please stop tickling me

In which we laugh and laugh and laugh. And love. And drink.

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Location: Portland, Oregon

Otium cum Dignitatae

Saturday, December 10, 2011

Things To Not Do With Your Band Photo (probably part one of a series)

It's been said before, in many places and at many different times, that the best way to show exactly how Ready For This you are is to contract a professional photographer to do a session with you.

Note the beautiful chiaroscuro late-afternoon light on the tree. The slanting carport roof juxtaposed with the more horizontal lines of the backyard fence. The whimsical inclusion of a Slinky.

And above all else, note how the photog in question definitely didn't make your band look like a bunch of idiot high-schoolers who have no idea what they're doing.

Nothing quite says you're ready for the big time like having your Look all planned out and taken care of.

From the right, we have Guy With Phone...Or perhaps Guy With Remote who thinks you're a t.v. and is trying to change you. We have KURT! Or perhaps we have Guy Whose Girlfriend Can't Figure Out How To Get Rid Of Satan Eye on her phone's camera. Guy Who Is Higher Than Jesus Right Now?

And finally on the left: One Would Go Dateless That Night! Also, the only guy with a van in the band.

I try not to make the same exact joke too many times in a row here. For instance: if I felt like it, I could have taken the majority of the photos I found doing a very brief search and just wrote, "Pictured: buncha dudes."

You'd think you specifically had to be a sort of half-ass lookin' dude to be in a band or something. But there's lots of ladies making music these days, and here's five of 'em.

From left: Stare-y, Simper-y, Going To Kill You, Disappointed In You and The Underaged-Looking One.

Well, so me and the rest of the boys just got done with a "gig" see, and we were on our way up the stairs at the Gigglin' Goose when our friend who's a semi-professional photographer stops us and says we should get a band photo done, seeing how we're trying to make it in this industry.

So we're standing there, and just as the flash goes off, AHH! TAMMY! She pops right out of Bob's chest (you can tell he's already dead by that blank stare in his eyes) and starts looking all sassy! She demanded that we hire her to sing lead, and frankly, what the hell could we do at that point?

You Are What You Are, and you will brook no compromise. You have the heart of a warrior, and these are times of war. Where the Blood Sacrifice is Legitimate, and the Eternal Crisis is Forevermore, a small clan of Serious Men shall step forth to provide the battle tunes we all must march by.

You stare meaningfully at us from a white room. With stark light. The solemnity -and again, seriousness of your mission is captured manfully in this image, this...this "photograph," as mortals call them.

What? No, I'm sorry: I just can't stop laughing at your brother's fucking facial hair.

You know, I just don't think you're trying hard enough. The off-brand drum set, the amps with the Dude, Kegger! red Solo cups sitting on top of them, how clearly Your Mom's Basement this is. It's just...I dunno. It doesn't even begin to live up to the promise you have as a band.

And your lead singer. She's gotta go. I know she's a relative of yours, but face facts: she can't fucking sing.