If we were to take a peak into the pubescent history of the individual members of US Maple, chances are that we would find boys all graced in one way or another with that certain “untouchable” status (unfortunately) common to the American junior high school experience. We would probably catch Todd Rittman (low guitar) sniffing his fingers or doodling juvenile, anti-social sketches in class. Mark Shippy (high guitar) and Pat Samson (drums) could be found in the A/V room, splicing porn into Health class films. And Al Johnson (vocals) would be the kid walking through the halls averting eye contact at all costs—mumbling incoherently, an over-stuffed book bag cradled to chest, and a crumpled paper trail marking his path.

              Those would prove to be critical years, as there were no doubt high minded hi-jinx milling around their collective heads. And, as luck would have it, these brilliant losers would align forces one day and form one of the greatest anti-bands the world has never heard. Their objective: the absolute subversion of all that constitutes the American rock and roll aesthetic.

              I heard of US Maple through a friend who lauded them as one of the “most important bands to come along in a really long time.” So, out of sheer avid collector duty, a fellow roommate bought their LP, Long Hair in Three Stages. Any release considered “important” past or present in the indie rock world was unquestionable and automatically a part of his collection. When our resident collector arrived home with his new purchase, all curious housemates (myself included) sat on the floor around the turntable in his cramped bedroom in eager anticipation. Once the needle touched down on the vinyl, the group opinion was decided with the obligatory stink face shot back and forth across the room. After a few short words of critique were given, the consensus stood that Long Hair sounded like pranksters pretending to be a band. And that was that. US Maple were soon forgotten.

              Over the course of the next year or so, all my aforementioned housemates and I pretty much attended all the same rock shows. During our evenings out, we started noticing that an increasing mediocrity was afoot in our local music scene. Boredom was setting in due to the steady stream of second rate genre wagon jumpers. Irritated by the pompous masses of Romulan rockers all migrating from the nether regions, we decided to go on strike by opting to stay home to re-visit the ‘glory days’ past eras by digging out all the classic rock from our collective record collections. We loafed on the couch at home in the evenings, lamenting the fact that the city’s night life had plummeted to an all-time low. We drank cheap beer and bitched about the sad state of the current city dump of a cultural landscape we lived in that was threatening to bury us in inescapable malaise.

              Just when the lack of nightlife activity couldn’t be tolerated anymore, a group decision was made to get some (not so) fresh air by taking the cue of a weekly’s suggestion to check out this band, US Maple. It had been a while since I’d heard that name, and I figured it was worth giving the band another fair shake since my friend had such a boner over them. Besides, even I was starting to get sick of my own cynicism.

              Besides, I couldn’t stand the sight of my roommates’ dishes piling up in the sink anymore. It was time to leave Page and Plant on the table for an evening and get out to brave the rock shows again.

              The club was nearly empty when we arrived, confirming that much of our city’s hip, young rock fans were probably feeling the same lethargy we had been sulking in. I imagined entire city blocks housing throngs of young thrill seekers that had finally lost hope, bewitched by the blue-ish glow of the commoner’s weekday dream date: the couch, a six pack of Old Milwaukee, and the remote control. Predictably, the infiltrating, musically indifferent Romulans were in full effect at the back of the bar, looking as atrociously fashionable as usual.

              The opening band fiddled on stage, noodling with their guitars, dialing in sound levels or something. Some guy strutted around the stage in an ill-fitted hooded sweatshirt, contorting himself in ridiculous poses periodically, showcasing his boxer shorts and unfit belly. He wore fingerless leather biking gloves and really bad truck-stop aviator sun glasses. He hissed into the microphone and spit out indecipherable syllables punctuated with “oooooo’s” and drawn out “yeah’s.” Then it dawned on me. This is US Maple and this is actually their set. It sounded like a group of non musical fifth graders had decided to put together a 'punk’ band with a drunk deranged no talent uncle (the one mother warned us not to play with) with a Bon Scott fetish trying hard to muster some rock swagger and failing miserably. After a song or two, it was apparent there were subtle cues communicated between the members indicating that there was actually a semblance of structure shaping the songs. There were moments of rhythm that would fade in and out periodically, resembling actual group syncopation, but it would repeatedly fall apart into controlled chaos.

              By the time I finally understood what was happening, the show was over and I was left stunned. I didn’t know if I had liked the performance as music, but I liked the experience of witnessing what had taken place. I think. Shortly thereafter, the band Braniac—the band I had actually been more interested in seeing that night—played, but it was too late. I had lost all interest in the rest of the evening’s happenings. I was too confused by the US Maple event.

