From 2001 to 2010, I played bass, screamed backup (and the occasional lead), and wrote about half the songs for a band created by stagehands while day-laboring. It’s a joke that got out of hand, but that was the joke—how “serious” it was. It’s a real-life reversal on the old vaudeville comedy routine, “The Aristocrats!” I won’t name it here—partially because it’s embarrassing. It’s also the punchline.
We recorded with a two-time Grammy-nominated reggae artist, played shows throughout Northeast USA, and even toured Japan. We opened for a few recognizable names, and a couple of times, recognizable names opened for us. Our venues ranged from laundromats and a marina to skate parks and a Rocky Horror screening, park shelters, barn parties, basements, living rooms, VFW halls, “private clubs,” a 20,000-seat amphitheater that was completely empty, and, of course, plenty of bars.
We played three shows in three different area codes, across two states, in under 24 hours. That is: playing last at a late gig -> travel -> afternoon gig -> travel -> opening for another band. We did that twice.
The songs were short—around two minutes each. Some bands stick to three chords and the truth; we mostly stuck to two and lied by omission. No bridges, no guitar solos—except for the occasional bass solo.
The guitarist leaned more toward the sound of that compilation disc of ‘80s L.A. hair bands doing punk covers. The lead singer had a B.A. in poetry and a voice that reminded me of Jello Biafra. I’ve been advised by legal counsel not to comment on any other band members.
My bass playing was influenced by Bauhaus, the Cure and Devo, and I was in constant motion. I would practice at home in front of a full length dance mirror, jumping straight up and down for hours. I threw my basses in the air, ground them against amps and ground them against my body — all while screaming half the words.
I co-wrote the band’s first song with the lead singer, Jason, while coming back from a rural amphitheater where the band was formed in 2001. It might have been that very day; if not, it was soon after. Most of the route in the country is near highway speeds, but avoiding interstate tolls has its own cost: a meandering zigzag through Batavia. I slowed down to 30mph at the city limits, and I said as we approached the familiar roundabout:
“It’s a cliche, but we need to have a song about an author.”
With just a slight hesitation, Jason suggested “You mean, like, maybe, ████████?”
Exiting the roundabout to Oak Street, “Yeah, just like ████████.”
Right turn onto Main. Jason rolled his eyes, spun his hand in small circles, like spinning the smallest lasso, “So, it can be something like, ‘Smashing my bottles in the middle of the room!'”
“Just like ████████.” After a pause, I added, “I don’t even own a fucking broom.”
We weakly mumbled in rough unison, “Just like ████████.”
Past the Dunkin Donuts.
Jason: “Drunk as hell…”
Me: “And it’s not even noon.”
“Just like ████████… Just like ████████…”
We continued like that until the left fork in the road by the courthouse, and we had the first verse and chorus. That conversation took place over the course of less than 1000 ft. I got home and put a basic I–I–V–IV chord progression over it, and because it was the first song, I could get away with it.
It got some online plays in numbers that were kind of huge for the time. It got on the radio a few places. They were playing it in Japan, too. It’s still our “biggest hit.”
Around 2005, a blog that appeared to be the official site for the iconic Chelsea Hotel — complete with daily entries stretching back several years — shared a link to Just Like ████████, referring to it as “the theme song of the Chelsea.” That ringing endorsement is the only thing that made me doubt the site’s authenticity. Still, it was a little bit of a thrill, even if the claim was hyperbole. A long list of historically significant artists and songs are associated with the place. Leonard Cohen wrote Chelsea Hotel #2 about Janis Joplin giving him “head on the unmade bed while the limousines wait in the street,” and even that doesn’t crack the top ten.
The secrecy seems unusual, but another issue with mentioning this band by name is it attracts lawyers. Just getting threatened with a lawsuit is still can be a couple dozen billable hours. While I emerged victorious with every case, at least six other people weren’t as lucky.
(Sidenote: A big pet peeve is when people use the word literally incorrectly. It’s like a tiny death. That word is sacred.)
Around 2003, a band in Richmond, VA popped up with the same name. We sent them a literal cease and desist. Trademarks are established state-wide. Oddly, I had established the band’s trademark in Virginia thanks to literally the only CD sale I made online at the time— one copy, sent to Richmond, back in 2002.
(That happened twice to me with Richmond. Around the same time, an Empty Grave formed down there, too, but when we found out, despite our 1999 release sold in stores nationwide by Earache Records, our response was, “Well, good luck with that. It never did us any good”)
A band in California recorded a demo thinking it wasn’t going to be heard much further than outside their city limits, but after a major label signed them and made 100,000 copies, one of their fans informed our lead singer that his poem was on the album. We learned that literally a quarter of their album’s lyrics were lifted literally word-for-word from our lead singer’s poetry website. I can’t discuss the details, but there was a settlement, and I did enough work to receive a nice chunk of it, theoretically.
That’s just the stuff I feel comfortable talking about; even if my legal counsel assures me, while it is a tight fit, I still have “plenty of headroom.”
Anyway, I also handled the band’s merch and media—designing the posters, flyers, t-shirts, the logo, and the CDs. I booked a bulk of the shows, contacted press and radio, and created and wrote the band’s blog, which included 3D animations and an SEO strategy that kept it in the top three search results for our entire genre for almost the entire nine years it was active.
