It was 1994, and our band was called Jesus Squid. Naturally, we described ourselves as "Grungy." For three years we played in the basement of the MaJaFra house--so named because Matt, Jason, and Frank lived there--and refined and tuned our sound. We went from amateurish, to jammish, to cultish, then back to amateurish. We weren't of the genre "Grunge"--we were of the lifestyle. 10 people joined and left the band in those three years.
Paul, who could play drums better than Matt, but was always too busy chasing pussy to be taken seriously. Jager, son of a local hippy legend, who could play heavy metal riffs like none other, but was incoherent until he'd consumed 96 oz of beer, which, predictably, didn't improve the situation. And Pete, who was Jager's match on the bass, and knew every Rush bassline from memory. That's when I was a rock star. Because I was the singer. And backup bass player. Yes, we had two basses. That's how grungy we were. For three years we jammed,
perfecting our sound, tweaking our songs. We were rebellious. We made bold statements about our culture. Our songs were "Anti-Religion" or "A.R." "Matricide ala Mode" summed up our position on family values. "As Usual" told the tale of a reoccurring break up.
We were prophets. But destined to be silent. For three years, perfecting our sound, molding our music and our words, we only played out four times. We were shy in our rage, tentative in our rebellion, and dim in the lights of our egos. We knew in our hearts that we rocked, but we mostly just rocked out. We were loved and worshiped and adored. Legions came to sit on moldy couches in the basement of the MaJaFra house to consume narcotics and dig our energy, braving the fact that the amps were in a puddle of water right next to the furnace, the microphone kept shorting and shocking me in the lips when I sang too close, and the only illumination was a strip of christmas lights that only worked half of the time. And then, without warning: our big break!
A fellow band was having a big show and wanted us to open! We prepared. We practiced. We lined up chicks for after the show. We ate acid. And we played. It was a real gig, at a real bar.
There were seven of us up on that stage: Frank, Matt, Jason, Paul, Aaron, Thales and Pete. And, certifiably our crowning moment, we played all twelve of our songs--built, constructed with all of the pain and raw, angry, Indiana energy of the lost--in 23 minutes. "Scum" was the best, almost creating a pit. "Jesus in my Pants" made them scream for more. "Toilet Water is Cold" brought the funk. We didn't last for long beyond that show.
We were growing up. Matt had turned 21. Jason and I weren't far behind. Pressures of the world, drugs and women were our demise. Matt wanted to go serious. Jason just partied. I was angry at the world. In the end we split apart. Not because we wanted to. But because we had to. We were too volatile, too raw, the naked energy of world-fearing Hoosiers shorting
us at every contact, letting our music bring us no peace. We found entropy instead of comfort, and the moment was over. And, but for one recording, lost for all time. That's when I was a rock star, and always will be, for all time.
- Frank C., teacher, "poly" and "dom"
Check the music: "Jesus Squid" & "Scum"
