The Billy Crosby’s saved my life. This is easy to see from the ragged perch of shot-out middle age. And the whole thing started in the early-90s, in social studies class with the actual Billy Crosby, a muscular mid-sized sedan of a kid with thick glasses who was part nerd part jock part wastoid and who went to parties and put his head through kids’ parents’ living room walls. The kind of kid who could throw sharp pencils in the air and actually get them to stick in the ceiling. A kid with diminished ambitions who never bothered a soul. A kid with a keen sense of the body’s potential for entertainment if one is willing to damage it enough. Not quite a Johnny Knoxville or Eric Andre, but an obscure early figure operating in that same tradition. And one typical shit day at school we randomly asked him if we could name a band after him and he said “sure” but that he’d want some money if we ever got famous. It was the first and only record deal we ever made.

The band was a trio – Jeff, John, and Jeremy – and we recorded songs into a red boombox. Eventually we split for a 4-track which nobody really knew how to use. We didn’t drink or do drugs or exercise. We were pimply goons from moderately dysfunctional homes making music in survival mode. We learned how to play as we went, made cassettes and had the audacity to call them albums. “Snort Coke: How to Tank Anchor.” “The Shower is My Laboratory.” “Duke:  The Past Tense of Duck.” Eventually we played a show at a local Catholic school’s Sunday evening youth group meeting and things started blowing up from there. But not really. You ever listen to an interview with Flea and he’s talking about the early days of his friendship with Anthony and they’re so cool sounding and all that? Well it wasn’t like that at all. This was not the early 80s L.A. punk scene. It was all really just so damn bleak, but music, overtime, became the organizing principle of our lives and kept us emotionally afloat. OJ was on trial, Bill Clinton was prowling the White House, Kurt Cobain was dead. Jeff, our guitarist, had a spider tattoo and drove a filthy banged up Neon. We were counterboys, dishwashers, scoopers and slingers at Friendly’s, TCBY, Radhana’s Thai Kitchen. We drank Coke, ate Cool Ranch Doritos, watched movies, wrote songs, and forged deep lasting friendships with a wonderous array of creative oddballs.  

People joined the band, came and went, too many to list here. Friends, lovers, roommates, co-workers, strangers. The criteria for joining was: No Musical Talent Necessary. This was an ethos and we believed that “talent” was not the sole or primary determinant of creative goodness. But we did have some really talented players at times too. And we even opened a sold out show for Jets to Brazil. We started playing a lot of shows, headlining some of our own (a funny thing about being a “headliner” though is that, for most bands, it means playing last to empty rooms. Newbies, beware the offer to “headline!”). The band lasted longer than it probably should have because, at some point, we started trying to sound “good,” which was a terrible idea. The harder we tried to sound “good,” the less interesting the music got, and we couldn’t figure out how to sound “good” anyway. And once you fall into that kind mindfuck you’re pretty much done for creatively, the thing just crumbles, and that’s that, mattress man.

Fast-forward 25 years and here we are, releasing a collection of old songs pulled from 7 inches, homemade cassettes, and various compilatons. The songs in the collection “I Can Make Mechanics Cry” were recorded between 1992 and 1999. It really showcases the band’s earnest creative efforts, and it warms me to think that in our own little anonymous and weird way we were contributing to a wonderful era for indie and alternative music, with our little red boombox and our cobbled together scraps of talent. And, climbing out of the ditch that was 2023, we are now making new Billy Crosby songs  and once again it reminds me that nothing, really, ever ends. We hope you enjoy the songs!