Mike, Mr. Fry and Jonathan, the drummer man.Mikey is one of my shop rats. He's building an acoustic guitar while his wife builds Luna, that developing human parasite in her torso.
His band, for reasons that must be mysterious to most, is called the MF7, even though there's only three people in it.
He writes funky songs about stealing his mother's car and his father's gun, going on benders, fighting and fucking with women and has a Tom Waits sensiblity with a funky sense of melody and rythym.
Fry's a big fella who thumps away at that bass in a way I find very gratifying. Jonathan poisons young minds by teaching them Spanish, something that must irritate the rethuglicans up there in Minneapolis where he lives.
I played with these guys at the Farmer's market last Saturday for a few hours, then they asked me to take band photos.
It was fun, even if Micheal is a kettle corn hoarding kind of guy.
I even made fifteen bucks. Whoo-frakkin' hoo.
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