I have a peculiar habit of inventing names for bands that don’t exist.
Not occasionally, mind you. I’ve devoted a measurable portion of my adult life to this activity. A phrase will wander into my head, I’ll recognize its potential as the name of a musical group, and I’ll dutifully add it to a running list of performers who have never performed, albums that have never been recorded, and careers that have never had the opportunity to collapse under the weight of their own artistic ambitions.
I have no band. I don’t have any immediate plans to start one. And I’m not particularly interested in managing one. Nevertheless, I’ve accumulated a respectable collection of names just waiting for musicians who will almost certainly never arrive.
Most bands, I assume, begin with a few people who know how to play instruments. They practice together, develop a sound, write some songs, and eventually confront the difficult question of what to call themselves.
I’ve eliminated virtually all of those unnecessary intermediate steps.
I begin with the name, and I end there.
It’s an extraordinarily efficient approach to accomplishing absolutely nothing.
The Surprisingly Legitimate Contenders
Not all my imaginary bands are ridiculous. Some are actually pretty good, if I do say so myself.
Low-Class Nobles, for example, strikes me as a perfectly serviceable band name. There’s an inherent contradiction between the two words that suggests either a working-class rock group with aristocratic aspirations or a collection of wealthy musicians desperately pretending to understand the struggles of ordinary people. Either way, there’s an audience for that.
Debt Mountain seems equally plausible, although perhaps a little less cheerful. I envision a blues-rock outfit whose entire discography chronicles the increasingly desperate financial decisions of its members. Their debut album might achieve considerable critical acclaim while selling just enough copies to cover the cost of their secondhand amplifiers.
The Past Futures has a different appeal. It sounds vaguely philosophical, possibly electronic, and just pretentious enough to qualify as serious art. There’s something compelling about the idea of futures that used to exist — tomorrows we once imagined but never experienced.
And then there’s Exquisite Disaster, which could reasonably describe any number of musical genres, disastrous romantic relationships, or ambitious family holiday gatherings.
The Sudden Panics practically demands a nervous, high-energy post-punk sound. I imagine their debut album being called, Everything’s Probably Fine, and followed almost immediately by It’s Definitely Not. Perhaps the band would develop a reputation for frantic performances, abrupt tempo changes, and cancelling concerts over entirely imaginary emergencies.
These names have something in common: I can imagine seeing them on a concert poster without immediately assuming somebody made a mistake. The trouble is that I can imagine them so convincingly that I occasionally wonder whether I’m actually inventing anything at all.
For all I know, somewhere in the world, four aspiring musicians have just settled on Debt Mountain after three months of bitter arguments. And here I am, having accomplished the same thing independently, without even owning a drum kit.
When Language Stops Cooperating
Other entries in my collection are somewhat harder to defend. Consider Muffins Whisper Sideways.
I have no idea what that means.
I’m not even certain what it could mean.
Muffins don’t whisper. Whispering doesn’t ordinarily have a direction. And yet, taken together, those three words possess an undeniable quality of musical legitimacy.
I can picture the band. I can imagine the album artwork. I can almost hear the music, although I suspect it would involve an excessive number of synthesizers and at least one instrument that isn’t technically an instrument.
Clouds Eat Furniture occupies similar territory. As does Windows Taste Panic.
There’s something fascinating about combining ordinary words into arrangements that are grammatically recognizable but semantically useless. Each individual word is perfectly reasonable. Their collective meaning, however, is apparently on an extended vacation. And somehow, the result sounds like experimental indie rock.
Diminutive Palate takes a slightly different approach. Unlike the previous examples, the words actually fit together in a reasonably intelligible phrase. They just don’t seem particularly interested in communicating anything useful.
Is it a reference to a physically undersized roof of the mouth? A sophisticated way of describing someone with exceptionally narrow tastes? A band whose artistic range is deliberately restricted to three chords and a single emotional state?
