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Des and Greg in their street clothes prior to a recent gig
There is a conspiracy theory about everything these days. The Earthlings, it seems, are no exception.
EARTHLINGS – In The Beginning
Out there – way out there, beyond the Wall of Sound, amid the little-known galaxy of Trippin’ is a solar system not unlike our own. On a planet called Riff, the third rock from their star, the people resemble humans but are far more advanced.
Their technology is thousands of years ahead of Earth’s, and their guitar amplifiers go to 12. Nobody pays attention to stupid conspiracy theories or buys water in plastic bottles. Mansplaining is a felony, and wine doesn’t give you a hangover. Women run things, ensuring no wars, and much better footwear fashion.
Riffers have been aware of human existence for many years. They had long worried about some of the choices we made – boy bands, Euro disco, nuclear arms – but chose not to intervene, recognizing our right to self-determination and innate stupidity.
But in recent years, they could sit on their weirdly deformed hands with an extra finger for no longer as humans descended into a new age of incomparable ignorance, embracing autotune, and overly produced dance ‘n’ pop music while shunning the raw power and glorious simplicity of crafted rock pop and garage rock.
An emergency meeting was recently held at one of the better venues on Riff (“Cosmos” where men drink free Thursdays, the Belgian beer is to die for and the stage backline is all Ludwig, Vox and Marshall) to discuss recent reports that heartfelt, sloppy rock music was on the verge of extinction on Earth.
The Queen of the Riffs called the meeting to order, barking into her Shure 58; her message bouncing around the low ceiling room through the surprising powerful Bose PA.
“NIDibhidolvuena;dkvpidfn,” she said, which means, “bring me a wheat beer with strong citrus notes.” She also told the assembled they needed to launch a campaign to save humans from discarding music that redeems the human spirit – uplifting and inspiring but at the same time, necessarily imperfect music.
“We have no choice,” she said, sounding like a blend of Nina Simone and Janis Joplin, “we must send our people to blend in with the humans and lead them back to rock n roll authenticity.”
So, it was decided.
Several specially selected Riffers would travel the 13.3 billion light years (13.5 without tolls) to Earth, a taxing three-day trip in the Riff constructed Kombi. After arrival and a torrid acclimatization—Riffers reflexively gag at the scent of human men—they would form ‘a band’ dedicated to performing less ubiquitous pop and rock gems.
“Masnfbaojfobymkpdooam;!” the Queen ordered, prompting raucous laughter from the assembled.
She continued: “They will play B sides and underappreciated tunes. Kinks, Stones, Sonics, Buffalo Springfield, Small Faces … the possibilities are endless.”
This brought the crowd to their feet, but two questions needed to be answered: What would be the name of this band of Riffers? And who would make the journey to New York’s Lower East Side on this mission of salvation?
“The band’s name,” the Queen said, before pausing for dramatic impact, “will be Earthlings.”
Ah, the genius of it. No-one would suspect a bunch of slovenly musicians were actually aliens if they were known as Earthlings.
The more difficult issue was just who would make the journey and in what form? Men on Riff were useless, just like human men, but they had been found out. If you wanted something done well, you needed a woman to do it.
This could prove difficult as the music business on Earth was excruciatingly sexist, and male dominated.
“We must blend in. Thus, the Earthlings will be men!” the Queen declared. “Well, kinda.”
Fortunately, Riffers were adept at gender shifting.
“Sharon,” the Queen said addressing her beautiful niece with the best legs on the planet, “you will become Desmond, the band’s founder. A guitarist whose wisdom and knowledge knows no bounds.
“Karen,” she said turning her attention to her other beautiful niece, “you will be Warren, a mart arts expert with great guitar chops.”
The crowd held its collective breath as the Queen walked over to her own daughter. “Rhonda, you will become Rich, rock music trainspotter and bass player of great excellence.”
Two more to go.
“The singer will be … Marsha!”
Marsha, her stepdaughter, looked uncomfortable: “I am honored Queen, but I will have trouble disguising my real identity as a proud Riffer. I have a strong old school Riffian accent.
The Queen thought this over. “I understand,” she cooed. “But we can compensate for this. You will take on the identity of Greg the singer and we’ll say you’re from somewhere like Australia to explain away the bizarre way you talk and your general weirdness.”
Next, the Queen contemplated the hardest role to fill: the drummer.
The sensitive and powerful women who guided the planet Riff had great respect for rhythm makers, knowing rock ‘n’ roll wouldn’t exist without them. They had long been treated with special reverence. The Queen’s mother had been a fanatical Who fan but the story goes she was distressed to find out on her death bed that Earth had only one (Keith) Moon.
Riffers decided they had to know more about percussionists on the blue planet and sent a research team. It had been a hazardous journey, only one of the three Riffer scientists on the journey returned with her mind intact. “Them beats make you crazzzzzy,” the team leader reported before descending into madness.
The Queen, knowing the role would require a special kind of Riffer to carry off the deception, sought advice from a panel of experts.
“Where do they live?” she asked.
Her chief advisor shuffled through research documents: “New Jersey, your majesty.”
“What are their best qualities?”
Silence engulfed the room for several seconds until the senior advisor bravely spoke up.
“They carry their own equipment and a few of them maintain a very steady tempo. They are usually called Michael.”
“So be it,” the Queen said. “My other daughter Daisy, by far the most talented of my children, you shall be Michael the drummer from New Jersey.”
And with that, Sharon, Karen, Rhonda, Marsha, and Daisy became Des, Warren, Rich, Greg, and Michael – the Earthlings – and no-one will ever suspect their real identities. (Unless, of course, you look closely at their hands or Des’s stunning legs).
Let the adventure begin.