Read Part I here.
It is with profound heartache that I must report the breakup ofH₂Bro. Though turmoil became obvious toward the end of my initial interviewwith the McHydro brothers, it’s shocking that such an extreme measure was takenso abruptly. After repeated inquiries, Willy was the first to return my phonecalls.
“Let me give youthe lowdown, Nate (sic),” he began. “Not long after you left kooky Kim’s party,I sipped from Billy’s gallon. Big discovery. Of all the shady shenanigans—hewas drinking flavored water!”
Aquafina’s Wild BerryFlavor Splash, to be exact. Overwhelmed by the mob, the confession was forciblyextracted from Billy—his older brother cinched in a “tittie twister” as guitaristand H₂Bro loyalist Bo Van Dam intervened to “purple that other nurple.” Willyhas condemned the deception, calling it “unnatural.”
“That phony,”Willy seethes. “This band celebrates Hydrogen twice and Oxygen once. It’s simple.Pure. And we come to find out that lately he’s been chugging this gutter runoffthat’s only like 95% water. The audacity. Flavored water is for sellouts.”
Willy pledges thegroup will embark on a new era, already gigging on Friday, rechristened as H₂Broh.With seven members reduced to six, keyboardist Swinkle has been named Billy’ssuccessor in the spotlight. Though he barely sang at the show I attended, henceforthSwinkle will be called upon for lead vocals on nearly half of their songs.
Suddenly my phonebeeps. I’m startled. Billy McHydro is on line two. I blurt a hasty “Sounds goodsorry gotta go see ya Friday” and end the talk to begin another one.
Immediately hebellows, “Say hello to Loudmouth Billy Bass!”
To be clear, hepronounces it “base,” as in the instrument.
“First show thisSaturday,” he continues. “Rockin’ out in Kim’s basement. Gonna bass jam lots ofEarth, Wind, & Fire!”
I stammer a questionabout the messy breakup with his erstwhile band.
“Fuck both waterand those guys,” he answers. “Kim turned me on to flavored water to broaden myhorizons, and if they’ve got a problem with that, then we’re done doingbusiness.”
“OK, I get that,”I say. “But doesn’t it get tougher than that considering the fallout includedyour brother?”
I hear adisheartened gasp and then a tussle on the other line. The next voice I hear isKim’s.
“No more questions! Billy’s frameof mind is very fragile and anti-water,and so I forbid you to make him cry tears.You vulture! Parasite! Hack… OK, docome Saturday. Toodle-oo.”
She hangs up. Myweekend plans are set.
###
Friday night. Imake it to Tweed’s bar during H₂Broh’s sound check. There is more elbow roomthan there was at the previous show. Already I sense disquiet among the band’sfaithful. Willy has a bass slung around his shoulder, meaning that the grouphas downsized to not only one McHydro but also a sole guitarist. Uncharacteristicallytroubled, Bo Van Dam approaches Willy.
“Any word from…you know?”
“Him?” Willyscoffs. “Pfft. Oh, probably falling a few glasses short of the doctor’s dailyrecommendation—but who cares? Right, boys?!”
The others murmurwith obligatory support—except for the newly promoted Swinkle, who has added a rainstickto his repertoire. Before hoisting a gallon to his lips, he exclaims somethingthat could be transcribed as:
“Peeeyaaaauuuu!!!”
Members of the audience presumably don’t shareSwinkle’s zest. Conversations are hushed. Spirits are curbed. The Drippie I recentlybefriended nudges me, points to his H₂Bro shirt and then to Swinkle’s H₂Brohattire.
“Can you believethis shit?” He casts a stink-eyed gaze at Swinkle, who waves in response andanxiously guzzles more. “One of us is a fraud.”
Everyone wincesas a metallic shriek of feedback pierces the air. Daunted but determined, Willyclutches the mic.
“You are allwitnesses to something so big, so monumental,” he prophesizes. “It’s titanic.”
With that, Swinkletwinkles the keys to the sparse overture of “Across the Sea.” A resoundingstrum, an earnest falsetto, and they’ve begun. The performance is solid. I geta sense of genuine anguish from Willy when he belts out the chorus:
“Why are you sofar away from me?/ I need help and you’re way across the sea.”
It’s thehighlight of the set. Willy struggles through the basslines of the next fewnumbers. The frustration overflows and he flubs lyrics. Poise evaporates. Hecalls a desperate audible and switches instruments with Bo, groaning “Take thisaccursed bass.” When he introduces Billy’s replacement to sing the next song, ajittery Swinkle thrusts his rainstick upward and accidentally cracks a Drippie inthe nose. The band commences the mournful “Who’ll Stop the Rain” as she rushesoutside, nursing the wound. A few others follow.
