“Oh yeah, we do drugs,” says Volatility, the axeman of The Rabid Italic Squirrels, or TRIS. He has hair so long that a few strands drag on the floor and he is constantly parting it so he can see; which isn’t all that successful because of his eyelid piercing. “Our fans would think something was wrong with us if we didn’t. I like to put industrial lubricants in my coffee.”

The drummer, a powdered and scrawny woman in a wife-beater shirt and cargo pants, slaps him upside the head. “You drink coffee? That’s so mainstream.”

“You take that back!” he shouts, giving her the finger.

I talk to the two screamers – this band doesn’t have singers – over the shouts, punches, and breakings. Their stage names are Lawsuit and Papercut. Unfortunately, they have to sip hot tea every few sentences. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” Lawsuit says, reapplying black lipstick. “I just lose my voice a lot these days.”

“We wanted to come up with names that – ACK! (Violent coughing) We wanted to come up with truly awful things. “Sting” is all sweetness and light, you know?” Papercut turns around and shrieks at Volatility and Really Icky Green. “WE’RE GETTING AN INTERVIEW WITH what was the name of your magazine again?”

“Um, Nine Muses.”

“That some underground thing?”

I start backing away. “High school literary magazine.”

Really Icky Green’s eyelid twitches. I congratulate myself on dodging the cymbal as I flee from their wrath, though the xylophone gives me a bruise.