You know you’re having a dull summer when you’ve got nothing better to do than to start a band. Though this was not to be just any old garage band, mind you; my friends and I felt the need to do something radically different from what had come before, to drive a giant golden spike into the railroad of the American psyche, or at the very least to avoid hearing "posers!" at our first concert. At any rate, after a lot of arguing and an unfortunate incident with a squeegee, we came to find our calling: we would become the world’s first techno-a capella group. Yes sir, one fateful summer night, Acid Mouth was born into the world, and none of us would ever be the same.

The concept of techno-a capella is probably alien to the unenlightened (i.e. everyone but us), so let me explain how such a group functioned. Jake, with the heaviest timbre of the group, handled the bass line and, frankly, sounded pretty good for someone who’d never even considered beatboxing before. Phil and I provided most of the layered sounds – synthesizers, beeps, sirens, cowbells, whatever. Bill wrapped up the package with stock dance slogans ("Catch the groove!" "Everybody is dancing!" etc). We could also switch seamlessly between Euro trance ("I Want to Dance Much!") and American down-home rave ("Let’s Get Buck Naked and Fuck").

Within a week we had already booked our first gig, which was surprising as we hadn’t even really had any sort of rehearsal yet. But we hunkered down, and after almost five grueling hours of practice (Mario Kart breaks included), we felt as if we had finally mastered our field. The venue, Mike’s House of House, was a respectable joint known for its loyal fans and its exquisite meth. The rave began and Acid Mouth was ready to roll. Jake laid down a phat bass line and Phil and I followed it up with the ill freaky shit. It was incredible to be doing this, not only for ourselves but for all the flailing druggies on the floor that wouldn’t remember anything in the morning.

Our set was incredible. That week or so of practicing really showed. We kicked out the jams like some crazy motherfuckers. Why, I might even go as far as to say that we was off the heezy. It seemed nothing could stop us (wait for it)…

The problem was, nobody had told us that raves tend to go on for upwards of six hours at a time. After the second hour we had all developed third-degree laryngitis, and Phil had collapsed. Another problem with raves is that once the music cuts off, the dancers (and club owners) tend to get kind of angry. Let me just advise you: never take on a pissed-off junkie in hand-to-hand combat. Those guys seriously feel no pain.

With one member in the hospital and three unable to even think very loud, Acid Mouth was no more. But with most of the summer still ahead of us we couldn’t just head off into the sunset; hell, we had like twelve weeks of goofing off left.

Unfortunately, having put all my time and money into the Acid Mouth project, I found myself penniless and having to work two jobs with simultaneous shifts (yes, I said simultaneous shifts. I never said it was easy). I’d rather not talk about my summer labors; let’s just say I have never had to deal with such copious amounts of gerbil sweat, and I hope to never see another clown for the rest of my life.

Later on, Bill called me up asking if I wanted to join him in an entirely new band, called Suckaz 4 Life. All he would tell me was that it would be "pushing hip-hop in an exciting new direction". I agreed and that afternoon we were already shooting our first video. Don’t ask me where Bill found the strippers on such short notice. Turned out Suckaz 4 Life would be pioneers in the field of "Drip-Hop", a sort of angst-y post-emo flow over alt-jazz bebop half-rhythms (Bill promised we’d have Timbaland by the end of the week). The video would be for the first single, which ended up being called "Dat Ho Put a Hole in my Heart".

We didn’t have a lyric mock-up yet but it wasn’t really important; the video was, after all, the essence of the package, or something. It was basically Bill and I sitting in the rain surrounded by horny strippers, whining about how our bitches left us. This would alternate with shots of us wistfully sipping champagne in our limos and moping around our phat poolatio estate, with cameos by Ewan McGregor and that guy from the old Micro Machines" commercials (remember him?). At the end of the video, the strippers get disgusted and leave our sorry asses, and we cry.

As fun as this all sounds, it was nothing compared to the raw emotion and energy that had gone into Acid Mouth. We learned more about ourselves and each other in those six days of playing than we had in the entire preceding month or two. We had the enormous privilege of connecting with our fans (and by "fans" I mean "this one really baked guy who said he totally got us"). We even got a write-up in Rolling Stone, and while I won’t bother reciting the entire review, I will tell you that they used the word "amazingly"!

OK, The Dusty Baker Cock Explosion we were not – who is? – but at least we had fun. So much fun that–assuming we ever find Jake–we’re thinking about reforming next summer under the moniker "Oedipus and the Motherfuckers". Bill also mentioned something about "Spoken Word Alternapella", though sometimes I wonder if he’s just making shit up.