At first, I
tried whispering: "Gabriel! Gabe Ssssssssaportaaaaaaaa..." Then shouting: "BRO!"
But Gabe Saporta is a sound sleeper, especially after partying all night.
And he'd raised a particularly raucous ruckus this evening because his band—our
band, really—had just celebrated its one-year anniversary by playing to 10,000
screaming Japanese kids. As I watched him sleep, I could sense he was dreaming
about worlds unconquered, mountains unclimbed and parties un-Gabed. I knew he
was tired and he needed sleep. But I knew I needed action. So I bit him...I bit
him right in the f*cking neck.
...
Phase The
First:
When I first met our future savior, he was depressed. His love of
underground poker clubs had left him financially ruined and spiritually
bankrupt. He'd spent months in his parents' basement in New Jersey putting
together an album of the hookiest, most bangin' rock songs the world had never
heard. But the world wasn't interested in hearing it, and so he'd given up. I
found him wandering the Arizona desert, lost and bewildered and ready to die;
beaten down by the sun and the heat, and the many droopy emo bands that were
inescapable even there - hundreds of miles from civilization. It was 2005. And I
had come from the future with a message for all of humanity: "You're
f*cked."
You see, in
the future, Cobras are the only ones who survive. But if mankind was to go out,
I had to make sure it went out in style (and not like a bunch of p*ssy emo kids
- or worse, like a bunch of whiny hipsters taking themselves too
seriously).
Unbeknownst
to Gabe, I had chosen him to lead the charge. He was at such a low in his life,
that the sight of a talking snake from the future would not faze him in the
least. Plus I knew that despite his current sorry-ass disposition, he had the
talent, the songs, and the ambition.
When he
danced however, he looked much like Wilt Chamberlain on ecstasy; a mess of limbs
and bizarre faces. Fortunately, I was able to upload Fresh Moves version 6.4
onto his mental hard drive. I also uploaded Reason 3.0 so he could learn how to
make beats and add a whole new dynamic to his songs. (After all, how was he
going to teach all these white kids to dance if his songs didn't make them want
to shake their ass?) Next, I gave him the missing link: a band (called Cobra
Starship in honor of me of course), a launching pad (a little movie called
Snakes On A Plane), and the sort of music industry mentoring that only a Cobra
from the future can provide. Seeds were planted, a deal was signed, and within
no-time Cobra Starship's first album, While the City Sleeps, We Rule The
Streets debuted at #1 on Billboard's New Artists chart.
Phase The
Second:
Gabe was a capable soldier, but without comrades, Cobra Starship
would always be "just a project." And projects don't take over the world. My
vessel needed a real band; a real one, not a label-auditioned set of Hollywood
haircuts. With my starship set to "Sweet!," I discovered Ryland Blackinton
playing Soldier No.4 in an off-off-off-Broadway production of The King of Siam -
and truth be told, I had initially mistaken him for Tom Green. Next was Nate
Novarro, an Atlanta drum tech who got so excited that he almost ran me over on
his way out of town. In order to test his devotion to the Cobra, I had his car
stolen three days later by my step-brother Larry (it's now Jupiter's smallest
moon, and Young Nate's faith never wavered). I rescued Alex Suarez from a
two-bedroom flophouse with nine people living in it. Naturally he came without a
fight. And lastly, since in the not-so-distant future, all music will be played
exclusively on the keytar, I devoted the most time to finding our final member,
Vicky T. I could have found her sooner, but she was on Myspace. And snakes don't
have fingers (which as you can imagine, makes typing quite the
task).
Phase The
Third:
Thus outfitted, Cobra Starship hit the road for a rigorous year of
touring with the likes of Fall Out Boy, Panic! At The Disco, Gym Class Heroes,
30 Seconds to Mars, Cartel, Boys Like Girls and many more. Audiences swelled as
the band earned a loyal fan base stretching across the globe. Drunk with
ambition (and an herbal-confidence booster from my native planet, which I
slipped into their drinks while they were in the bathroom), I convinced the band
to embark on a second album to further spread the reach of my gospel. I assigned
the sexy role of producer to my most-tenacious minion, LORD GROOVIUS, known to
the earth people as Patrick Stump. Coincidentally, the Cobras were already on
tour with Fall Out Boy, so the writing process was smooth, quick and easy (like
yours truly).
As planned,
the band birthed 11 songs from their creative wombs and headed straight to the
studio (which is right next door to where I get my capes tailored!). A whirlwind
of creativity ensued and before a month had passed the record was complete. But
Cobra Starship has a job to do for me, and I have no time to waste. So the day
the record was finished, I sent them off to conquer Australia, Europe, and
Japan.
Which brings
us back to right now. In Tokyo. With Gabe sleeping, my starship parked in a
handicap space, and the whole world waiting. Powered by songs like "Guilty
Pleasure," and "Damn You Look Good And I'm Drunk (Scandalous)," their second
album will launch them further and faster than they've gone before. But before
this second coming of the Cobra can convert another soul, Gabe Saporta is going
to have to wake up from his venom-induced coma.
"Gabe," I
whisper, as he starts to stir, "It's time son" |
Dan McCarroll
