We set up in the garage. Blake goes inside the house, which makes me happy, but then he comes back out, which makes me sad. He sits back down in the lawn chair. There’s a notebook on his lap. I do not know its purpose. I assume I will not like it.
“Mind if I watch you guys practice?” asks Blake.
Mel and Clarissa shrug. Okay, fine. Audrey is hanging out to hear us play. Blake’s welcome to watch as long as he doesn’t interrupt.
“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll warn you right now. We’re noisy.”
“Yeah, we are!” says Mel with pride. “Noisiest band in the state!”
“Scoot your chair into the garage,” I tell Blake. “I have to close the door so the neighbors won’t complain.”
“And so we don’t shatter windows for a six-block radius,” adds Clarissa.
We have never actually shattered a window, except for one time when a drumstick flew out of Clarissa’s hand, but we like to think of our music as being so intense that it could generate a giant sinkhole if we don’t take proper precautions.
“Sounds amazing,” says Blake, bringing the lawn chair into the garage. He sits down again as I press the button. The garage door closes like a curtain. That’s right. Fanged Grapefruit rocks so hard that the curtain closes instead of opens before we begin playing. For the safety of the audience, of course.
The bottom of the garage door hits the cement with the sound of thunder (in our minds).
“Which song first?” asks Mel.
“How about ‘Poison-Tipped Daffodil Man?’” I suggest.
I count us down, and then we launch into the song, which goes:
He’s a poison-tipped daffodil man!
A poison-tipped daffodil man!
A poison-tipped daffodil man!
Better not give him a hug!
There are eight more verses, all with similar impact. Ma Conklin didn’t raise no braggart, but trust me, we sound amazing.
“‘The Night I Drank Way Too Many Blue Raspberry Slushes,’” Clarissa suggests.
“Last night!” I sing.
“A bad night!” Mel and Clarissa sing.
“I said last night!”
“A very bad night!”
“I drank one!”
“One!”
“Two!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
“Three!”
“Four and five!”
“Four and five!”
“Six, seven, and eight!”
“Six, seven, and eight!”
“Nine, ten, eleven, twelve!”
“Nine, ten, eleven, twelve!”
“I drank twelve blue raspberry slushes!”
“Twelve slushes!”
“And then I drank one more!”
“One more!”
“And I realized,” I sing. “Oh yeah, I realized.”
“He realized. Oh yeah, he realized,” Mel and Clarissa sing the chorus.
“I realized, just last night that thirteen—yeah, thirteen—thirteen blue raspberry slushes…” Big finish here. “…was too many blue raspberry slushies to drink!”
At an actual performance, we stick out our tongues to show that they’re all blue, but there’s no reason to do that in rehearsal.
Mel and Clarissa’s harmonizing was off a bit, so we do that one again. Then we switch to “I Love You So Much I’d Blow Up the Moon.” We’re still tweaking the lyrics on that song, but it’s the tender story of a girl whose love for a boy is so strong that she’d destroy a celestial body for him if he asked. He does ask. In the end, the girl learns that (A) it’s extremely difficult to blow up the moon, and (B) if a boy asks you to destroy the moon to earn his love, he’s not worth the trouble. We have to rework the lyrics because, after all, she did make the offer in the first place, so our theme is a bit muddled.
We’re also still adjusting the melody and arrangement, so we go through it several times, stopping and restarting, altering our performance each time. Blake is busy writing in his notebook.
We spend about half an hour on this song. We’re not one hundred percent satisfied with the results by the end, but we all agree that it’s time to move on to “Godzilla Burned My Yoga Pants.” We’ve got that one down pretty well. Then it’s on to “Mr. Dentist, Drill My Teeth but Leave the Rest of My Skull Alone.” (My mom doesn’t like this song. It’s not autobiographical. As I’ve mentioned before, I floss and have good oral hygiene, so I haven’t had a lot of cavities.) During this song we play the prerecorded sound of a whirring dentist drill in the background, which makes the audience cringe, but that’s why we’re punk rock and not gospel.
If we can get a dentist drill cheap, we’ll have Audrey run around onstage with it, looking scary, but so far we haven’t been able to find one.
Blake is still writing in his notebook. Since his mouth remains closed, we’re cool.
We go through “Don’t Eat Meat Unless It’s in Cow Form,” “Checkmate, Checkmate, Checkmate,” “That Spider Just Hissed at Me,” “I Ain’t Doing My Homework Tonight (Because I Did It This Afternoon),” and everybody’s favorite, “Thud Thump Crash Crunch Splat Squish.”
By the end, we’re drenched with perspiration and feeling great. All my problems have vanished. Audrey claps and grins at our performance. I don’t even care about Blake anymore.
Blake stands up.
He applauds. “Great job, you guys. I assumed you were talented performers, but this exceeded my expectations. In every major category that I could judge a musical act, you were top-notch.”
“Thanks, dude,” says Mel. “I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, thanks,” says Clarissa. She tosses him one of her pulverized drumsticks.
“When’s your next jig?”
“Gig?” Mel asks.
Blake chuckles. “Yes, gig. Sorry. I got confused because your music made me want to dance a jig.”
Everybody except me laughs.
“We play every Monday night at the Lane,” I tell him.
“Is it a nice place?”
“No. It’s the opposite of that.”
“I guess you wouldn’t want to play in an opera house.” This doesn’t get as big of a laugh as his gig/jig joke, but I’m sensing a distinct lack of negativity toward my cousin from my bandmates.
I push the button to open the garage door. Everybody sighs happily as the cool air hits.
“Anyway,” says Blake, “I was taking some notes during your practice session, and I thought—if I’m not being too forward—that you might be interested in some feedback.”
I knew it! I knew he was going to do something like this! I let down my guard for