I don’t know. But I can imagine their critically acclaimed debut album, An Acquired Distaste, being enthusiastically recommended by people who secretly don’t enjoy listening to it.
Then there’s The Rhythmic Absorbtions, a name that sounds vaguely scientific, musically relevant, and just grammatically questionable enough to suggest that the musicians involved were better at playing instruments than spelling.
The misspelling, incidentally, wasn’t intentional. But after discovering it, I rather liked it. Apparently even my imaginary bands can develop accidental branding.
Perhaps that’s the secret to naming a successful alternative band: string together three unrelated words, arrange them into something resembling a sentence, and allow the music critics to do the intellectual heavy lifting.
“Windows Taste Panic explores the existential disconnect between domestic architecture and the emotional consequences of modern consumerism.”
There. I’ve written the first review, and the band hasn’t even formed yet.
Albums in Search of Musicians
Not all these names were intended for bands. Some arrived fully formed as album titles, which presents an entirely different problem.
A band name is something musicians might reasonably use for years. An album title, on the other hand, can afford to be a little more ambitious. More dramatic. More elaborate. Occasionally, considerably more stupid.
Which brings me to one of my personal favorites:
The Rattling Death of the Monsterblow Chopper.
This was conceived specifically as an album title.
I don’t know what a Monsterblow Chopper is. I don’t know what caused its rattling death. I don’t even know whether the Monsterblow Chopper was a machine, a person, a mythical creature, or some unfortunate combination of all three.
But I know, with considerable confidence, that its demise deserves an album. Probably a concept album.
I’m imagining an eleven-minute instrumental introduction, followed by a series of increasingly dramatic compositions chronicling the creation, triumph, deterioration, and ultimate destruction of the titular Chopper.
The final track would almost certainly feature a prolonged guitar solo fading into the unmistakable sound of loose mechanical parts tumbling down a staircase. Of course, there’s the question of who might record such a masterpiece.
Fortunately, I have a band for that.
Captain Accident & the Urgent Dilemmas.
Frankly, I can’t imagine a more appropriate collection of musicians to chronicle the mechanical disintegration of something called a Monsterblow Chopper. Their entire identity suggests a history of catastrophically poor planning.
I can envision the promotional tour already. Half the concerts would be cancelled due to logistical complications, with the remainder remembered primarily for unfortunate incidents involving pyrotechnics equipment.
Another potential album in my collection is I Ain’t a Pretty Fucker, But I’m Pretty Fucking Close.
Unlike the Monsterblow Chopper, this title doesn’t require an elaborate fictional mythology.
It requires a man — a very particular kind of man.
The sort who wears sunglasses indoors, refers to himself in the third person, and has somehow mistaken personal hygiene for a personality trait.
I imagine the album cover would feature an uncomfortably close photograph of this man’s face. Probably one taken in a gas station bathroom.
The music would be an entirely separate disappointment.
Performers Who Probably Shouldn’t Perform
Some names in my collection are deliberately awful. Not accidentally awful, mind you. There’s a distinction.
An accidentally awful band name is one that somebody thought was clever but ultimately wasn’t. A deliberately awful name recognizes its own shortcomings and enthusiastically embraces them.
Consider The Almost Not Stale Crackers.
There’s a remarkable amount of self-deprecation packed into those five words.
The name doesn’t claim freshness. It doesn’t even confidently claim an absence of staleness. It merely suggests that the band might, under favorable circumstances, be approaching a condition in which it is almost possible to describe its signature sound as “not stale”.
That’s a spectacularly low bar. And I respect it.
Their debut album could be called We’ve Been Worse, followed by a sophomore effort titled Still Technically Performing.
Then there’s The Wet, Wet Toots.
I can’t provide a particularly sophisticated explanation for this one. It just makes me laugh. That’s pretty much the entire artistic justification.
I picture a brass ensemble composed of musicians who are genuinely talented but utterly incapable of taking themselves seriously. Their concerts would attract an audience divided between people who appreciate complex musical arrangements and people who simply enjoy saying the band’s name aloud.
