I count in and we hammer into the riff slow and heavy. Behind me Bobby batters the rhythm with precision, while to my left Jason slashes at his strings with confidence, swaying as he plays, grooving with the music he's making. This is Jason's song. It was what he played when he auditioned for us, and he practically begged us to use it in the set.

The stage lights are almost directly in front of me, so it's difficult to see much of the room except the area just below the stage. Even so, I can tell that there are some people nodding their head along with the familiar tune. Half of them probably recognize it as one of Beavis and Butthead's signature chanting songs: "Dah-Dah, Dih-Dih-Duh." We chose it as the opener because it's nice and recognizable, and also because it's the one song that Jason plays really well. Hell, it was probably the first song he learned to play on guitar. I figure if he starts well it should give him confidence for the rest of the set and maybe he'll keep his act together. It's a good theory, and it's worked in about half the shows we've played.

I scream "All right now!" into the mike, and hear some woo-hoos from the audience. I smile, happy that the audience is with us as we play through the song, gradually letting it progress. We bring 'Sweet Leaf' to a crescendo, with Bobby doing massive rolls to build it up. We peak then fall off entirely, leaving only a breath before we pick up with 'End of Us,' an old number from Tremors of Intent, Bobby's old band. They used to be my band too, but I got thrown out before they made it big. People still remember 'End of Us' from the radio, and after the Sabbath song it draws people in and let's them know who we are and what we're going to play for them. Our list is made up of the songs that I wrote with Tremors of Intent in the early days, some of my recent originals and a few covers like the Sabbath song. Nothing artificial, just straight, simple rock to entertain whoever is willing to pay.

The set goes well. We roll through our list, keeping the breaks between songs short, except when Jason and I need to tune up. I make snappy banter with the crowd. Some people get up and dance in front of the stage, especially during the last few songs. We hit the false ending, say thank you, goodnight. The applause is good. Jason and I take off our guitars and Bobby gets out from behind his kit. We step to the side of the stage, making the pretence that we're leaving but clearly leaving everything still hooked up, so the crowd can see that if they cheer loudly enough we'll come back on for an encore. We're not total ego cases. We typically only wait about ten seconds to come back up if they cheer for us. It's cheesy, but the showmanship appeals to me. If they didn't cheer we wouldn't play another song, but they do, so after the time it takes Bobby to drink a glass of water, we go back up.

Bobby leads the way, getting a cheer. People know who he is and they know he played with Tremors of Intent for five albums and twelve years. Bobby played in front of festival crowds of up to twenty thousand when Tremors of Intent were at their biggest, long after I was thrown out of the band. I don't know how many people are in this room. Between two-fifty and three hundred I suppose, and I'm happy to be up in front of them. The Lounge in Windsor doesn't hold twenty thousand people, but I'm happy to play there anyway.

Jason follows, his arms stuck up in the air like he's the heavyweight champion of the world. I get up and sling my Gibson bass back on. Bobby starts pounding out the rhythm of our encore song before Jason even has his guitar on. There's always a long drum buildup. Jason and I take a second to get in tune. We wait, I cue Jason and we rip into it with an open E chord.

We play Neil Young's 'Rockin' in the Free World' as our encore song. It's a fast, aggressive anthem that doesn't skimp on either hope or social commentary. Personally, I think a few of the lyrics are some of the most affecting in rock. The bit about the kid who will never get to fall in love and never get to be cool is touching. I guess I'm just an old softy.

The problem is, it is a simple tune, and Jason gets a little too confident when he's playing it. Jason has his limitations, and I hate to rag on the kid, but I had hoped he'd get better, faster. I guess it's my own fault. Bobby and I chose the kid for his youth and lack of experience, figuring that the less he knows, the less we would have to pay him. Not a bad idea, but it's difficult to put up with his idiocy.

We run over the riff and I sing the verse, and we sound great. But when it comes times for the chorus, Jason sneaks up to me so he can sing along with the refrain. He can play pretty well, but he can't sing and play at the same time. I've told him a not to try it because he messes up his timing, but when we hit the chorus and I sing, "Keep on rockin' in the free woooooooorld," I notice him there beside me, moving towards the mike. I don't want to look like a total asshole, so I slide over a bit so he can sing as well, and we belt it out together. Jason¡¯s got an okay voice, but as I expected, he misses the change and falls out of time. He has to pause and pick it up again. A glutton for punishment, he tries to sing again, and falls out of time again.

I want to kick him in the balls, but I laugh and shoulder in between him and the mike to block him. The crowd seems to get a kick out of the theatrics, watching as our encore turns into a comedy of errors.

The next time the chorus comes, he starts to move in again and I jokingly kick at him, forcing him back away from the mike. The crowd eats it up and we bring the song to a big close.

"We'll have to work on that one for next time," I say after we finish. "Thanks a lot everybody. Have a great night."

The house music starts playing before I'm even off the stage. Bobby looks at me and shakes his head. "You know I'm only touring with you until you can get someone permanent," he says. "But you¡¯ve got to get rid of that kid and find a new guitarist. He's not figuring this shit out."

"I'll talk to him," I say. "Don't worry about it. I'll straighten him out."

"I'm not worried about it. You should be worried about it. I'm just here for laughs. If you want to get serious about this, you've got to get rid of the amateur shit."

We sit through the headlining band and get drunk. Later on I go behind the bar with the drummer and guitarist from the other band, a group of up-and-comers named The Meatles (pronounced like Beatles). Their drummer has some weed, and the three of us stand between the vans sharing a spliff.

