Tuesday, December 18, 2007


In 1997, at a VFW show in Port Huron Township, an exuberant crowd of underage drinkers gave my "No Alcohol" show policy a complete 180. This crowd was not the same indifferent crowd that came to see my band. No, these kids belonged to Neighborhood Funk Posse, an ill-named
local band that achieved legendary status despite being absolutely terrible.

I'd mistakenly thought all the excitement was indicative of a loyal fanbase and not the excessive consumption of PBR and Labatt Blue (from the can, of course!). With the prohibition lifted, a change was expected but never occurred. Somehow, in the ten years since, it's only recently occurred to me that my band sucked.

My bandmates didn't like our band. Not wanting to practice, record, or own anything we released, they politely humored me as if I were the autistic leader of a Butthole Surfers cover band. Thanks, fellas! Butcouldn't you have sent me a memo?

At a Labor Day party on some swank estate a few years back, during the middle of a conversation about something else entirely, a grown man said, "I was too weird for my punk band. I was always trying to throw in an extra little beat on each riff -- an extra little AH! -- and they kicked me out." I wanted to say, 'No, they kicked out because you have a personality disorder.' Instead, I held my tongue because no one told me.

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