Back when I was a freshman in college, I hung out with a bunch of guys who thought they had a band. I guess they did have a band and the fact that they never had a gig, never figured out what their genre was and never played an entire number during practice without screwing up does not disqualify them from labeling themselves as a band. Discord within the band was almost a perennial affair. The original drummer and bassist ditched the group to become traitors – that is, fraternity preppies who grooved to “The Hurt” by Kalapana (which, until just now when I googled it, I didn’t know had an article in the title) – and the garage door closed on them forever. This presented a new problem. They held their practices in the drummer’s basement. Not that they could put in much practice anyway since five minutes into the soundcheck, one of the village guards would ring the doorbell to tell them that the neighbors were complaining. There were numerous discussions about soundproofing, but the drummer flaked before any action could be taken. Then there was the frontman, A. He couldn’t play an instrument and he couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he had plenty of wit, so they decided to do rap metal. Except that A’s timing was also off. They were really an awful band, but they were pretty good friends. They let me go with them to a battle of the bands even if I was wearing a floral blouse, bright yellow jumper shorts and a pair of jellies.