FANTASY

Putting together fantasy bands, while fun, is an imaginative exercise in futility. As with fantasy sports teams, the grouping of players who wouldn’t normally play together only distances the organizer further from reality. And when you really get down to it, the myriad possibilities are enough to make your head spin. So when I decided to assemble a fantasy band, I did so with the utmost care and deliberation. While some might think that musical aptitude or rock-ability would be the deciding factors, they would be wrong. Instead, the only thing that qualifies one for this gig is their rock-and-roll face. Note: Nigel Tufnel was excluded because he’s already in a fantasy band.

Marc Bolan on guitar. Careful not to exhibit the consternation of a player lost in instrumental labor, the T. Rex frontman instead relies on a facial expression of constant sexual gratification. Letting his eyes roll back in his head, he’s making love to his guitar as much as he’s making love to his audience. Accordingly, he puffs his cheeks, exhales forcefully and sighs with visceral pleasure while throwing his head back and presumably jizzing in his pants.

k.d. lang on vocals. She works the pained squint and couples it with an outstretched hand (reaching for what? Help? A higher power?) or a clenched fist to show true, real emotion. Betraying nothing but genuine sentiment, lang gives the sense of a tangible connection to the song’s subject matter. Like Morrissey in a pant suit, she furrows her brow in a smugly affected manner while curling her thin lips around the words. Her composed emoting, when coupled with the longing ache in her voice and the concerned, attached expression on her face, only reinforces her sense of “Constant Craving.”

Mick Fleetwood on drums. Grimacing and wincing like he’s taking a hall-of-fame crap, the Fleetwood Mac drummer always looks uncomfortable when playing. He shifts in his seat and leans every which way in an apparent effort to loosen his bowels while making faces that are consistent with those of a constipated man. With his mouth gaping in either pain or relief, he appears to be awash with the endorphin-fueled feelings of someone who’s just barely survived a traumatic experience. Quick, somebody get this man a sweat rag and some toilet paper. Never mind the fact that he’s still in the middle of a song, alternately flailing madly and punishing the skins or shrugging rhythmically and tapping in time.

Happy-Tom on bass. A heavyset guy styled as a threatening homosexual in a sailor suit, Happy Tom has been going “whoa-oh-whoa” with Turbonegro for well over a decade. His aggressive sneer, clenched teeth and piercing eyes give the impression of a man fighting his way out from the depths of rock-and-roll purgatory. Also, depending on the night, he can be seen as weary, catatonic and generally jaded, which is still cool in an I-Don’t-Give-A-Shit kind of way. Still, by the end of a show, he’s so sweaty that all his makeup has run, creating that worn-out tragic clown image. And how awesome would it be to have one costumed and made-up goon sharing the stage with a fey glam god, a googly-eyed (blame the cocaine) English dandy and a beguiling lesbian?