One rainy Twickinshire afternoon, the members of the English band Noah & The Whale found the same email in each of their inboxes.
What’s up, guys?
We’ve decided that the world’s music has spiraled into mediocrity. Soon, using an electromagnet whose size and scope you cannot fathom, we will delete from hard drives, compact discs and records (yes, our magnet works on vinyl) all the music the world has ever known. This magnet will also render useless the brain of every musician currently at work.
That’s the bad news. The good news: a few bands will get to stick around. After all, we’ll need someone to help with the fresh start.
Because there are so many bands named after animals, and because people seem to like most of those bands, we decided that they would be the ones who made the cut.
For obvious reasons, you get the job of helping us round up those bands. In return, your band will also survive the electromagnetic culling.
Find as many as you can and meet us in Nashville one week from today.
Your friend,
Godsmack
When they had finished reading the email, Noah & The Whale met in the conference room at their studio and had a hearty laugh.
But that night, every member of Noah & The Whale had the same dream. It was the future, and the only music left in the world was the music of Godsmack.
Noah & The Whale decided that they couldn’t take the chance that Godsmack was telling the truth. Plus, they hadn’t recorded anything worth a damn in weeks and figured they might get a few decent songs out of the trip.
They split up and left Twickinshire, taking seriously their mission to round up the world’s animal bands.
Lead singer Charlie Fink went directly to Nashville to coordinate. Two days into his stay, he received an email from fiddler and keyboardist Tom Hobden:
Greetings (would it be too precious if I’d written “G’day” there? I think probably. I’ll bet people get tired of that shit.) from Australia. I’ve got Tame Impala ready to go, but I have to say it’s tough going down here. The Aussies (is it Ozzies? Like Harriet? I never know) didn’t seem to go for the animal-naming thing like everyone else. I thought the Dodos would be from this place. Well, they’re not, which came as a surprise to the bar owner I asked about them. Anyway, I’m still hoping to track down Wolfmother, but those dudes are crazy, so we’ll see. Oh, and I guess Wolf & Cub, too. Give me a few weeks and I’ll have a veritable Wolf Parade (har, har) on my hands.
Meanwhile, bassist Matt Owens had stayed behind in the United Kingdom. Owens had little trouble with Doves, who were on mushrooms and easily convinced of the veracity of Owens’ tale. The same was true of Foals, Arctic Monkeys and Frightened Rabbit, although it should be noted that the latter were drunk, not high. Gorillaz proved to be the easiest mark; Damon Albarn said he was always game for a trip to Nashville, as long as the plane he took to get there had a curtain he could hide behind.
Owens was perplexed, though, by two bands, which he noted in an email to Hobden.
Tommy, my man. Do you think Wild Beasts counts (count, what the fuck?)? And what’s up with the Wombats? Did you know they’re British? Shouldn’t they be from down there where you are? We haven’t got any wombats in Britain.
When Owens received no response from Hobden, (who, as it turned out, was on hour 35 in a Melbourne whorehouse with the bulk of Wolfmother), he told both bands that there was a new festival in Nashville in a week and that they’d better get there, and quick.
Guitarist Fred Abbott was given the hardest task: he was sent to New York. Or rather, he martyred himself by saying he’d take the hardest task. Really, he wanted to go; he was dating Kathleen Hanna at the time and wasn’t sure that Le Tigre would make the cut (what with the French name) if he didn’t make the executive decision to bring them along.
When Abbott explained the situation to Hanna, she agreed to use her considerable clout in the indie rock community and soon, Animal Collective (including Panda Bear, of course), Elefant, Grizzly Bear, Miniature Tigers, and Dinosaur Jr. were packing their vans for the trip to Tennessee.
It was at about this time that lead singer Charlie Fink sent this email to Matt Owens, whom he assumed was finished with the animal bands of the UK:
Owensy! If you’re all done back home, get to Seattle. Apparently they’re into the nature thing up there: Fleet Foxes, Band Of Horses, Modest Mouse, Minus The Bear. For fuck’s sake, right?
Owens’s response was quick:
One step ahead of you, my good man. I’ve been to Seattle already. While I was in the area, I popped down to California and picked up Deerhoof and The Dodos (what’s with these bands named for Australian animals NOT being from Australia?) and Them Crooked Vultures. Fair warning: that Josh Homme is a handful. I’m off to the Midwest next.
Drummer Michael Petulla, a notoriously bad speller, had been tasked with a Northern North America run. He’d had quick success with Caribou (made all the easier when he found out that it was only one man) and Pelican, but was left struggling with Wolf Parade and the Jayhawks. His confusion was reflected in this email to Fink:
Man, what’s up with Wolf Parade? I thought they were still together but I gues maybe that guy’s in Handsome Furs now, wich, come to think off it, is kind of like an aminal name. (You might tell Abbsey that he should grab The Antlers, cum to think of it.) But that wasn’t the hard part. Wat the fuck is a Jayhak? I ended up in some place called Kansas and when I asked what a Jayhawk was, they pointed me to these tossers wearing blu and red. I asked them if they were in a band and then they sent me to the school band. It doesn’t feel very rock and roll to me that we’d be bringing a university band. Plus I guess a Jayhawk is a mythical thing anyway. So I guess the Jaywalks or Gayhawks or whatever the shit they are aren’t going to be making the trip.
