Full Credits

Stats & Data

January 09, 2012

Band names are absolutely ridiculous. But can they seem not ridiculous when placed into a story? Probably not.



Well that's what I would say if I had any intentions or held any possibility in my mind that I might go.Or if I was really sure how to pronounce it. I would assume Coach-ella, but someone said Co-a-chella once and now I just really feel insecure about the whole thing.In addition to that, I happen to be a poor 21 year old in Missouri. Never mind the fact that I only recognize 18 (yes, I counted) of the...well I'm not going back to count the bands, but it's a small percentage.

Reading the lineup reminds me of being in the paint aisle at Lowe's. Arctic Moon. Icy Tide Pool. Cillian Murphy's Eyes. I'm assuming an arctic moon and an icy tide pool are blue-ish. But that's just based on my knowledge of Murphy's eyes and the fact they're in the same section.

Entire websites are dedicated to his creepily crystal baby blues. 

The most creative they should be getting with those colors is Grey Blue or Blue Grey, depending on which color is more dominant.  At least I can decipher the words in the color names, but....Mazzy Star? Amon Tobin? WU LYF? What does that even mean? I'll give some slack to the ones in foreign languages. And I understand that most bands, even classic bands, don't really have names that make sense. But when you see them all in a list it's just ridiculous.

Their ridiculousness has inspired me. So what follows is a story containing the names of all the bands from Friday's lineup. In the order they are listed on the poster. Yeah. Pretty impressive. So. Get out an red pen and circle away. I dare you to try it without using the line-up the first time. Find all 45 and you win! Best of luck.

Mark set the key back under the mat and walked into his parent's house. It had been years since he had visited and he managed to show up when they were both out. He strolled into the living room and let his fingers dance along the black keys of the piano he often played as a child. Looking up, he glanced out the window of his parents' swedish house. Mafia men stood on the opposite sidewalk, looking like something out of Pulp Fiction. Many a time they'd made him an offer that he refused. Just watching them made the room feel like the Arctic. Monkeys hollered from the backyard. Mark sighed at the sound of his mother's pet and Chiquita banana mascot, Mazzy. Star by day, nuisance by night. He went back to see the monkey, who seemed amused by the afro Jack had convinced him to grow out. He had grown sick of it, and each split end looked like an explosion.

In the sky above him, Mark heard a plane fly by. Must be an M83, he stated aloud with a slight smile. The planes reminded him of the many days spent with Amon Tobin, his best friend and owner of Commando the cat. Power or not, as was common in the working-class neighborhood, they would play for hours on end, letting the darkness feed their creative madness. Jimmy Cliff and Tim Armstrong also often joined in on the fun, but never girls. Of the rapture they were sure, if Jane Madeon or Olivia M. Ward ever stepped into the sacred realm that was Amon's treehouse. Mark could barely remember the horrors that followed Frank Ocean's uninvited visit, but at the time James, as Jimmy was known in the treehouse, was nearly in tears. This event spread quickly among the neighborhood kids thanks to Alesso and Sebastian Datsik, the dirty bastards. Mark laughed at the thought of it all now. Hopefully he wouldn't happen to run into them during his short visit.

He walked over the bookcase and found his old journal, complete with a Mr. Yuck sticker and "Do NOT Read. Ever!" on the front cover in neon. Indian food stains covered all the edges. Mark smelled the aging spices. Even though he was an Englishman, Mr. Dawes always managed to make the best chicken curry. He flipped through the ages and memories flashed before his eyes. His teenage drawings were dark images: Black Angels and Death. Grips on guns were repeatedly embellished with "WU LYF", an acronym that meant nothing to him now. He found an old Christmas wish list asking for a Breakbot, tickets to an AC/DC concert and an Atari. Teenage riots had been started over that elementary gaming device. Tom down the street had one. Mark had often stolen candy from his mother's secret stash to comply with Tom's "Feed me and you can play" policy. Givers they were not, but traders they were. Maybe in other lives, on a street in a better part of town, they would have been more generous. But not in this neighborhood.

Chills ran down Mark's back as he once again looked out on the crumbling street. A teenage girl walked by with a band of skulls on her wrist, covering the recent backlash of a failed stint in rehab. It was quite dark now, and Mark felt just as uneasy as he did when he was just a small boy. Stray dogs rummaged through empty trashcans, growling and snarling like a wolf gang. The Midnight Beast, as he was known in the neighborhood, would soon be making his rounds. ThreE MAfia men would lead the mob boss to the houses of delinquent renters.

Mark shuddered to think about what would happen next and went to the kitchen for a cup of tea. He felt some warmth when he saw his mother and father's favorite albums sitting next to each other on the counter. Mother loved Ximena Sarinana and father, Kendrick Lamar, but never would they listen to the other. Father often asked her to listen, but she always replied with a kind, No thank you, dear. Hunter of tea he became next. Mark was surprised to see his mother had rearranged the kitchen. Honey, honey, where is it, he thought, Oh hello! Seahorses adorned the ornate container he had bought her from Florida. He wasn't quite sure why he bought her honey in Florida, and apparently she hadn't either, as the honey was placed far in the back of a top shelf.

Mark placed the kettle on the stove and quickly lifted his head to a familiar sound. Sure enough, his parents had been out walking the Sheepdogs, Harry and Sally. He ran to the front door to give them a long awaited hug and hello. After tears and hugs they all settled down in the kitchen to chat. As Mark poured the three cups of tea he momentarily forgot about his time and relationship consuming life in LA. Riots couldn't have made him leave his parents' house that night. And he was just fine with that.

So I had to cheat a couple of times. But it was a bit more difficult task than I imagined.