Blankity Blank and the Motherblanking Blankers falls into another category altogether.
There’s a pleasing rhythm to it, even though the name itself is essentially an extended exercise in refusing to say anything.
It’s aggressively profane without containing a single actual profanity. That’s almost an achievement.
Bionic Inbreeders is another questionable addition. The name suggests an unsettling intersection of genetic misfortune and technological advancement, as though some mad scientist decided the most effective way to improve a catastrophically limited gene pool was to install aftermarket parts.
I imagine the band would specialize in industrial metal, with an album titled Artificially Selected and promotional materials that would make any actual geneticist deeply uncomfortable.
And then there’s Colonel Tractor.
This one arrived with its own tagline: Pulling Hoes Since 1868.
I feel certain the Colonel would front some form of aggressively Southern country-rock outfit, possibly incorporating farm equipment into the percussion section. The military rank lends an air of authority to a performer whose entire musical identity appears to be built around an agricultural double entendre.
The year in the tagline is especially important. Not 1860. Not 1870. Precisely 1868. As though the Colonel’s questionable exploits were verified by contemporary historical records. Never mind that the year predates the commercially successful gasoline-powered tractor by several decades. The Colonel was apparently a pioneer in more ways than one.
And I haven’t forgotten The Tryhards, a name whose effectiveness would depend entirely on the quality of the music.
If they’re exceptional musicians, it’s charmingly self-deprecating. If they’re terrible, it’s simply accurate.
Either way, the name works.
My Imaginary Music Industry Expands
The more I look at this collection, the more I realize I’ve inadvertently begun assembling the ingredients of an entire fictional music industry. I’ve got plausible rock bands, pretentious experimental acts, questionable novelty performers, and concept albums devoted to the destruction of machinery that doesn’t exist.
I’ve even got a few titles that seem ideally suited to other imaginary performers.
Your Problem Now, for example, would make a magnificent farewell album. I can picture a bitter, exhausted group of musicians announcing their breakup, releasing one final record, and giving it that title as a parting gesture to their former record label.
Or perhaps it would be a debut album by a band whose members had just been expelled from three other groups. Either interpretation seems reasonable.
The Southern Itch could tour with The Remedies, perhaps opening for Crimes Against Nature during a poorly attended regional festival. Colonel Tractor would almost certainly headline the same event, with The Fever Blisters serving as his opening act, although I’m not convinced anyone involved would appreciate the implications of that billing.
Taco Attacks! would naturally be the band that everyone remembers from that festival, although nobody could adequately explain why.
While Sharkey’s Fanboys and the Monstrous Renditions would probably enjoy a brief period of inexplicable commercial success, it would inevitably be followed by years of arguments about who Sharkey actually was.
At some point, these imaginary performers would begin collaborating.
Captain Accident might make a guest appearance on a Debt Mountain record. The Tryhards could record an ill-advised tribute album to Long Tall Trouble. The members of Muffins Whisper Sideways might publicly accuse Clouds Eat Furniture of stealing their sound, despite neither band possessing anything remotely identifiable as a conventional musical signature.
The Rhythmic Absorbtions might attempt to incorporate every other band’s music into their own, while the Bionic Inbreeders could collaborate with Crimes Against Nature on a concept album called The Family Circuit.
Before long, I’d have enough material to document rivalries, lineup changes, disastrous tours, artistic reinventions, and the occasional mysterious disappearance of a bass player. All without having to listen to a single note of music.
Which, considering the quality of some of these hypothetical acts, might be the most merciful aspect of the entire enterprise.
A Compendium of Unaccomplished Achievements
I’ve begun thinking that these names deserve some form of preservation. Not because they’re particularly important. Quite the opposite.
They’re completely unimportant. That’s what makes this exercise interesting.
