of rest with Soap Nuts opening…. College jams with Planet Ultra and Squeaky Green at Hamilton’s just before the students all hightail it for home… A daft (or will it be deft?) set by The Drefts begins a banquet at Gamble’s, the restaurant next door to Dollaire’s, where the band will play Tuesday. Is there a closet or a parking space where they can store their equipment in the meantime so they don’t have to lug it home to their overstuffed Dreft studio pad?…