What's in a name?

Maybe this is a generational thing, but whenever someone coins a unique or musical phrase – like “bastardized hieroglyphics” – somebody under the age of 40 will inevitably quip, “That would make a great name for a band!”

Despite the fact that they’re joking, they’re oftentimes right. Although whether that’s due to linguistic brilliance, or a lack of decent names for contemporary bands, is anybody’s guess. Calling a cool-tempered bearded dragon a “suave lizard” might make it seem as though you’ve stumbled upon the greatest moniker this side of “Black Sabbath.” But that could be a manifestation of the better-by-comparison phenomenon; the sad reality is that “Letters to Cleo” is what passes for a name nowadays.

Yes, “Letters to Cleo” is an actual band. Oh, how I wish it wasn’t.

I guess you’d have to be a music junkie to appreciate just how awful band names have gotten in recent years. And this isn’t a stodgy, fuddy-duddy shot at a younger generation’s music; a lot of the actual tunes coming from these ill-titled artists are really pretty good. A nice example is “Of Monsters and Men.” What I’ve heard from them so far is actually pretty decent, but their name is way better suited for a fantasy novel penned by a pasty dude in suspenders and knee-high socks. In other words, me in the second grade.

Obviously, modern bands don’t have a monopoly on silly names. “Abba,” “Three Dog Night,” and “The Teenagers” are all artists of yore that sound as if they stumbled upon their titles playing word association games under the influence of government-grade psychedelic drugs. (”The Teenagers” is particularly silly given that its members now qualify for senior discounts at the cineplex.) But those have become fairly tame by today’s standards. I submit as evidence groups like “Goo Goo Dolls,” “Hootie and the Blowfish,” and “Mott the Hoople.” Apparently we’re running low on words not uttered from a baby’s crib.

While I’m tempted to suggest pretension on the part of these musicians, part of me thinks the English language is simply being drained of anything approaching respectability. There are only so many words, and so many combinations thereof. All of the good, simple, and memorable names – “The Eagles,” “Iron Maiden,” “The Cure” – have been snatched up by generations past, leaving some dictionary-deprived artists to invent nonsensical gobbledygook, like “Chumbawumbas.” Which, I’m sorry to report, is as real as a punch to the groin.

Still, that hardly seems like an excuse. If you give a million monkeys a million typewriters and let them peck away for a million years, eventually, one of them will come up with a band name less embarrassing than “Toad the Wet Sprocket.”

Perusing my own collection, I’m pained to see that some of the groups I truly love have names that would make the bassist for “Hoobastank” titter like a tickled toddler (while picking pickled peppers). Case in point: Megadeth. Now, I fully acknowledge that heavy metal is a style that appeals to only a select portion of music aficionados; most of them, myself included, think nothing of air drumming violently at stop lights, which probably explains why co-workers give us wide berths at the vending machine. But as far as the genre goes, Megadeth is one of the elite. They’re titans. One year, I went so far as to finagle my way backstage at a concert, where I was able to meet the band’s frontman, Dave Mustaine. A tall, golden-haired shredder, Mustaine is a brilliant musician – but naming his band “Megadeth” was an error in judgment almost as grievous as developing his own line of coffee. (This is absurdly true.)

To be fair, “megadeath” – with the correct spelling intact – is an actual word, hard as it is to believe. You can find it in the dictionary. But you can also crack open a Merriam-Webster’s and find such gems as “mollycoddle,” “argle-bargle,” and “snollygoster.” That doesn’t mean you should name your band after them. “Megadeth” seems like a name settled upon during a massive coke-and-heroin bender. Here it should be noted that Dave Mustaine is infamous for massive coke-and-heroin benders.

It’s a tricky business, naming a band. It’s almost easier to know what not to do than to get it right. The musical world would be a much less ridiculous place if those concocting names would follow just a few simple rules: Don’t intentionally misspell anything (”Limp Bizkit,” “‘N Sync,” “Boyz II Men”), don’t needlessly include a preposition (”Archers of Loaf,” “Fountains of Wayne,” “Apples in Stereo”), and don’t make it needlessly long (”Thirty Odd Foot of Grunts”).

Also, don’t be stupid.

That might seem obvious, but clearly, the namers of the next band were not following this last, most important rule. In all my vast research on this topic – encompassing 30-odd years of music fandom, topped with a 10-second Google search – I have never seen a name more ludicrous, more embarrassing and cringeworthy, than the following.

The 2013 Gassman Award for Band-Naming Stupidity goes to:

“Colonel Bruce Hampton and the Aquarium Rescue Unit.”

G’night, everyone.