We spend considerable portions of our lives generating ideas that never become anything. Most disappear almost as quickly as they arrive, forgotten somewhere between the morning commute and the realization that we’ve walked into a room without remembering why.
Others stick around. A phrase sounds interesting. A peculiar combination of words makes us laugh. Some apparently useless thought occupies enough mental space that we feel compelled to write it down.
And then what? Does it need to become something?
Does every idea require a practical application, a commercial opportunity, or some measurable contribution to human progress?
I’d like to think not.
Sometimes an idea is simply entertaining enough to deserve continued existence, even if the only thing it ever becomes is an entry in a list. I’ve therefore decided to give my growing collection a suitably grandiose title:
Compendium of Performers & Albums That Never Were (or at Least Never Should Have Been).
It sounds official — almost scholarly.
I imagine a large, authoritative reference volume, complete with alphabetized entries, fictional discographies, detailed biographies, and extensive documentation of concerts that never happened.
Perhaps there would be reviews of albums that were never recorded. Interviews with musicians who were never born. A definitive account of the creative differences that led to the breakup of a band that never got together in the first place.
And, naturally, a substantial appendix dedicated to the mysterious fate of the Monsterblow Chopper.
The possibilities are endless. The accomplishments are nonexistent.
All Names, No Music
Of course, the practical absurdity of the whole situation hasn’t escaped me.
Somewhere out there, a band is desperately searching for a name. Somewhere else, a musician has written an entire album and has absolutely no idea what to call it. There are probably aspiring artists right now arguing over logos, album covers, promotional materials, and whether their chosen name sounds too much like that of another band nobody has ever heard of.
Meanwhile, I’ve got 31 perfectly serviceable names, no band, no instruments, no recording contract, and no intention of doing anything about any of it.
It’s a remarkably inefficient division of labor, but I’m not particularly bothered.
I have every reason to believe the collection will continue growing. Another nonsensical phrase will eventually intrude upon an otherwise ordinary afternoon, and I’ll dutifully add it to the compendium.
Another band will be born without members. Another album will be released without music. Another promising career will end before it begins.
And I’ll have contributed absolutely nothing to the music industry. Except, perhaps, a little unnecessary competition for the naming rights (which seems appropriate).
After all, someone has to think of these bands that never were.
Apparently, that someone is me.
Appendix: The Complete Collection of Musical Nonentities
For the sake of historical accuracy, and in the unlikely event that future musicologists wish to investigate the origins of these nonexistent performers and their unrecorded masterpieces, I offer the complete collection to date.
Presented in no particular order of merit, artistic achievement, or likelihood of ever earning a dollar:
- Low-Class Nobles
- Debt Mountain
- The Past Futures
- Them Folks
- The Tryhards
- Exquisite Disaster
- Long Tall Trouble
- Crimes Against Nature
- The Fever Blisters
- Unfunny Jokes
- The Remedies
- The Rattling Death of the Monsterblow Chopper
- Taco Attacks!
- Sharkey’s Fanboys and the Monstrous Renditions
- The Southern Itch
- I Ain’t a Pretty Fucker, But I’m Pretty Fucking Close
- Blankity Blank and the Motherblanking Blankers
- The Almost Not Stale Crackers
- Captain Accident & the Urgent Dilemmas
- Radiomachine
- Muffins Whisper Sideways
- Clouds Eat Furniture
- Windows Taste Panic
- The Do Thats
- The Wet, Wet Toots
- Your Problem Now
- Colonel Tractor — Pulling Hoes Since 1868
- The Rhythmic Absorbtions
- Bionic Inbreeders
- Diminutive Palate
- The Sudden Panics
Note: Inclusion in this compendium does not constitute an endorsement of musical ability, artistic integrity, commercial viability, or even physical existence. Any resemblance to actual bands, albums, or musicians, living or otherwise, is entirely coincidental — or evidence that someone else has been wasting their time in much the same fashion.
Additional entries will be accepted whenever the author thinks of them, which unfortunately seems to happen with alarming regularity.