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Brahms' 3rd Racket Website

Brahms' 3rd Racket

Well...uh...I guess it all started when Dr. Gino, having already consumed more than three-fifths of what was then remaining in his aqua-hydra-fibrilator, decided to step outside to have a smoke. Need I explain the gravity of that fateful decision?

Uh…okay…maybe I should try. So…Dr. Gino was out on the sidewalk, right? Yes, and it was there that he bumped into Freaknoxious (the freakiest, foxiest, girl singer in the free sector, who trolled the streets after curfew looking for vulnerable men she could abuse), along with Thingamajigs, the undisputed baddest, badass beater of the skins, practicing his nasty habit of grabbing his giant thingamajigs and cracking them together like canastas: “Crack, crack!” Fred was there, too - though you might not think he was if your low frequency receptors only went down to 20 Hz – and me, of course, The Sponger, straight from a date at the Glitter Salon, resplendent in my cosmic faux-rebel uniform of pre-torn shirt, pre-ripped pants and atomized gorilla trainers so fashionably tattered they had to be held together by the low string of a cello, wrapped around and around to keep the sole and instep from traveling in opposite directions when I walked. You dig? Dr. Gino didn’t really play an instrument, but he’d write you a prescription for anything so he was a good one to have around.

And so that makes five, right? Yes, 1,2,3,4,5, all five of us in one place. We were not then well acquainted. But there was something in the air, you know? Call it band aroma. And that’s when it happened: King Gwendor the Impervious parted the clouds with his mighty sword. He cleared his throat to get our attention, and it worked: “Ahem!” In a thundering voice the king decreed: “Henceforth ye shall collectively be known as Brahms’ Third Racket.”

We looked at each other. B3R???

“I’m not exactly sure why,” King Gwendor admitted. “But I’m the king. So there.”

Embarrassed silence. Freaknoxious pointed out to the Impervious – and very politely, for her - that the name Brahms’ Third Racket was already taken, by one Double-U Double Jaberwock, a nefarious jurist from Angel City.

“He has a Band Camp page,” Freaknoxious told King Gwendor. “And he’s got his stuff on CD Baby. $9.99.”

“Hmmm,” said the king, rubbing his beard. “I see. That is impressive. Let’s brainstorm.”

We kicked around some alternate names, including: Brahms’ Racket x Three, Brahms’ Third Racquet, and Brahms, Whose Racket is Triple the Amount of Racket Made by Any Other Guy Named Brahms. But as luck would have it two of those names were already taken, too, the first by a “music is math” tutoring service for gifted sprouts, the second by a 24-hour indoor squash and tennis club. The third alternate choice was not taken, and it did have a certain ring to it, however, far exceeding the character limit of the iTunes title bar it was deemed by all to be a definite inhibitor to success. The mood among us grew dark. Thingamajigs cracked his outsized thingamajigs together: “Crack, crack!” Dr. Gino lit another stogie, his seventeenth, by my count, while I impotently punted the pavement with my wraparound cello string, which sounded an ominous C minor Major 7th. Was this the end? Before we’d begun? Impossibly, King Gwendor the Impervious was the first to embrace the possibility of defeat.

“Well,” he said, “what about Stonehenge?”

Another silence. We didn’t even bother checking the Interstellar Band Name Database to see if that was taken. How many Henges had the universe already seen? Were we doomed to spend eternity as Rock Steady? Solid Roxxx? The Purple Spiderz? The Fivetastics? Thank the Luck for Fred. He hadn’t said a word. But he’d been thinking.

“What about using the number 3?” he finally suggested. “Ya know, a 3-rd, 3rd racket, not spelled out, T-H-I-R-D, like that other guy does?”

Slack-jawed, we stared. How could we have overlooked that? It was too easy! We searched the database and amazingly Brahms’ 3rd Racket (with a 3-rd) was not taken, so we emptied our pockets and paid the toll to put our dibs on our new name. Snatched from the jaws of defeat, mighty King Gwendor cleared his throat for take number two.

“Like I said,” he said again, sword raised, “henceforth ye shall collectively be known as Brahms’ 3rd Racket. With a 3-rd, that is, not spelled out like that Jaberwock guy.”

We whooped and whooped. High-fives galore. Freaknoxious hoisted Fred onto her shoulders. Dr. Gino stamped his cigarette into the sidewalk, and then smiled, which was something that never happened. Dr. Gino smiling? An auspicious sign. He wrote us all prescriptions, and thus inspired we immediately called Irwin the Welshman to book ourselves a gig at the Fecal A Go-Go for the following Wednesday, the second drum kit in a lineup of four.

“Uh,” we said to Irwin, “that guy who spells out T-H-I-R-D isn’t playing that night, is he?”

He wasn’t. As Brahms’ 3rd Racket we were primed to conquer the universe, or at least our block. We could always do “Kung Fu Fighting” for thirty minutes if we had to.

“You’ll need representation,” King Gwendor reminded, before volunteering to take us on for a mere 12%, instead of 15. Piloting the bus included. All minor repairs included. Egg rolls not included. How could we say no?

And this, of course, boys and girls, is how it all got started…okay, okay!!! I work a cruddy job during the day and record these strange noises (*) in my bedroom closet late at night. Satisfied???!!!

(*) Been doin’ it as Brahms’ 3rd Racket since 1994, unlike “that Jabberwock guy,” who only decided to poach the name in 2013 (T-H-I-R-D). Sneaky, sneaky. These lawyers! They sure know how to get around shit, huh?