I talk with them and smoke their weed, but it's hard to focus on their chatter. I keep thinking about how the show went, thinking more and more about what a fuck-up I've saddled myself with on guitar.

I interrupt whatever the hell The Meatles' guitarist is talking about and try and get an outside opinion. "Hey, you guys watched our show, right? What did you think of the kid we've got on guitar?"

The drummer, whose name is Kevin I think, shrugs and takes a drag on the joint. "I don't know. He wasn't bad I guess. I didn't notice him too much."

The guitarist, Jared, is equally non-committal. "Yeah, he made a few mistakes, but nothing too serious. Why? Is he trouble?"

Kevin passes me the joint and I take a drag. "He messed up a few times tonight," I say in a squeaky voice, trying to hold the smoke in. "Like in 'Dead Fingers Play,'" I explain, blowing out, "he screwed up the solo, got lost, and instead of trying to cover it and pick it up with the chorus, he tried to start the solo over again. When Bobby and I hit the chorus, he was still trying to finish the solo. I wanted to throw him off the stage."

Kevin nods. "Yeah, I heard that. It sounded pretty bad, actually. I don¡¯t know. He¡¯s an okay player, but he¡¯s not Meatles material." He and Jared laugh and high-five.

"I've got to ask you guys. What's with that name, 'The Meatles?' No offence, but that has got to be the worst band name I've ever heard. Is it supposed to be clever, or a joke, or what are you going for with that?"

Jared laughs. "Yeah, it's awful, isn't it? It's awesome how bad it is. We picked it because it was the worst name we could come up with."

I look at him with a mixture of pity and disgust. "You think that was a good idea?"

He shrugs. "I guess we'll find out. Besides, I don¡¯t think a bad name has ever kept a good band from making it, right? Just like a good name doesn't mean you'll go anywhere."

I nod. "Okay, good point. All the same, I don¡¯t know how a name like that will help you."

"Well, what about you?" asks Kevin, "Do you guys even have a name?"

I light a cigarette. "We're not using a band name. We're just playing as Terry Wilson and Bobby Metronome. Most of the ads say 'Terry Wilson and Bobby Metronome from Tremors of Intent.'"

"So why don't you just keep calling yourselves Tremors of Intent?"

"Because there are four other former members of Tremors of Intent out there that would either sue us or beat the shit out of us for using the name without their permission."

Kevin looks smug. I guess I must have struck a nerve. "Where'd you guys get that name, anyway?" he asks. "Tremors of Intent? I don't see how that's any better than The Meatles."

I shrug and take a drag on my cigarette. "It wasn't my first choice either. It's the title of a book by Anthony Burgess. The other guys thought it had a nice ring to it."

"Who's Anthony Burgess?" asks Jared.

"He wrote A Clockwork Orange."

Kevin laughs. "So why didn't you call yourselves The Clockwork Oranges?"

I sigh. "Because that would have been too obvious a reference, you know? Like referring to The Beatles in your name."

This gets Kevin really pissed off. "Hey, fuck you man. The Meatles is a good name."

"Fuck you too, and no it isn't," I say, flicking away my unfinished cigarette. "Anyway, thanks for sharing the weed. I'm going back to the bar."

I walk inside before the kid can say anything else, and I find Bobby as quickly as I can. He's the driver tonight so he's not drinking, but he¡¯s got his arm draped around some cougar that looks like Iggy Pop. "Hey Bobby," I say, tapping him on the shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

"Why, what's up?"

"We've got a long drive tomorrow. And I may have picked a fight with the other band."

"The Meat Heads?"

"Yeah. Where's Jason?"

Bobby jerks a thumb in the direction of a table where our guitarist is sitting with a couple of high school-aged girls who must have got in using fake I.D.s. There are empty shot glasses all over the table. He looks completely plastered, and when I tell him we're leaving, he starts to get up but stumbles and falls, whacking his chin on the table.

"You fucking wreck," I say through clenched teeth, pulling him up. He's able to stand and walk, so I pry Bobby off his new lady-friend, and together we head to the back exit.

Outside, all five members of The Meatles are already waiting for us. The singer, a skinny six and a half feet tall, steps forward. "Hey," he says. "You got a problem with us? You fuck with one Meatle, you fuck with us all."

I shake my head. "I can't resist commenting again on the shocking stupidity of that name," I tell him, "and I find it impossible to take you seriously as long as you call yourself a Meatle."

"You asshole," he says, stepping toward me. Bobby cuts him off and thumps him so hard in the gut the big kid folds up like a deck chair. The other Meatles take a step back. Bobby might not look very strong, but he¡¯s actually tougher than old boots and twice as ugly.

"You little shits gonna get in our way?" he screams. He takes another step forward and they back up, and Bobby leads the way to the van. I stuff Jason in the back with the equipment and get in the passenger seat. Bobby's not finished yet though, and he stands by the driver door yelling at The Meatles, who are trying to help their singer to his feet.

"You assholes better change the name of your band, because if I ever cross paths with a Meatle again, he's going to the hospital!" he screams before he gets in. He starts the van and we pull out of the parking lot. I can see Bobby's hands are shaking.

"Nice work," I say to him. "I forgot about your temper."

"Give me a cigarette," he responds.

"You quit smoking ten years ago."

"Shut up and give me a cigarette!" he yells, and I quietly obey, giving him one and lighting one for myself. I sit quietly and listen as Jason, our bad guitarist, has begun to snore in the back of the van.

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