About FUBAR

“Freed Up By The Absence Of Rules and Fed Up By The Actions Of Republicans, that’s FUBAR!”
-- G. David Cavender, M.D.

Will Stewart from the Ann Arbor News is coming over tomorrow afternoon to interview me for a story on the Behnke Family Tragedy. The practical importance of this piece is that it gives the public a heads-up on a final benefit FUBAR will be hosting Friday, June 6th at the Old Heidelberg Club Above. All proceeds will benefit Bill’s dear wife, Martha.

Martha is about to walk out of the Kate Chopin story she’s been living for the last 40 years. You go, girl. Edna’s got nothing on Martha.

Altruism aside, I’m ‘focusin on ‘getting FUBAR its due props. We’re not a benefit band! We’re the full service, community minded, socially activistic, drama infused, tequila and wine drinking, kind buddian, allaboutusian, feel good band of the year. And that’s all we are. Well, maybe.

About FUBAR:

FUBAR is one heavy band. Our combined weight probably approaches a ton and a half sans clothes and instruments. We typically practice on Mondays.

I’m already there. Who am I? Just your average suave and debonair cool guy looking for adventure in all the wrong places, or is that “love?” Did I also mention I was born to be wild, or is that “alive?” I’m confused. It must have been the acid I took at that last John Kay, Patrick Hernandez, Borders concert. But seriously, when I play the guitar it’s like ringing a bell. Problem is, I’m talking literally. I get more out of one note than most people get out of two. I sing with a growl reminiscent of the wood chipper in Fargo, and I’m a back-door man, as well. And remember, if you don’t like my chickens, don’t shake my tree. That’s the way I roll. I simply can’t be topped, unless we’re talking in the Othellonian sense of being 'tupped,' you know, like your you, or me, or ewe, yeah, that’s it, ewe.

Jim, or Andy, arrives first. Jim’s infectious laugh and Andy’s jocular good humor always bring a warm smile to my face. Just mine. Beer and tequila, two critical components in the pre-ceremonial, dithyrambic rites that steady us for rehearsal, are then dispensed. Cacophonic discussions commence regarding world events (Rush Limbaugh’s chequered past), local gossip concerning the other members of the band’s weird foibles and strange quirks (mine and Dave’s snapdragon fetish, and Shadow’s litter eatin'), musical news (Prince’s blockage of Radiohead’s tubes), and other cool stuff. The British Columbians from next door often visit, bringing fresh Absinthe, Mushroom Quiche, and other world delectables.

Jim’s a pro. He’s a Tai-Chi master and garage sale guru. He knows what’s up, and how to keep it up there. Wanna know more? He regularly channels Gene Krupa’s ghost as a way of letting off steam. And what steam he lets off, sha-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, goodbye. His drumming provides the perfect accompaniment to Sophia’s angelic warblings and my dust-devil leads. His maraca stylings have been compared with that of the world-renowned triangle ensemble, the Square Roots. But even this skill pales in comparison to his cowbell work. He brings a freshness to “Mississippi Queen” that only a true student of the Sixties could pull off. They don’t call him Mr. Tambourine man for nothing. I don’t want to say he likes hippies, but he plays in a band called ‘Deep Space Six.' Jim Rules (right on)!

Andy is the brains of the outfit. He puts the man in Mensa. His glissandos flutter and dive like deranged birds on a kamakazi mission from Beelzebub. He plays good, too. Black keys, white keys, he can play ‘em all. He’s callin' the rain as he walks down the road to ever ‘cos he’s an artist who don’t look back. His accordion work on “Brand New Start” is so strong he received a glowing endorsement letter from Myron Floren. I recall a funeral gig where his organ playing revived a dead man. The shocked widow demanded her money back. His effusive affection for fusion fandangos fuels the full-throated fanfares he serenades his fulsome bride with. He can make a half-note sound like eight notes. He’s that good. He’s a sauna-building family man, too.

Next come Sophia and Oni. I typically have a bottle of vintage white wine awaiting our diva, Sophia (that means “wise” in Canadian).

