Wifebeater is a band without regrets. The Outlaw Trio wanders the known world looking for scraps of mercenary work to pay for their instrument’s upkeep. Weathered wanted posters serve more as a warning than apprehension request. Either way, housewives whisper tales of the modern day sirens luring kids into the wilderness of imagination.
Louisiana natives tell tales of days lost in the bayou. Each story follows a similar pattern of events. While trudging through the murky waters, an upright bass captures the heartbeat. Two female voices entangle leafs with an eerie radiance. Eventually they would enter an enchanted campsite of lost boys and crust punks. The victims would awaken with the fire’s last ember. The only thing left were the songs etched onto their souls.
Locals call it, The Endless Night.
Kimi, Joe, and Reba, were once like you and me. One faithful day, they became love struck mid-performance, driven mad by a straightedge muse. Immediately after that performance, they vanished into the boxcars of a local train yard. Their names and instruments were all they retained.
Mad with music, Wifebeater rejects society. Legislators see them as a scourge on the rolling plains of existence – kids living beyond the law of civilized man. As they traveled the United States their legend grew. Women started throwing bread at passing boxcars as tribute for vagabond deities.
While adventuring in the Great White North, Wifebeater was cornered in an icy cave by the famed Inuit Bounty Hunter, Keelut. He commanded hellish chimeras, polar bears crossed with huskies. Permanently snow blind, he used his heightened sense of hearing to locating the three rouge musicians.
The fight was as bitter as the cold that surrounding them. Joe wrestled half the unholy chimeras through sheer force of will. Kimi morphed into her animal spirit and accepted the challenge with a boisterous roar. Reba dauntlessly faced Keelut’s onslaught. Even Reba’s blessed guitar of relentless fury could not overcome Keelut’s poisoned soul.
Close to death, Wifebeater sang out to collapse the icy tomb. The crystalline roof crumbled and the floor gave into the breathless waters below. What happened after that moment is unclear. Three weeks later, polar bear like creatures were spotted on glaciers in the Hudson Bay and Wifebeater appeared in Pittsburgh.
I met Wifebeater in the cellar of an ancient church. The Code Orange Kids were playing, and The Edukators were negotiating the surrender of Comrade Kangaroo. There is little documentation of that night, but I assure you of the following:
A death glare from Wifebeater can kill three flies, two birds, and a 1986 Ford Taurus. I survived, but a parked Nissan Sentra had gone to a better place. The car was promptly replaced with a bicycle, and nothing of value was lost.
The local shows after that blurred together. Wifebeater became local heroes with their soy-based leather tannery. Additionally, they unionized the bees to produce vegan friendly honey. Our paths often cross, for adventure’s muse never sleeps.
Wifebeater reminds us:
We are all vagabonds aimless and free.