Come to me if you ever want to collaborate on a sonic vision. If your genre-defying soundscape can be defined as “psychedelic glam punk” or “calculator trying to divide by zero,” help yourself to my selection of potential band names. I’ve been working on it since the summer, and now it’s up to thirty-six bullet points in my Notes app. Now thirty-seven—I just thought of “Grunge Dungeon.”
Band-naming is a meta-generative process. It facilitates itself. “Amtrak Sandwich” recalls my brother’s food poisoning horror story. “Smash and Pass Cicadas” arose from the mating practices of the seventeen-year cicada: emerge, make a lot of noise, mate, lay eggs, die. They’re the blueprint, actually, for my forthcoming neo-nihilist EP.
Many of the name choices available to you are derived from images I found striking, whether I saw them or not. Notably: “Airport Lesbian,” “PowerPoint™ Funeral,” “Gingko Wife,” “Diet Confederacy,” “Me and My Persimmon,” “Monk Smut,” “BigToe.” Some are spin-offs: “Chlamydia! At the Coffee Shop” is one (and a true story, though not my own).
There seems to be an anatomy motif. Bodies in space. “Genital Atrium” (some roll off the tongue easier than others), “Soft White Underbelly” (overheard at a crab shack), “Beauteous Maximus.” The viscera of “Shrimpy Frisbee” and “Umami Fart” balance the crucial social commentary of “Vagabondage,” “Tavern Wench,” and my tribute to the soldiers of World War I, “StenchFoot.”
You should come meet me for a hard kombucha so we can take a look at the list together. Bring your crystals.