Sophia has a sparkle, a wit, a grace, a charm that is so, so exquisite as to be, be, be, beyond words. Her voice is like the Zephyrs’ breath in birth of a nation, I mean, Botticelli’s Venus. Her subtle countenance belies a passionate intensity that is infused with Celtic drenched Bjork-like undertones that embellish her Foundational overtones. This not-so-swirling chanteuse will build up your buttercups and tear down your snapdragon (not snapdragons again!). She’s like the Wal-Mart of femme fatale torch singers: “Best Voice, Always.” Her sensitive treatment of Joan Jett’s “Bad Reputation,” and Wanda Jackson’s “Let’s have a party””…well, they laughed, they cried, they fell on their bums. Need I say more? No? Okay, I will. Won’t! Psyche.

The sound Oni gets on the bass was first heard on ancient Mt. Olympus when Zeussy topped Callisto. Their hoochie-coochin' was so thunderous, Hera turned her into a bear. Imagine the mating grunts of walri combined with a sassy sousa-phone, and you begin to get a vague idea of the country-whale-like backbeat this guy provides. An imperfect analogy for Oni’s and Jim’s steady presence would be if the rock of Gibraltar and Pyramid at Gaza had a baby. Bruce Jack once studied at the feet of Oni, whose hands are like giant, graceful sausages poised to stoke your soul’s griddle. We be griddlin'. But seriously, Oni was playing the 13 string banjo-bass when Noel Redding was in three-cornered, or is that eight stringed, pants. He’s so good he makes Jaco sound like me. He’s a house-cleanin', Jamersonian, Huffington-huffin', hobgoblin that specializes in soul. He knows ribs.

Then doesn’t come Dave. That’s his real nickname, “Doesn’t come Dave” (not that kind of come, gutter-dwellers). This johnny-come-lately never got there. Why, because he’s above and beyond anything as pedestrian as practice. He’s that good. He specializes in the repair of torn retocillators, and he’ll adjust your valves of Houston with his monstrous flugelhorn. And what a joyous horn it is! Another of his various and sundry nicknames is “joyhorn.” Dave is the ambassador of drama at Queeny’s School of Massage (French goes there). There’s an anagrammatical sentence for ‘ya, Freudy. If Al Hirt and Miles Davis had a baby it would sound like Dave. His feedback shenanigans and microphone-under-arm bit have thrilled millions throughout the universe. Just ask him. His lip is like the Great Wall of China. His bizarre garb was a major influence on Sun Ra and Phyllis Diller. He’s formally trained and instinctively gifted. He makes ten notes sound like 3 notes. He once held up the last timbers in a Calumet mine cave-in, saving 50 men while playing “The Lonely Bull.” He likes ruttin', too. We love you, pasty eater.

FUBAR is probably the first rock combo in the world to have 5 band dogs: Mogli, Lucky, Sarge, Jackson, and Shadow. These noble canines are an integral part of our band chemistry. Sharing our knowledge in a collaborative way on the best methods of pet cares inspires an, at once, creative and synergistic kind of solidarity that most bands only dream of. According to Oni (he’s a human), Kirk’s Castille Soap is a must for every dog owner. I remember sharing my modest, yet vast, knowledge of how to facilitate user-friendly dog waste. The trick is to set up an early morning feeding schedule, and no table scraps! This creates a scoopable, nicely formed doggie-doo, leaving little in the way of pooch-slimy residue. These Baskervilian hounds also frighten off those who would steal our ideas. GRRRRRRRRR!

Oh yeah, Oni Werth plays bass, Andy Adamson plays keyboards, Randy Tessier plays guitar, Dave Cavender plays harmonica and trumpet, Jim Carey plays drums, and Sophia Hanifi sings.

Have a Nice Day – FUBARIAN MAXIMUS

PS: We can play either standing up or sitting down, and we guarantee that no song will ever sound the same way twice.

PHOTOS: Paul Engstrom