PATERSON, N.J. — Local punk and high school junior Terry Probost, who often claims to miss the grimy, dangerous, pre-Guiliani New York City, is actually only 17 years old and has lived in New Jersey since he was in sixth grade.
“I’m telling you, New York just is a shell of its former self,” said Probost en route to his AP History from sixth-period biology. “Back then people like Dee Dee [Ramone] and Chris [Stein of Blondie] still hung around. I just really miss when things used to be authentic, instead of this fucking Mickey Mouse Disney Store that Times Square has been turned into. Tim Verlaine would have fucking wept if he could see CBGB now. I should know, I walked by the CBGB Lounge and Bar at Newark International Airport last year. Wish I could have gone in, but my parents don’t know I have a fake ID.”
Marie Probost, a certified public accountant, was unsure exactly where her son developed his obsession with a cartoonish vision of New York City that mostly existed in self-serving memoirs.
“We moved out of Staten Island when he was just a baby,” said Probost. “I don’t think he’s ever actually been to Manhattan, and he’s definitely never been to 53rd Street and 3rd. I don’t know why he keeps shouting that with his earbuds in. If I could change one thing, it would be not letting him check ‘Please Kill Me’ out of the library last year. Please, nobody tell him that ‘Sid and Nancy’ is streaming on Plex right now. I can’t deal with him finding out about London in the ‘70s.”
New York City historian Barry Di Martino is familiar with cases like Probost’s and the obsession with how disgusting the toilet at the Mudd Club was.
“Terry is searching for an identity,” said Di Martino. “At his age, it’s very normal to romanticize a place like New York City, which has always been disgusting and a shit place to live since it was founded by the Dutch in 1624. Right now, he’s experiencing something called ‘cultural FOMO,’ which is what we historians call pretentious little shits who think there’s something cool about having to worry about being stabbed any time you leave your 11th floor walk-up apartment. With any luck, he’ll grow out of it before he becomes a music critic.”
As of press time, Probost had discovered the movie “24 Hour Party People” and was talking about how the economically depressed Manchester of the early 1980s was the coolest.
Remember how hard it was when you were transitioning from your awkward teens to your even more awkward adult years? You threw everything at the wall hoping something would stick to hopefully form a cohesive identity that was new and unique. It didn’t quite work, but at least you got to try on a few literal and metaphorical hats along the way. That is ‘March On Electric Children!’ in a nutshell. Its ideas are bold, but half-formed. Exciting, but poorly executed. Fun, but deeply disturbing. Much of the experimentation featured on this outing would only prove to be refined on future releases, making ‘March On’ feel like a rough draft at best.
As a debut album, ‘This Adultery Is Ripe’ certainly stands as one of the boldest of its era. Melding all of the fringe elements of its adjacent genres, this record managed to introduce a highly influential and unique-to-a-fault sound to unsuspecting listeners across multiple scenes. Punk, emo, hardcore, and screamo fans all had something worthwhile to find on this one. And let’s not forget they had two vocalists, which left a lot of people wondering if that was even legal. If this were the band’s only effort, it would stand exceptionally well amongst even the most legendary of contemporaries. Fortunately for us, the band only continued to ramp up their output with very few exceptions from that point on.
A majority of Blood Brothers fans will tell you that ‘Burn, Piano Island, Burn’ is not only their best album, but possibly the greatest album of all time. We won’t sit here and call them idiots, but we absolutely do not agree with the sentiment. This is not to say ‘Piano Island’ is a bad album. In fact, as the band’s major label debut, the astounding and chaotic fervor it caused upon its release is likely responsible for its overblown reputation within the band’s discography. Where most groups in their situation start to dull down their sound to garner more mainstream popularity, The Blood Brothers dug their heels even deeper into their disorienting avant-garde stylings. Still, there are clear growing pains within the songwriting and production that make this one feel a little flat when observed within the context of their full discography.
‘Young Machetes’ is hands down The Blood Brothers’ most dazzling album in terms of production thanks to the esteemed and guiding hand of Guy Picciotto. Every member is in top form as if completely aware it would be the band’s last effort. Unfortunately, this knowledge of the death knell is apparent throughout the record, as evidence of the band’s splintering tastes occasionally hinders the album’s progress. This is most jarring in the faster tracks that appear to play out just a few BPMs slower than they should have (Huge Gold AK47), and most gloriously effective when the band leans into their more groove-based tendencies (Spit Shine Your Black Clouds). Considering the break-neck speed at which the band operated during their ten-year existence, it’s completely forgivable for them to have been totally exhausted by this point in their existence. Their final album, though not without flaws, is a fitting goodbye and a perfect reminder that youth is fleeting and no one stays in their twenties forever.
