After all the years of bad first dates and bookended relationships, you finally found your twin flame. Who could have guessed your cosmic counterpart would be right under your nose at the 2-for-1 happy hour of your local watering hole? Not so fast. Silence the wedding bells ringing in your ears and take our five-question quiz to find out if she’s truly your soulmate or if she just listened to you talk about yourself uninterrupted for two hours.
1. What is her name?
a. She doesn’t have one
b. I’ll check the name on her debit card when she pays for our drinks at the end of the night
c. The same name as my mom’s but with a different spelling
2. Where does she live?
a. In the deepest recesses of my heart
b. Hopefully within walking distance because I really need somewhere to crash tonight and I’m fucking hammered
c. Around the corner from where I used to live, which reminds me of a really long story I need to tell her involving a bunch of people she’s never met
3. Do you feel comfortable opening up to her?
a. I have trauma dumped on her in a way that makes the Great Pacific Garbage Patch look like a community garden compost bin.
b. She knows things about me that would make my closest family members wonder if they ever really knew me at all.
c. She is one ‘mother’s maiden name’ piece of information away from being able to steal my entire identity
4. What is most attractive about her?
a. She said she would watch my cat next weekend while I’m in Rochester for a skate trip
b. She looks exactly like my ex-girlfriend who I keep working into the conversation
c. She’s age-appropriate but still young enough that I can manipulate her empathetic nature and soft malleable heart
5. What were some of your most fondest memories of the night
a. The enlightened look on her face when I explained the marbling process of wagyu beef
b. All the times she nodded in agreement while I explained I was both the brains and the brawn behind my recently formed band “Tyrannosaurus Hex”
c. How turned on she looked when I explained how riding a fixed-gear bike makes for a much more intentional experience
The boner I got when she told me she’d never been to Japan before and asked me for recommendations in Osaka
George’s mom strikes fear into all with her ear-piercing shriek. Even though she’d absolutely do something that would warrant a ban, she’s at the bottom of this list because no one would dare to confront her.
Larry owns Monk’s Cafe (formerly Tom’s). He typically pops up when the gang is getting unruly. He’s basically a diner bouncer. He clearly understands the dos and don’ts of how to act in an establishment and is therefore unlikely to catch a ban.
This globetrotting manic-pixie-dream-yuppie would be so taken with the rustic surroundings and fiery passion of the legendary punk space, he’d be more likely to feature its aesthetic in a catalog than cause any problems. Besides, he’s the guy who brought the opium.
Every character in “Seinfeld” has a fatal flaw. All Poppie did was not wash his hands after using the bathroom and he peed on his friend’s couch. If peeing on your buddy’s couch was enough to get you blacklisted, the punk scene would cease to exist. Besides, I don’t think the CBGB bathroom sinks have worked since the ’80s. Poppie gets a pass.
While we never see Cousin Jeffrey, we sure hear about him. Jerry’s familial nemesis is a specter looming over Jerry’s fragile sense of self for the entire series. Not only would Cousin Jeffrey be welcome in the hallowed halls of CBGB, we bet he’d be managing the bar within weeks. Fucking Jeffrey.
Kel Varnsen, Jerry’s alter ego, is Jerry on his best behavior. Jerry basically needs to dissociate in order to act polite. Kel wouldn’t dare upset the social norms in an unfamiliar environment. However, there’s a small chance he’d catch a ban from associating with his friend Art Vandelay.
Jerry’s dentist and the second funniest joke writer in the Seinfeld universe (#1 being Kenny Bania, of course) is a pretty chill guy, but he does get way too into things. We could see him showing up in a pristine battle vest and a seven-colored tri-hawk. That poser would get tossed before he can say, “Good Riddance… is the real name of that Green Day song. See? I did my research!”
A stuffed shirt like Elaine’s boss Mr. Lippman wouldn’t exactly fit in with punks. However, he’d get one whiff of what was happening in that venue and he’d leave before anything bad happened. What he’d get a “whiff” of, for the record, is crust punks.
Dolores has a temper, but only when righteously offended so it might depend on the politics of the band on stage. On the other hand, she had the maturity to leave Jerry after some of his trademark foolishness so she’d be just as likely to leave a heated situation than risk a ban.
On a typical night, Bob Cobb is a polite bar patron with pristine show etiquette. However, if his band is playing, then The Maestro comes out. He’ll demand everyone get the fuck up front and even jump in the crowd to pull people towards the stage. Depending on the vibe, this behavior may be encouraged. But on the wrong night, The Maestro could receive a perma-ban from these hallowed, stickered halls.
Kramer’s snobby alter-ego would do his best to maintain class at all times, especially in such a brutish environment. However, he’s still Kramer so some combination of falling, flailing, or blurting something out may end in his removal from the club.
This virgin is anything but timid when it comes to letting people know how she feels. Plus, she sure held her grudge against Jerry for the entire series. This is not a sign of someone who can let shit go. In the wrong circumstances, the virgin is getting two giant Xs on her hands and shown the door.
Now this man has a temper but, once again, it’s primarily triggered by the fallout from interacting with the Seinfeld gang. Maybe there’s a pattern here. Either way, assuming Babu came to the club to see a band he liked, he’d be fine. But if he wound up there at the behest of Jerry in hopes of marketing his restaurant as “Authentic Punk-istani Cuisine,” he might see some “very bad men” around him and start crowdkilling.
This one’s simple. Is someone giving her perfect son a hard time? No? Then Mrs. S. is cool. If so? Then shit is going down.
Sure, when Elaine showed up to CBGB for a date with a band member, or the sound guy, or someone else with some clout in the room, she intended to have a romantic, thrilling New York night. But he’d eventually say something that offended her politics or triggered her general disgust of people, and then the whole room would hear about it. Whether or not she’s in the right will be overshadowed by her vigor and will likely end in a ban.
At some point in the early 2000s, smoking was banned from bars in the city. Mr. Game 6’s chainsmoking habit would quickly wear out its welcome in Bloomberg’s New York City. Sorry, Keith. You’re out.
As the cashier at Monk’s diner, Ruthie has dealt with some shit. Mostly from George. She’d maintain her composure until a riff got too brutal and she let out all her repressed rage on some poor unsuspecting motherfuckers in the pit. This may lead to a ban, once again depending on which band happened to be playing at the moment.
First off, Jackie would love this club. The whole place is an ambulance chaser’s dream. Hell, so are most punk bars. Jackie would get too excited and jump at the first opportunity to file a suit and he’d be shown the door for his troubles.
Ping would slip in the mosh pit and become the unwitting accomplice of Jackie Chiles’ attempted scam and receive a ban by association.
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.