help me come up with a band name

Jonny_B said:
ten points per gram
roadie revenge
botched cover-up
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hawk82 said:
they're a nine piece band.
/splitting hairs
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eileenbunny said:
Liquid Chicken
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for what it's worth, I liked these three.



These two made me :lol: ...
ERage said:
"The W_A_W Pussy Attracting Machine"
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Wren said:
Dodecagon. Because it sounds cool, and intelligent people will ask where the other 2 people are. You can then make a mythos about haunting sax players or some shit.
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My suggestion is Barking Spiders. It was the name my best bud and I were going to call ourselves. We could never find a drummer and lost interest. :(
 
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here are the front runners thus far:
funkrakers
suspicious package
brass n' ass
diesel bill & the greasers
brassica

gimme some more suggestions!
our favorite so far is suspicious package
 
Ooh that's my favorite too out of the bunch. If I was 14 years old it'd be great to tell my mom I was going to see the Suspicious Packages.
 
w_a_w said:
suspicious package
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is very good. Adjective + Noun, it's even grammatically correct.

I still say you need a death metal side project called Immolation.

And suggestion:

The Dispossessed Repossessed
 
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Naturally Lubricated
Flip Top Box
Dust Bunnies of Doom
Snowflake
Potent Potables
Useless
Gefilte Fish
Moby Dick and the Whale Penis Leather Pants
 
Happy Trees
Hamburgers and Handbags
Jack Bauer
Wenches and Ale
Ninjas > Pirates
Poontang Butt Tag
Homestead
Guitar Heroes
RU486
Turgid
 
here's a few more my bass player just emailed me:

The Latter Day Ain’ts
Lockheed-Spartan
Urethra Franklin
Good, as in Awesome
The Metro Gnomes
The Roamin’ Catholics
The Nymphomercials
 
John Dies at the End

Here's an excerpt from the book about how the main characters band opens their show:

John and I were there with his band, Three-Arm Sally. It was around nine o'clock when I strode out onto stage with a guitar slung over my shoulder, greeted by a smattering of unenthusiastic applause from the hundred or so guests. The "stage" was just a grid of wooden crate pallets laid together on the grass, orange drop chords snaking underfoot from the amps to a nearby shed.

I glanced around, saw a set list taped to one of their crackly old Peavey amplifiers. It read:

Camel Holocaust
Gay Superman
Stairway to Heaven
Love My Sasquatch
Thirty Reasons Why I Dislike Chad Wellsburg
Love Me Tender

We took our places. It was me, Head (the drummer), Wally Brown (bass), Kelly Smallwood (bass) and Munch Lombard (bass). John was lead guitar and vocals, but he wasn't with us, not yet. I should let you know that I had no idea how to play the guitar or any other musical instrument.

I stepped up to the mic.

"I want to thank you all for coming. This is my band, Three-Arm Sally, and we're here to rock you like the proverbial hurricane."

The crowed muttered its indifference, Head hammered the drums for the intro to Camel Holocaust. I stepped back from the mic, slung the guitar around and got ready to rock.

Suddenly, my whole body wrenched in a display of unbearable pain, knees buckling. My hands shot to my head and I collapsed to the stage, screaming horribly. I made sure to scrape the guitar strings to throw out some painfully spastic feedback on my way down. The crowd gasped, watching as I flew into a series of exaggerated convulsions, then finally lay still.

Munch rushed over, studied me like a paramedic. I laid there like a dead man. He touched my neck, then stood and turned to the mic.

"He's dead, ladies and gentlemen."

A rustling, drunken panic in the crowd.

"Wait. Please, please. Everyone. Pay attention. Just calm down."

He waited for quiet.

"Now," he said. "We have a whole show to do. Is there anyone here who knows how to sing and play guitar?"

A tall man stepped out of the crowd, a head of curly long hair like a deflated afro. This was John. He wore an orange T-shirt with a black stenciled stamp bearing the logo of "Vista Pines Facility for the Criminally Insane." The last two words had been crossed out with a black magic marker and the words "NOT INSAN" were scrawled crazily over it. The whole shirt, logo and all, was John's handiwork.

"Well," John said, in a fake southern accent, "I reckon I can play a little."

Kelly, according to script, invited John up on stage. He pried the guitar out of my dead hands while Head and Wally dragged me carelessly off into the grass. John picked up the instrument and tore into the Camel Holocaust intro. Three-Arm Sally began every single show this way.

I knew a man
No, I made that part up
Hair! Hair! Haaairrr!
Camel Holocaust! Camel Holocaust!

This was always the most awkward part, how long I should lay there off-stage playing dead. That bit was something John had come up with, the man having a terrible habit of carrying out his drunken 3:00 AM ideas even after daylight and sobriety came. It was always 3:00 AM for that guy.
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we had practice last night and suspicious package was the clear winner

thanks to shawndavid...great name...I owe you some drinks! :cool:
 
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