Generally satisfied with the progress of his bandmates, Fink left Nashville in a Ford Econoline and picked up Mastodon and Deerhunter in Atlanta, Mountain Goats in North Carolina, Cage The Elephant in Kentucky, Yela Wolf in Alabama, and White Rabbits in Missouri.
By the time he returned to Nashville, there was only a day remaining before Godsmack’s deadline. That night, the band met at an IHOP and checked their lists. Over a short stack of cran-apple walnut, Fred Abbott smacked his head against his forehead.
“OY! I forgot Deer Tick while I was in New York.”
Fink was quick with a response. “I already checked. They’re in town for a show.”
Owens piped up. “What about mythical birds?”
Petulla shouted, “Fuck mythical birds!”
“So, no to Phoenix?” Owens said.
Abbott whispered, “Fucking Frenchmen.”
Fink smiled. “I guess that settles that. No to Phoenix.”
Fink looked down at the list he’d made. “Anyone else got anything? Mike, did you hear anything about Wolf Parade?”
Tom Hobden raised his hand and opened his mouth.
Fink interrupted him. “Yeah, Tommy, I told everyone your Wolf Parade joke.”
Hobden put his hand on his chest. “That’s all I ask – that my comedic genius be recognized.”
Fink looked at the members of his band. “So, no?” When he didn’t get a response, he muttered, “Ah well, that fellow’s voice can get a little grating anyway.”
He stacked his papers and said, “Okay, then, men, you know the drill. Let’s get everyone to that state park I told you about by noon tomorrow.”
Then, with a start, his eyes widened. “Shit, I almost forgot. Stay here.”
With the rest of his band looking confused, he eased out of the booth and walked to the restaurant door, where he motioned toward someone in the darkened parking lot. He held the door for a black man who he then escorted to the band’s table. Noting the lack of recognition on the faces of his bandmates, he said, “Jesus Christ, guys. Don’t you know who this is?”
Michael Petulla said, meekly, “Morgan Freeman?”
Exasperated, Fink shouted. “No, goddammit. This is Hootie. You know, Hootie & The Blowfish? Where were you idiots in the nineties?”
Fred Abbott leaned back and nudged Matt Owens in the ribs. “I don’t know. Somewhere not listening to Hootie & The Blowfish?”
Darius Rucker smiled and held up his hands. With his left, he extended only his index finger. With his right, all five fingers.
Abbott said, “What is that, some kind of gang sign?”
Rucker leaned in. “That’s a fifteen, motherfucker. As in, our first album is the fifteenth-best selling record of all time.”
Deflated, Abbott slid down into the booth. He managed to squeak out, “Good point,” before turning his attention to his fingernails.
The next day, Noah & The Whale gathered the thirty-five bands destined to be the future of mankind’s music and set out for the prescribed meeting point: the mouth of a Lone Man’s Cave, near J Percy Priest reservoir.
When he saw the sign leading into the state park, Michael Petulla said, “Is this place named after Judas Priest?!” His bandmates could only shake their heads.
As the procession of bands pulled up, the diminutive Sully Erna, lead singer of Godsmack, was sitting on a picnic table, staring into a nearly-empty Jack’s Links Jerky package.
He stood up slowly and, after shaking as many hands as he could, told the group to gather around.
“I’m sure you all know why you’re here. First of all, I want to take this opportunity to thank Noah & The Whale for all their hard work. You should probably say thanks too. After all, they saved all of your musical talents!”
Erna chuckled and then started clapping. Everyone followed along, even Josh Homme.
When the applause died down, Erna turned toward the cave. “So, inside there, we’ve built a barrier to the electromagnetic pulse that’s going to render the rest of the world music-less.” He put his hands together and, then, sweeping them toward the cave, said, “So, if you’ll just follow me…”
And follow him they did. Band Of Horses was first; Mastodon was last, skeptical metal-heads that they are.
Inside the cave, Erna led the group to a massive metal door that gleamed even in the near-darkness. “As you can see, no expense has been spared. This is state-of-the-art barrier technology.”
From behind the curtain that he was holding with his left hand, Damon Albarn raised his right hand. “Will there be, I dunno, places to sleep, preferably separated by curtains?”
Erna winked at Albarn. Or rather, at Albarn’s shadow. “Plenty of places to sleep, Albarn. And anything you need is inside. Including curtains.”
Erna unlocked the door and stood aside to let the bands pass. One by one, they each walked through the door. Thanks to his mane of hair, J Mascis was the first to notice the heat. He didn’t say anything, though, because he didn’t have a guitar in his hands. Instead, it was the Arctic Monkeys’s Alex Turner who would later be credited with being the canary.
