Bad cars, a bicentennial and fake band names

I got into a discussion yesterday about band names and how every ridiculous phrase, weird name or strange word can be turned into a band name. “That’s what I’m naming my next band!” is a very familiar phrase to us all, I’m sure.

When I was younger (ok, and now as well), I had a thing for turning everything into not just a band name, but a song title as well. Which, of course, reminds me of a story.

1976. The bicentennial year. Everything was draped in red, white and blue. Movie theaters were charging 76 cents admission and there were bicentennial quarters and tv specials and my mother, bless her American heart, went all out for this special occasion by redecorating the living room in a Colonial motif, complete with replica Liberty Bell. She also dressed my little sister in red white and blue bellbottoms. She tried this with me, but I was 14. She got a derisive laugh and a “what the hell are smoking, lady?” look. She said something like “Where is your pride, young lady?” And I thought hey, “Bellbottom Pride” would make a great name for a song. Because when you’re 14, every semi-witty phrase you utter would make a good song title, even if you aren’t in a band and can’t write songs. It’s all about the titles. Or, maybe I could name the band Bellbottom Pride and have a song called “From the Hems of My Red White and Blues.” I thought of myself as somewhat of a genius back then.

There was only one person who outdid my mother in the Bicentennial fervor department. That was the Pacer lady (Oh, there’s my band’s next hit song! “Pacer Lady of Love”). Pacer lady was the enormous, wild-eyed, half crazed woman who lived in the upstairs apartment in the run down house across the street. She wore nothing but sleeveless housecoats the size of which could cover a medium sized luxury car, had calves and arms that moved of their own accord, and was always followed around by several mangy cats who might have been just biding time in a Stephen King sort of way until Pacer Lady dropped dead of a heart attack and they would feast on the remains. There might have even been a vulture or two hovering around her, but don’t quote me on that.

She drove an AMC Pacer. This larger than life woman stuffed herself into this tiny blue and white Pacer every single day. I know, you’re thinking clowns in a Volkswagon right now, aren’t you? It was worse. Ever see a size 12 girl try to get into size 5 jeans? It went like that. Lots of shifting and maneuvering and grunts and groans and, in the case of Pacer lady, lots of leg flab flapping in the wind. No, there’s no song there. Not one anyone would buy, at least.

To celebrate the bicentennial, Pacer lady spent the morning of the Fourth of July, 1976, decorating her car with about twelve dozen American flags of varying sizes. Seriously, there were about 100 of these things. Maybe even some streamers. I don’t know if she used crazy glue or wires or just the sheer power of patriotism, but by the time she was done, those flags were sticking out from her engine, her doors, the trunk and windows and hell, I think she had a few sticking out from the folds in her arms. And just for the occasion, she was wearing a red, white and blue house dress adorned with stars and stripes. When she finished her decorating and she stood next to the car admiring her work, I couldn’t tell where Pacer lady ended and the car began. All I could think was When patriotism attacks! “Patriotism Attacks!” Another song! By my new band, The Bicentennial Bitches!

When Pacer lady squeezed herself into her car that morning, I stood at my front door, face pressed against the glass, jaw hanging open.  I gasped when she finally stuffed herself into the driver’s seat and the Pacer grunted, groaned and nearly sunk to the ground under the weight of its owner. You could actually see the flags bob up and down as she adjusted herself behind the wheel. I started humming Low Rider. Pacer lady knows the low rider……low rider ...sure, my band does remakes.

As she pulled away from the curb and rounded the corner in front of me, the Pacer backfired, as if it were setting off its own holiday fireworks. The car lurched and stuttered and, for a brief moment, I thought it was going to die right there in front of my house, draped with flags like a ready-made coffin. I had the sudden urge to salute, but then the car kicked up again. It moved forward and the Pacer lady gave a brown-toothed grin and waved a meaty arm at me. If cars had feelings, that poor Pacer would want to die of shame. And that’s saying a lot for a car that was sort of an embarrassment to itself to begin with. That it was made to suffer more indignities at the hand of a some meaty, beaty big and bouncy lady (damn, that phrase has been used already) and her deranged attempts at national pride was almost too much to watch. I turned away from the scene as the Pacer backfired and stalled again. It wanted to die. “Pacer Suicide.” That would make a good song for my new band, Backfire.

Years later in yet another discussion about fake band names, I came up with Run For it, Marty! and ever since, that has been my go-to name when the “what would you name your band” talk comes around, as it always does.

What’s your fake band’s name?