              On the car ride home from the club, the group consensus was that we had just experienced rock and roll history. Was it really rock and roll, though? Nobody was sure of that yet, but at the very least it was something new.

Magical things happened the summer of Sang Phat Editor. We had all become fans of music (or something resembling it) again. We had new (anti) culture to obsess over, and a fresh soundtrack for beer consumption.

              By that summer, our group house had disbanded. I was temporarily living in the suburbs with my parents, agonizing over a stereotypical mid-twenties crisis. My other housemates had moved into a near ghetto apartment building on the edge of our previous neighborhood. It was basically a house divided into four awkwardly planned units. The walls were dry wall thin, and the constant hum of reggae bass lines reverberated from the neighboring tenant’s stereo next door. As was common most days, the smell of pot and incense wafted from their open windows. The imminent cornucopia of inescapable hippie smells eventually made their way into the apartment by way of the living room. No combination of open or closed windows or blowing fan seemed to deter the stank. When it was hot, the windows just had to remain open to keep a flow of air. It was a way of life. You just smelled pot, and that’s just the way it was. Out front, behind some overgrown shrubbery, was a sign which read: “Sunyani Apartments.” The living experience there was thus appropriately dubbed: “Slumyani.”

              Though I didn’t actually live there, I’d drive into the city every couple days, bored with suburban life, to loiter on the Slumyani community couch. It was a bittersweet existence there. The bitter being of course the activities next door. From a culturally superior standpoint, anything resembling hippie culture (whether symbolized through dreadlocks, tie-die, corduroy pants worn under floppy hemp skirts, Volkswagen buses, Grateful Dead paraphernalia, or music featuring heavy wah-wah peddle) was intolerable. Civilization had moved on and had developed things like razors for shaving, soap for bathing, updated clothing styles, braziers, and, most importantly, new kinds of music for a reason. Retaliation was in order. So, we fought fire with fire by playing US Maple’s Sang Phat Editor—the quintessential attack on all of rock’s conventions—with windows and door open—loudly and frequently. That very act served as the oh-so-sweet release factor of our existential dividedness.

              Magical things happened the summer of Sang Phat Editor. We had all become fans of music (or something resembling it) again. We had new (anti) culture to obsess over, and a fresh soundtrack for beer consumption. The poster insert from the 12” vinyl was proudly tacked to the wood paneling as the center piece in the living room. The poster (also included post card sized in the packaging) looks like a faded photograph of Vietnam buddies circa ‘69 on a drunken three day leave. Vocalist Johnson looks as wasted as one can be while still managing to stand, shirtless with a razor blade attached to a chain around his neck. His hair is disheveled, and he’s wearing those preposterous, aforementioned truck stop glasses. The others stand in full camo gear, squinting into the sun. Shippy stands at the center of the group looking stoically somewhere beyond the photographer. His camo hat is turned backwards and his arms are out stretched over the shoulders of the two members beside Johnson — Samson on the left cowering sheepishly, and Rittman to the right, his forehead cut out of the photo’s view.

              The whole sleeve of the album is a neon camouflage design that was propped up against the turntable, in full view for everyone to admire while it played. On the adjacent wall was tacked an enormous poster of Big Black’s Steve Albini. His wretched face and all seeing-eye stared at you from all corners of the room. There was seemingly a look of contempt and envy on his gargantuan face for having been upstaged by our new found heroes.

              We’d listened to songs like “Through With Six Six Six” and “Coming Back To Damnit” at full volume, gazing in wonder at the poster on the wall, laughing our asses off. It wasn’t uncommon while under the Maple’s seductive anti-funk spell for a particular Slumyani tenant within the throes of liquor abuse to strip stark naked and chase other tenants or guests, jump on the bed, or take off down the stairs and into the street howling.

              After our ‘phat summer’ had passed, all of Slumyani’s inhabitants, frequent guests, and migrant couch surfers effectively disbanded. We all got married, moved away, or gave a crack at holding down regular jobs and accruing consumer debt. Unfortunately, as is common in such circumstances, it’s easy to become the jaded rock critic all over again. You stop buying records, because you need to spend money on things like car payments and insurance premiums. You don’t go to rock shows, because everything sounds like a Xerox copy of a copy of a copy, and those damn Romulans are sneering at the back of the bar again. You’re back to square one. Only this time, you live with one roommate instead of four, you own furniture from Ikea, and the apartment smells nice. Consequently, because of the aforementioned life events and simple rock fan laziness, US Maple’s Talker was unfortunately entirely missed.

Perhaps your apartment’s décor embodies versatile solutions for modern living. Maybe you were just a finger sniffing autistic junior high casualty. For those in just such a crisis, take heart.

