Saturation Point

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Existentialism at Wilfrid Laurier, that's where I met Ron (guitar). He was talking "Nirvana" and I was talking Chick Corea, so it was a while before we hooked up. Mark (drums) and Ron were playing a while prior to my enterence. Ron is a prolific, and talented writer, definitely in tune with the angst of the time. It was at a party that we met Jim (vocals), and the line up was set. Really it was an eclectic bunch, we clashed at times to get our thoughts known, but man we could whip up a feirce combination. I think it was the injection of Greg "the love mo'sheen" (guitar) that unleashed some of the ferocity. Even when Greg left the energy was intense.

Showcased here for you listening pleasure is an attempt to hermetically seal some of this energy in the above tune, Saturation Point.

 Well, given history's recent trend towards a harmony of nations, the realisation of humanitarian ideals, and an inexpensive loafer which doesn't sacrifice comfort for style, it seems less and less likely that our humble little planet will ever be swallowed whole by the gluttonous, destructive appetite of total nuclear apocalypse. Which is a shame, because not only does it mean an increase in poetry about flowers and spring days (blech), but also that the chances of this fascinating biography of THE MOURNING AFTER will most undoubtedly never float as a charred leaflet through the radiation soaked streets of a once civilised city and into the hands of some crazed holocaust survivor, who will rally a group of followers about this snippet of literature, claiming it to be the only word of truth in an absurd universe, thus elevating the band to the ranks of prophets. Just like Zeppelin.

 None of which really matters, because given the reality of complete nuclear devastation, the band would unquestionably be very dead, living in a certain "first strike zone" such as Kitchener (our nations enemies could never allow the continued supply of Mennonite sausage to our boys in the trenches). So our hopes of Godhead are in vain. Unless of course our nearby cousins to the south were to do something really stupid, like vote into power some complete idiot who is totally unqualified and incapable of dealing with the responsibility of governing a major superpower. But what are the chances of that?

 So the following is offered namely to make clear the origins of the band, before the tabloids come up with something utterly incredible, like that we met at Wilfrid Laurier University or something. Those scum.
 
 

 Careening maniacally out of control through the frictionless void of deep space, MARK COLLINS attempted to regain command of his small blue hatch-back Galaxy class shuttle, which had been boarded, stripped, and then sent on its fiery way by the crew of a renegade Klingon Bird of Prey. "Thank God they didn't find the drums" raced through Mark's mind, unaware of the jeopardy both he and his kit were now in, as his powerless spacecraft hurled precariously into the stratosphere of a familiar little green and blue planet.  BUT, just moments from impact, a jolting sonic assault grated against the hull of the ailing ship, splintering it into shards of metal, and yet miraculously sending Mark and his drums into the only part of the surrounding landscape which could break their fall: a giant pile of potatoes.

 "Oh No" cried RON GILL, a lanky, hermitish looking fellow, who not only owned the potatoes, but was also responsible for the one-in-a-million chance blast of sound which had saved Mark's career as a percussionist. It seemed that Ron was a guitarist, and had just been tuning his instrument at some ungodly decibel level when Mark chanced to enter his airspace. With music as a common interest, the two struck up and instant rapport, and decided to go talk about teaming up as band mates over dinner (seeing as Mark had effectively spoiled the potatoes).

 Wandering through the deep woods that fate had dropped the two comrades in (though Ron was never really sure what he was doing in a forest, or how he had got there), a sudden stench overcame the olfactories of our growing cast: it was the heavy, unmistakable scent of "bottom end". Where was it coming from? After discreetly exonerating themselves as the source, Mark and Ron concluded that it might be the bears.  BEARS?! With neither Mark able to set up his kit in time, nor Ron (which coincidentally, is "nor" spelt backwards. Weird eh?) able to find an outlet anywhere, the two were left weaponless and apparently doomed to become just another hunting story around the old cave tonight.

 Salvation, however, and the apparent source of the "bottom end", suddenly appeared atop a mountain scape: it was DOUG BODRUG, hair flowing in the breeze, and pounding out reverberating bass tones which, while appealing to most humans, are known to send bears off on frenzied shopping sprees at the closest factory outlet mall (popular with bears due to the ridiculously low prices). Doug was immediately welcomed to join the group, due mainly to his intense aura of "bottom end", but also because he had good hair.

 The three agreed that hey all had one heck of a hankerin' for one thing: donuts. So stopping at the next coffee shop, they all ordered. It was then that JIM McINTYRE noticed the trio of musicians and began querying about openings for a singer. No one was real anxious for this annoying twerp to join forces with their daring group. Yet, as fate would have it, Mark, Ron, and Doug suddenly were overcome with simultaneous choking-on-half-chewed-donut disease. "I'll save you," Jim cried, "but only if you let me join the band!" This went on for about an hour, until finally our three heroes agreed. First releasing Mark from his spasmatic torture, the drummer then assisted the new vocalist (seeing as that he hadn't saved anyone's life yet), and as the room quieted, the four stood and reveled in the glory of their new situation.

 Not only had they spewed donut everywhere, but they also evolved from the chaotic, brutish, downright nasty forces of nature into an odd yet loveable band of misfits, who would take to the road, travelling from town to town, where once a week they would meet up with a beautiful yet intelligent and highly independent cattle rancher's daughter, whose ailing though determined father's land is under siege by cowpoachers or industrialists or other such vermin, who of course realize that there is enough oil on the property to but Texas ten time over, but which will remain unknown to our heroes and their special guest star until the final ten minutes of this week's episode. But first, they needed a name. "The A-Team" was suggested, resulting in the prompt beating of the suggestee.

 Finally choosing to call themselves "The Mourning After", they discovered no one wanted their help anymore (given that their name was scarier than any old cowpoacher). So it was decided that they would just travel around and play music for anyone interested in that sort of thing. And much to their amazement, music was in fact quite popular, apparently having gained a following in the early 1400's or so. Thus, their music and their freshly baked bagels have become their legacy, leaving a wonderful after taste and distinct ringing sensation in the ears of millions of satisfied customers.
 

[Editor's note: Did you catch the self depreciation? For the record we were all loaded at a party at which Ron, Mark, and Doug were playing, and as luck would have it someone noticed that Jim could sing exceptionally well for a drunk guy trying to cop the lyrics to "All Day All Night". You may note the two spellings of the band's name. The name was misspelled so often by bar owners and promoters that we switched it to Morning to avoid any confusion]