\Promising local band Evacuation is Optional, seeks drummer, bassist, guitarist, keyboardist, singer, equipment, rehearsal space, songs. Influences open to suggestion. Must not own poncho, facial piercings in excess of five or nipple rings. No experience preferred.""
Many newspaper classified sections charge by the word, so I might cut down the length in future revisions, but this draft will look great on fliers. More importantly, just writing it lets me say that I have a plan for after college without having to break any important commandments.
With impending super-seniordom acting as a protective blanket and many writer/artist friends in the same fix, I'm usually only asked about my future plans in the company of relatives who also wonder ""when [I] got so tall."" Nevertheless shrugging my shoulders and saying ""zuh"" whenever my own plans come up is giving me repetitive stress disorder.
In this way, Evacuation is Optional is a creation of necessity and opportunity. As far as conversations at family reunions go, pumping your fists and shouting ""PUNK RAWK!"" is much more fun than mumbling something about ""grad school"" and then excusing yourself to the rest room. It also tends to discourage follow-up questions, particularly from the elderly.
But Evacuation is Optional (or ""Evac Opt"" to people in the know) isn't just a convenient ruse. It's a vocation. There's nothing I'm more qualified for than being in a band, especially one that doesn't yet exist. While I may not be a preternaturally talented musician, I do have many combined weeks of experience with extremely local music - not to mention other band-ish things, like talking about bands and deciding what to wear at concerts.
I first got started as the squeaky-clean rhythm guitarist in a band whose name was an ingeniously encoded reference to illicit drugs. Our parents ferried us to and from gigs, where we performed cover songs chosen by individual members of the band, which due to our divergent tastes meant a typical set might start with Weezer and end with Korn. We disbanded after failing to find a creative middle-ground, but to this day, 9 No Trump survives on the rear bumpers of dozens of brown Volvo station wagons in the Twin Cities area.
Sweater of the Year was a more fertile creative endeavor, with about 20 minutes of basement recordings set to tape during the half-hour between the band's creation and the indefinite hiatus that followed our decision to ""hang out, or go sledding or something.""
Charles Darwin and the Creationists were similarly short-lived. Our early enthusiasm was squelched by the sobering realization that it didn't much matter that we called ourselves a country-punk band if our total output consisted of a pile of Wendy's receipts and temporary hearing loss. Even if we did wear trucker hats.
Two friends and I briefly hit it big as the Metronomes, a prolific power trio who could have benefited from a few more rehearsals, but whose elaborately referential lyrics signified that we had at least spent a good deal of time on the writing process.
So far, Evac Opt is off to a great start. We have good word of mouth around the Hunziker dinner table and a positive mention in the local press. I already have two song titles planned, ""Lady Tow-Truck Driver"" and ""My Moon My Moonbuggy."" In a year and a half, when I'm facing the prospect of graduating and taking the band from the realm of fiction to reality, these could very well be songs. Or maybe I'll start checking out grad schools, or go sledding or something ... [mumble]. Excuse me.
If you'd like to know what exactly is illicit about 9 No Trump, e-mail Matt at hunziker@wisc.edu.