“Fucking ‘ell. Hot in here, right?”
Everyone turned to Erna for an explanation. Then, they noticed that Erna was nowhere to be seen. Brows wrinkled, faces contorted, frowns appeared. On everyone except Wolfmother, that is. Still high as kites, that band.
Feeling the most responsible, Charlie Fink shouted, “Erna! Where’d you go?”
The assembled bands heard a maniacal laugh from overhead. “You fools!” the voice said. “I can’t believe you fell for it.”
Just then, the always-eager members of Band Of Horses shouted, as a group, “Hey, someone else is in here!”
Half the group turned to the darkened interior of the cave, peering into the shadows in the hopes of an explanation. The other half continued to search for the source of the voice.
“Yo,” shouted Kathleen Hanna. “What the hell is going on?”
Erna’s voice got slow and meditative.
“Welcome, my friends, to Derivate Band Name Hell!”
“Wait, what?” Fink asked. “You told us to bring all these bands here because you were saving them!”
“Saving the world is more like it,” Erna’s voice said. “Saving the world from derivative band names. You assholes just followed along. Did you think it was going to go on forever? That you wouldn’t have to pay for your lack of creativity?”
Dave Groehl shouted, “This isn’t even my main band!”
“Sorry, Dave. Shouldn’t have just gone along with the idea,” Erna’s voice boomed.
“Fucking JPJ,” Groehl muttered.
Erna went on. “I’ve brought you here to make you think abou-“
He was interrupted when one of the members of Band Of Horses screamed from the back of the cave.
“You guys! Jack White’s back here! And Julian Casablancas! And Dan Auerbach! And that red-haired dude from The National who’s always flailing around on stage!”
From above, Erna laughed again. His voice was filled with authority. “Of course they are. They were the first inductees into the Derivative Band Name Hell. The The bands. They’re all back there. Say hi, guys.”
And then, like the zombies they’d become, they filed in. The Strokes. The Killers. The White Stripes. The Kills and The New Pornographers and The Hold Steady. The Shins, The Sounds, The Walkmen. The Warlocks. The Black Keys. The Charlatans.
It was Michael Petulla’s turn to yell. “But wait, Sully Erna, these are all great bands. You’re locking up great music here! If anyone should be punished, it’s you! Your band is terrible!”
“Of course they’re great bands. It’s just that they got caught up in a trend. Just like you did. And now they – and you – must pay! Oh, and we don’t suck. Our self-titled debut was four times platinum. I mean, maybe since then, we haven’t been so good but, fuck, nevermind, the point is that, say what you will about our music, we have a damned good name!”
Petulla nudged Fink. “He’s got a point there.”
Fink exploded. “They stole it from an Alice In Chains song!”
Petulla shrugged. “Good steal.”
The group of bands was getting restless. Josh Homme walked over from flirting with Zombie Alison Mosshart and poked Charlie Fink in the chest. “We trusted you, you asshole. Now look what you got us into.”
J Mascis, who’d gotten his guitar out of its case, sang, “That’s true.” But he covered it with too many riffs, so no one understood.
The crowd didn’t have to. They encircled Fink and the rest of Noah & The Whale. The tone got ugly, in a polite, indie-rock way.
Fink did what anyone would do. He started begging. “Hey, Sully. You only had us bring these guys here. We can go, right? Right, Sully?”
Erna sighed. “Think about it, Fink. Whale. Somehow, someway, you couldn’t resist, could you?”
Fink’s voice cracked as he shouted, “We’re not named after an animal! We’re named after a movie and the guy that wrote that movie!”
Erna cackled. “There are FIVE OF YOU AND THAT’S THE BEST YOU COULD DO?! That’s even worse!”
Jack White, who’d been circling the new group for some time, popped into the middle. “Wait, wait, wait, you’re named after The Squid And The Whale and after Noah Baumbach?”
Fink stared at him. “Yeah. So?”
White turned and started toward the darkness.
Fink grabbed Jack White by the shoulder. “What’s wrong with that?”
White shrugged. “Nothing, I guess. Except for the deal.”
Fink was shouting and sweating. “What’s the deal?”
White looked up at the ceiling. “You wanna tell him, Erna, or should I?”
Erna’s voice rang down once more. “Go ahead, Jack. I gotta run anyway. Conference call about Ozzfest.”
White rolled his eyes and looked at Fink. “The deal is that we can leave as soon as we’ve come up with new names.”
Fink’s eyebrows darted downward. “But you’re still here…”
White clapped Fink on the shoulder. “Exactly. And our name is far better than yours.”
The other members of Noah & The Whale had edged closer to their lead singer.
Michael Petulla stepped toward White. “So what does that mean, Jack?”
With a grin, Jack White stepped into the shadows and said, “It means,” – and here he pointed at the group – “that you all are going to be here for awhile.”
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Sully Erna: New Hampshire’s finest..
I’ve always thought Dinosaur Jr. was a great name.
I’ve always thought Dinosaur Jr. was a great name.