              I had arrived at an ugly place in life. Having to come to the humbling realization that I was disintegrating, through an increased interest in bedwetting bands like Coldplay, was troublesome. It was time for another pilgrimage to the rock club, and fortunately there was good reason for the venture. Al and The Maple were back in town again, and there was a new record out called Acre Thrills. Ah, sweet salvation! The attendance was denser than the first time I had seen them. Whether it was a blow-out or not didn’t really matter. Those attending were there for all the right reasons, and we all knew what was about to take place.

              Johnson came on stage sporting a tweed flat cap with the button down front. He was wearing a draping OR scrubs type shirt with an unusually large blue and red plaid pattern. He strutted around like Jagger wishes he could, stopping periodically to put the microphone in his pocket to adjust the hat on his nappy head. He’d pause and lazily shift his weight to one hip and pensively consult himself. Then in one fluid movement he’d snatch the little amplification device from his pocket, slide over to the microphone stand, click the mic into place, and belt out that breathy trademark, “Yeeeaaaahhhhhhhhh,” kicking the song into gear. His head would shake while sustaining the vibrato of every hiss and extended “Ooooooohhh,” jiggling the sweaty, flesh-colored, gelatinous pockets of jowls where his face and neck met. He unequivocally owned the stage that night.

              Rittman played guitar stage right, wearing a velvety vest fit for one of those monkeys that climbs up the fire escapes with a tin cup for money while the handle bar mustachioed man with an accordion plays below on Saturday morning cartoons. Where his guitar strap met his shoulder there was a slit in the vest that the strap fed into, where about a foot and a half of the strap disappeared under the primate clothing accessory, only to poke out in like fashion again to fasten at the body end of his guitar. He’d stand straight as a board at the edge of the stage and dead pan the audience with a lit cigarette dangling Dirty Harry style. Then he’d relax his shoulders into a slouch, smirk and mutter to himself while the cig in his stretched lips bounced with each washed out word. He’d then shuffle his feet and step back into the shadowy corners, squinting to keep the smoke from his eyes, only to repeat the cycle again a minute later.

              Shippy—stage left—would play achingly long segues between the bursts of (ahem) music, plucking a muted single string hummingbird style. Meanwhile, the other two would wander freely about the stage performing the mutter routine. Al would slither over to Rittman, clamp his right hand over the guitar player’s left shoulder, and babble and rant, shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders, and swiping at his nose while rubber necked Rittman chuckled puffs of smoke in response, eyes still squinted. Once Shippy decided to include the rest of the group in the mayhem again, after his retarded solo, he’d give an awkward straight legged (un)rock and roll kick to his right, and everything would lunge forward again into a heaping sonic mess.

              Newly recruited drummer Adam Vida sat perched in anticipation behind his low rider drum kit, playing as though constipated or experiencing a reverse sort of Teret's. He looked as though he were in complete agony throughout the whole performance. His nose was scrunched, lips pursed, his shoulders tense. It was like he was desperately trying to force himself to play time throughout a complete phrase coherently, only to spit out spastic tidbits here and there—the band anticipated the periodic spurts and played along accordingly, highlighting all the wrong moments. The beautiful result was the sound of a band playing bluesy classic rock riffs, struggling to keep a semblance of a song together, while collectively tripping down a long flight of stairs—the fans waiting in awe to observe the pile of bodies and musical instruments at the bottom of the landing.

              All in attendance that night cheered on Al, and were met with abrupt and sober thank you’s between songs. Though it was clear that the volume of alcohol being consumed in the room wasn’t particularly high, we all experienced a sort of drunken euphoria anyway, reveling in US Maple’s charms. Just like when I’d seen them for the first time, I grinned uncontrollably throughout the whole show, self-conscious of the fact that maybe I wasn’t supposed to be. During a US Maple performance, you get that embarrassed and uncomfortable feeling, where you’re not sure where you’re supposed to put your hands. The kind of unsure feeling that one would get watching an a cappella performance in a small crowd. You can’t believe that someone is up there so naked and open to the world for ridicule and scorn. This is why US Maple are such an amazing band. They’ve got the testicles to get out there and force people to just let their guard down, to enjoy something so unconventional, primal and spontaneous.

              Maybe you’ve recently experienced the trauma of realizing that most of your record collection resembles that of a single mom, romance starved and burnt out on her career in the midst of a mid-life crisis, that listens to music for therapeutic reasons. Perhaps your apartment’s décor embodies versatile solutions for modern living. Maybe you were just a finger sniffing autistic junior high casualty. For those in just such a crisis, take heart. There is hope, and US Maple is most definitely a viable cure for your rock starved ails.