Bullets in Madison Schwings at Schuba's: Episode I

I’m on a plane ride to Chicago with Bullets in Madison, and we're all going to die.

Of course, this particular plane ride didn’t start out that way. At first, I thought only I was going to die. Having sat through another two-hour ordeal they call a concert at Schaumburg’s Dave and Buster's, I was more than ready to take my toaster into the bathtub, assuming their piledriver melodies and screeching vocals didn't do the job. The new album, We Became your Family When You Died, is saturating the airwaves, though, and if you drop the ball halfway through the game, you get...bad...scores (insert sports metaphor here).

We’ve been in the air for half an hour, maybe ten, and we’ve been cruising comfortably long enough for Sandberg to disappear into the closet-sized bathroom ten times to “check his hair,” although guitarist Brendan Losch pointed out at least twice that one didn’t need baby oil and dirty magazines to “check hair,” particularly when the person doing the hair-checking didn’t have any hair, to which Sandberg responded that Brendan was maybe too mouthy for his own good and should clam up a little if he didn’t want a mouth full of seat cushion. Lead singer and keyboardist John Morton has spent the majority of the flight leafing through Spanish language emergency cards stuffed in the fronts of seats, trying to bone up on his Spanish based on rudimentary drawings of and emergency procedures. The saxophonist, whose name I haven’t yet bothered to learn, has been throwing together hallucinogenics out of seat upholstery and shaving cream. (He and I get along just fine.)

“Well, I think I got my follicles in place this time,” Sandberg says, emerging from the bathroom and wiping his palms on his denim pants.

“You took long enough,” snarls Losch, swiping his copy of Swank from Sandberg’s sticky grip.

“Por favor no lanze toallas de papel en los servicios,” says Morton, stuffing his pockets with free airline peanuts.

“I can smell colors,” says the saxophonist, lighting up a banana.

“Enough screwing around,” I say, waving away the scent of United’s mute grey and scorched fruit. “Let’s do an interview. How would you describe the tour so far?”

“Engaging,” says Sandberg, sneaking another peek at Losch’s magazine.

“I’ve had better,” says Losch, burying his magazine into his bag.

“Saliendo se caen los pies pegarás un tiro primero.,” says Morton, admiring his own reflection in a nearby mirror.

“What tour?” asks the saxophonist, burying his face into a Ziploc of airplane glue.

“Okay then. Follow up question.” I squint at my notes, trying to decipher the journalistic endeavors from the one-liners I’d copied down while watching Almost Famous. “If your band were a mountain, which one would it be?”

“The K2,” says Losch. “Because we’re at the top of the world.”

“That’s not the K2,” says Sandberg. “You’re an idiot.”

“We’re the Mount Everest of indie rock,” boasts Morton. “Because you can’t beat us.”

“Unlike Sandberg,” says Losch, at which point we all break up laughing, while Sandberg flounces off into the lavatory to sulk by himself.

“We’re the Himalayas,” says the saxophonist.

“We’re the Himalayas on top of the Andes,” says Morton.

“We’re the Himalayas and Andes on top of a really big building,” declares Sandberg, who has finished pouting relatively quickly.

“This is a stupid question,” says Losch. “Who invited this guy?”

At this point, before I can defend myself, the captain’s voice comes piping over the cabin speakers. Throughout the entire flight, we’ve heard nary a peep out of the cockpit, except for the usual this-is-your-captain-we’ll-be-crusing-at-ten-million-feet bit and the old oh-I-didn’t-know-the-mike-was-on-and-I-so-wasn’t-checking-ESPN-scores-in-here bit. Now, however, I’m hearing words that would make John McClain grip the sides of his armrests in panic: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. I’m afraid we’re experiencing some altitude alignment problems. We fully expect—“

Suddenly, the plan begins plummeting towards the earth at a deadly speed. Luggage and music equipment is flying all over the cabin. A screech enveloped the cabin. My stomach drops into my feet and I scream like a 1960s-era teenaged Beatles fan told Paul McCartney just married her evil stepsister.

My time on this earth is suddenly limited. And I'm stuck with an indie rock band.

I immediately begin weeping.

"Hey, don't do that." "Everything will work out okay." "Just relax, pal. We're going to make it."

Soothing words. I begin to calm down.

"Morton!" yells Losch. "You ate all the goddam airline peanuts."

Now we're all weeping, except Morton, who grabs a last package of peanuts from his jacket and devours it. He is unrepentant. We are unconsoled. I am disconsolate. I am out of ink.

This ends Episode I. Click here for the end of this extremely stupid story.