Written on 1 April 2019
We'd been at it for 6 weeks.
In between work, obviously, but every night we had abandoned other friends, partners, family to record. Money clubbed together over three years, as we wrote and wrote and wrote, but it was done, and as we sat exhausted on the stained paisley sofa, drinking beer and closing our eyes, and listened to our work, I couldn't have been prouder. In the moment, I thought there was no chance we weren't going to be picked up by a manager, or a major. It was just too good.
The problem was our name.
“So what are we calling this?” Scott, the hardest working producer in music. He had printed off a CD for us to play in Davos's car. That's what I've always seen in movies. See how it sounds through shit speakers.
Jost lifted up his beer, as divine inspiration was hitting him.
“The Rise of Fuckbutter.”
We all sighed.
“No, hear me out. The cover is a scorching sun, low on the horizon, a sunset, but brilliant, red and orange and pink and yellow, like a giant Phoenix is rising for the ashes, and we are tiny, but you can see our shadows, rocking the fuck out.”
“The rise part isn't the problem.” I said, closing my eyes again. “Fuckbutter is the problem. We need to change it.” Jost scoffed.
“We can barely get a gig. No one wants to put Fuckbutter on their posters. It's really gross, Jost.” Davos said, averting his gaze.
“Its controversial. It's edgy. It's memorable.”
It's only memorable because it makes people think of jizz, and he knows it. Still, we're all too tired to argue, so Scott scribbled “The Rise of Fuckbutter.” on the front, and the four members of Fuckbutter slumped into Davos's car and listened to our album. And still, even through the shitty speakers, I was so proud of it, and in my sleep deprived state, I said a silent toast. To the rise of Fuckbutter. May it soar ever higher.