There are lots of wide open spaces around where I live. In the late spring, I can gaze out from the window of my study and watch deer and squirrels and jackrabbits and butterflies enjoying the great outdoors together as though posing for the cover of Bambi. But no little creatures are visible from the window of my study today, for the Evils have decided to rehearse at their drummer’s house across the meadow again.

They seem, in addition to the drummer, to include only a guitarist and a singer— thus far, they’ve apparently been unable to recruit a bass player who shares their musical ideals. The guitarist goes in for a great deal of distortion—if he hasn’t got a Marshall stack, I feel sure he must at least have three fuzz pedals in sequence. The singer, who I suspect to be recent guest columnist Rollo Dexter, the swaggering 16-year-old who lives two doors up the street with his tattoos, alcoholic mother, pit bull, and collection of the recordings of Judas Priest, sounds a little like a higher-pitched version of the guy in Cinderella. That is, he sings as though his testicles are caught in an electric pencil sharpener whose plug he can’t find to pull.