“Don’t go lady!” Swinkle pleads.“I got the cure for what ails ya!”
It’s a hollowvow. His vocals are creaky and wavering—like a fickle cat who can’t decidewhether to hiss or purr. Matters worsen as the first chorus culminates. “And Iwonder, yes I wonder, who’ll stop the rain” is followed by a grueling two-minuterainstick solo. Bafflingly, he repeats the solo after the second chorus. Ninety seconds into the interminable trickles, aDrippie voices his displeasure.
“Terrible!” heshouts. “Who’ll stop the rainstick!?’”
The band isdrowned in jeers. Mortification overtakes Swinkle. His bladder detonates. Panickedbeyond reason, he even sips more and repeats “no no no no” as the stain widens, drops, and drips. The music dies.It’s an act of mercy. The crowd is either laughing or leaving.
“He can’t handlehis water!” Todd Pondo complains with a spike of his drumsticks.
“Amateur!” Willyrages. “In this band, we only wet our pants at the very end of holidayshows!”
The disgruntledfrontman storms offstage and barges through the exit. As I walk after him, thetrombonist Chaz Winnebago blocks my path and offers me a liter of “dank IceMountain” to not report what I’ve just seen. I decline. Outside, Willy is gone.
###
Saturday. When I chat with Billyand Kim that evening, he’s glum but she’s actually thrilled to speak to me—onlybecause I can verify the cataclysm of H₂Broh’s debut. He croaks a barelyaudible “fuck water,” and then Loudmouth Billy Bass (pronounced “base”) adjournsto plug in his gear. Kim detects my unease.
“Yes, I’m a teensy bit concernedhe’s not drinking enough,” she admits as she sets ablaze an H₂Bro shirt. “‘MotherNature’s wet dream,’ as he used to rhapsodize, was rather important to him. No matter. He promised me he’ll have adrink after the encore, to celebrate, when he has fully enraptured my mind,body, and soul—by playing ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’”
Shortly beforeshowtime, I’m struck by Billy’s literal devotion to “going solo.” His bass andvocals create all the music. Adding to the peculiarity is his choice of venue,of course. Kim didn’t obtain any kind of license, but that doesn’t matter sincethe bar is totally dry: Billy has forbidden the presence of water.
While funky, thebasslines of Earth, Wind, & Fire hits “September” and “Let’s Groove” soundeerily lonesome when plucked in a vacuum for eight minutes. Worse, Billy’svocal chords sound excruciatingly parched; he sings like Tom Waits scalding inDeath Valley, with none of the smooth jubilance required to honor the Soul.
Drippies getrestless. I lock eyes with a man endowed with a massive afro. He looksfamiliar, but a moment later he turns away and covers his face as though he’sembarrassed to be seen here.
“We want a waterjam!” someone demands.
Billy’s haggardface crinkles with disdain. Then he twists it into a sardonic smirk. He playsthat ominous Dave Matthews Band song “Don’t Drink the Water” to a chorus ofboos. I feel overfilled with dread and so I scramble up the stairs, outside forreprieve and a breath of fresh air.
Somebody follows.The man with the afro.
“It’s me. Bo Van Dam,” he saysconfidentially. “Worried about Billy, but I had to come incognito.”
He adjusts hisoversized novelty wig. I nod. His eyes dart.
“Willy would flipout if he knew I came. It’s bogus. Deep down he cares the most about Billy. Iknow he’s stubborn, but come on! His own brother might not-drink himself to death.”
He elaborates onhow terrible he feels about the saga. While he does so, the low vibrations stop.We hear a woman’s piercing shriek. Before long, a far-off siren wails, getslouder. Two paramedics arrive and go down the steps with a gurney in tow.Somber Drippies escape from the basement and linger next to Bo and me. Thefirst paramedic emerges through the doorway, his hands gripped to the gurney,whereupon Billy lies wan and unresponsive.
“Worst case ofdehydration I’ve ever seen,” the EMT pronounces.
His coworker nodsgravely and they wheel Billy McHydro into the ambulance.
Then we hear a different kind ofsiren, a protracted “Nooooooo” thatoriginates at a distance and quickly amplifies. Kim rushes outside, into theopen space of a world that can scarcely contain her primal scream. Tears streamdown her face.
“He never played ‘The Wreck!’” shebawls inconsolably.
