Liberace's Rotting Corpse (May 1999-June 2001)

Once upon a time I had my own group, the aforementioned LRC...or is it better as L's RC? Whatever, my band came into being on the campus of Clemson University in early April 1999. I'm not a student there, you see, I was just scouting for chicks, when I bumped into a vaguely tall gentleman named Philip Schubert and his girlfriend. I hit on the girlfriend, he hit me, and after I recovered consciousness, we agreed to disagree on the musical importance of Banana Splits. Fast forward a month (actually, 29 days to be exact): I run into Philip S. again, minus his gal pal. I ask if she's available, he punches me again, and after the hospital bills are payed, we agree to start a band. Being the big fan of Liberace that I am, I decide to immortalize him in our new band's title, but I end up settling for paying homage to his decaying remains (by the time we've started, Liberace's body is almost certainly a part of the surrounding soil, but we don't bother with technicalities). Phil plays a wicked harmonica, so he get's bass guitar of course. I fancy myself a singer, so I begin practicing the drums. One day I'm playing so badly that a fellow with long greasy hair comes up and says he can play better than me. He can't, but my arms are tired so he gets the job. His name is Ramero Burns, but everyone calls him Smelly. All we need is a bass player, and one day a Young Republican named Dee Snyder shows up at a gig, carrying a bass guitar. We think it's his, but he's just carrying his girlfriend's (she's in a gospel rock quartet called the Holy Ovaries). Unfortunately, we enlist him right away, and the line up is complete. Fast forward to spring 2000, when we play our major gig at Sal's Pizza Place, near the old toxic waste dump where we debuted in May of the previous year. Our manager suddenly feels compelled to run off with all the profits we were making so he can buy gas for his car (we had a grand total of $30). Needing a new manager, we contact Lou Pearlman, former manager of Nsync. He lets us clean his pool, but a contract is nowhere in sight. Bitterness, as well as swimmer's ear, sets in, and we reach our breaking point. We have worked thru the Sex Pistols and Journey covers that were our staple, and now are approaching a crossroads. By November, I have become obsessed with the early style of Elton John (his little-known rockabilly garage band, that is) while Dee and Smelly have found a common bond at last over the punk leanings of Ted Nugent (non-existant punk leanings, I remind them, but they won't listen, and Schubert has locked himself in his room with a Debbie Boone tape, determined to uncover hidden satanic messages. For a few months we work on our debut album for a local label, Swindler Records, but are alarmed that our recording studio has no electricity and the near-sighted producer keeps calling us "Grand Funk". In time the tensions become too much, and we play our last gig on April 15, 2001, at Joe's Crab Shack. The album was apparently not good enough (we're accused of trying to turn in blank tapes), and by June I've sued Smelly, Dee and Phil, Phil's sued me, Smelly, and the British Monarchy, Smelly sued Phil, me, and the Velvet Underground, and Dee has been sued by his now ex-girlfriend. Our legacy to the world of music: a scratchy demo of "You Light Up My Life" set to the riff from London Calling...ah those were the days.

Sorry, Phil was a guitarest, not the bassist. That mistake cost us millions, I tell you, millions