If we were ranking The Blood Brothers’ discography by album cover alone, this one would come in dead last. Behind the atrocious early aughts emo artwork lies the band’s true opus, however. This is the record where The Blood Brothers stood on the precipice of critical adoration and near-mainstream success and spit it venomously in the faces of all who dared to press play. Johnny Whitney and Jordan Billie’s contrasting vocal styles lock in for the most consistently satisfying interplay they ever committed to tape. A great reminder to listeners that two lead vocalists are completely warranted for an act such as theirs. Cody Votolato’s layered guitar work provides a cacophony that is as lush as it is volatile, while bassist Morgan Henderson and drummer Mark Gajadhar’s backbeats are so complexly dialed in that the former was eventually tagged in for Fleet Foxes’ lineup. This is without mentioning Johnny Whitney’s highly underrated Rhodes and synth playing that colors the entire record. If you find yourself scoffing at this entirely correct placing in the rank, we suggest you shut the fuck up and make your own genre-defying record and get out of our comments section.
This show choir wouldn’t even make it two weeks into the semester. Mr. Hetfield would only show up for half the rehearsals, and when he would, he’d be inexcusably late. The kids would start skipping fourth period to go smoke pot under the bleachers and steal things out of open lockers. The school principal would pull the class and James would no longer be allowed within 500 yards of the campus.
To upper middle-aged men with a collection of short-sleeved button-down shirts and bad knees, David Lee Roth is a legendary rock vocalist and a powerful performer. To a public school district’s hiring committee, he is a liability. There would be no choir, nor show.
You’d think Drake would have taken a choir class during his time at Degrassi High, but no, he’d just be mumbling shit to the kids like, “I thought you were in high school, but you’re just schooling high,” before getting fired for treating them to a pizza and bottle service party.
The school district upholds a zero-tolerance policy for any teacher telling students to “calm fucking down, shut the fuck up—oh fuck off!!” no matter how much they deserve it, so unfortunately Mr. Ozzy would be terminated on his first day.
“I think she used to be the JV volleyball coach.” “I heard she bartends in Southside on the weekends.” “Do you think she vapes?” are just some examples of what the students would be saying about their new teacher. Classes would mostly be sing-alongs to whatever classic rock songs came up on satellite radio, and the kids would readily take advantage of the fact that Miss Cyrus never takes attendance.
Mr. Mayer would resent this job from the start. He’d decide after the first class to nix the whole show choir idea and turn fourth period into a group guitar lesson instead. There’d be two interested kids who’d make some progress on the instrument while the rest would spend the whole class swiping through Bumble on their phones, and Mr. Mayer wouldn’t care less.
Okurrr, this clearly wouldn’t go very well. Miss Cardi would probably be better at teaching English or politics classes than show choir, as not a lot of actual singing would happen. But if nothing else, her “try me or get popped” approach to classroom management would be effective.
Frankly, Mr. Parker is too chill and barefoot to effectively teach high schoolers. He’d be all vibes, no lesson plans, and the kids would quickly take him for a pushover, eventually just coming and going from rehearsal as they pleased.
If only Mr. Sheeran had any classroom management skills, this show choir might stand a chance, but he doesn’t. No matter how many times he’d tell the kids he’s their actual teacher and not a substitute from the teacher staffing agency, they wouldn’t listen. Halfway through the semester he’d give in and let them watch movies for the remaining weeks of class.
Mr. Turner would appear to not give a fuck about the show choir, and that’d be because he wouldn’t! Rehearsals would be inefficient sessions of him crooning some songs for the students to learn by ear. Eventually most of them would be singing fairly well, but choreography wouldn’t even be a consideration. At least half the kids would lose interest weeks in and pick up smoking cigarettes instead.
Let’s get one thing straight: Dr. Teeth understands show choir. He is no stranger to the mechanics of flamboyant, choreographed musical numbers, but like many musicians who are masters of their craft, he wouldn’t be a very good teacher. He’d assume the kids could learn all the songs through call and response, and they’d end up driving to the competition in a 1970s VW van just to shout-sing in a half-octave range.
The kids wouldn’t believe the 
Florence, who would insist the kids call her by her first name, would somehow be simultaneously neurotic about preparing for the big competition and totally carefree about the student’s daily progress. Their routine would be mostly improvised, and that just doesn’t cut it in the world of show choir! She’d also be regularly mistaken for the school’s visual art teacher and drive the principal insane with her habit of letting the kids out of class early.
The kids would lose their shit as soon as they learned Miss Swift would be their teacher for the semester. Parents of students from other school districts would be bribing the principal with thousands of dollars to let their kids transfer and be in her class. It would be such an ongoing frenzy that Miss Swift wouldn’t even be able to teach, which is a shame since no one has ever written more relatable songs for people in high school and/or living with a high schooler’s mentality than she has.
While Mrs. Ferguson’s expertise lies in dynamic musical ensembles, her choreography would be too challenging for the students. You’d think with all the texting kids do they’d have strong and nimble wrists, but even with ten weeks to practice, not one would manage to pull off a one-handed cartwheel.
The students would never quite be able to figure out 
How could you expect 
Jason Mraz would obviously run the tightest Orff-Schulwerk based elementary music program at a peanut-free charter school that doesn’t believe in report cards or math and calls the first-grade “Team Starfish,” but his show choir would lack the pizazz necessary to take home a state title.
Ms. B’s class would not be the easy A so many kids were expecting it to be. What they thought was going to be a breezy semester-long sing-along with a mild-mannered teacher would turn out to be a crash course in ethnomusicology, trip-hop, and electrical engineering, with spontaneous field trips to go yell outside school board meetings.
