H₂Bro Part I: River of Dreams

      I clap my hands as H₂Bro takes the stage, but in an instant my applause is drowned out by the hollers and shrieks of the fans of “Wisconsin’s most hydrated cover band.” Brothers Willy and Billy McHydro pose with charismatic smirks behind their mic stands and guitars. As Willy sets down his first of what will eventually total 20 Deja Blues, Billy guzzles from a gallon of what he calls “Mother Nature’s wet dream.”

          

      What began as a ruckus becomes pandemonium among 200 of the band’s “Drippies” when Willy addresses them.

           

      “I don’t know about y’all,” Willy shouts. “But we are HYDRATED AS FUUUCCCKKK!!!”

       Sensing synergy, Willy nods, counts off to four, and picks the familiar, jagged riff of “The Ocean.” Zeppelin was another band known for excess, but as I learn during our interview at the after-party, the McHydros do things a little differently. They follow their own stream—and sometimes that stream forks.

           My ventures into the Fond du Lac bar scene had decreased with the onset of my thirties, but the social media presence of H₂Bro—coupled with my curiosity and love of live music—drove me to cover this story. A review of their fan page informed the basics: They’re a septet comprised of strings, rhythm, keys, and horns, led by two passionate brothers who believe classic rock is as essential to survival as water itself. That explains the group’s H₂Overindulgence, as well as their choice in covers: “Aqualung,” “Catch a Wave,” “Black Water,” “November Rain,” and their ambitious medley “Take Me to the River of Dreams.”

          

          In the wake of their stunning performance that Saturday night, I get my first glimpse of friction in the brothers’ relationship, which could be described as delightfully combative. Mere seconds after the final notes have resounded, the McHydro siblings begin to bicker. The tiff has something to do with the encore. As I approach for a closer listen, I overhear the last gasp of Billy’s tirade.

          

          “You vetoed my jam, so now we’re drinkin’ at Kim’s, bro.”

          “That’s all the way across town!” Willy protests. “And my house is just a block away.”

          
          In a disarming gesture, I cordially ask for a picture and autographs. Frustration lingers, but a moment later, I’m nearly gusted a step backward by the collective sighs they exhale. The tension dissipates. They acknowledge my request and enhance the honor by signing the set list.

Twenty minutes later, I find myself seated beside H₂Bro keyboardist Swinkle as he groans despairingly and inserts his key into the ignition of his Volvo.

          

        “You OK?” I ask.

          

        “We gotta stop at a Kwik Trip,” he says. “‘Cause in three minutes, my bladder is set to detonate.”

          

###

We're the last to arrive at Kim’s place. Diminutive and chic, with a demeanor that charms and unnerves depending on high and low tides, Kim Bono is Billy’s girlfriend of four months. Swinkle and I stamp and smear our wet shoes into the Welcome Mat as the voice of an alpha male transcends the commotion coming from the basement.

        “Wet T-shirt contest!” 

        In retrospect I should not have raced downstairs with as much vigor as I did. Overcome by the urge to see gorgeous Drippies soaked in translucent tops, instead I witness the McHydro brothers thrusting out their chests and spilling water onto their plain white tees. Again. It’s a replay of the stunt they pulled between sets at their concert.

           
        “We love to show off our nips!” Billy declares.  

Willy commands a vote from the partygoers. To the chagrin of his kin, he wins this particular contest by a margin of 12-11. Willy is overjoyed, noting that their lifelong series is now tied. Drippies and bandmates disperse to start an H₂O Pong tournament at a far-off table in the basement, leaving us privacy to conduct an interview.

          

       When asked about their origins, Willy is proud to mention their parents, Hank and Olivia McHydro, who met working at Fond du Lac’s water treatment facility in 1982.

“Mom and dad were true romantics.” 

          “Yeah,” Billy nods. “They banged on the catwalk of the water tower.” 

          “Twice.”

           “And here we are!”

          Music, fishing, and swimming were instrumental in the boys’ upbringing. In high school, they cofounded the Super Soaker Club, and after graduation, the burgeoning adults landed jobs as plumbers. 

          “Lots of water,” Willy explains. 

          “Plus some shit.”

          “Right. But hey, that’s life!”

           

          The brothers pursued a reprieve from the drudgery of 40-hour workweeks—as well as “Water Nymphs,” as Willy puts it—and they found both, to a degree, by performing in a number of cover groups over the years. Willy regards their stints with The Sponges, Space Canoe, and Chmura Hot Tub Experience with mixed emotions.

          

         “We had some fun in those bands, but we kind of missed the boat. We just weren’t going all the way. I mean, only about 60% of the songs we did were water jams.”

          

         “Yeah,” Billy says. “Then that Ice Bucket Challenge got super popular.” (In July of 2014.) “The message was clear: The people were getting psyched about H₂O. And they needed a band to sing its praises. We wanted to be that vessel to dowse them with hydro-melodic joy.”

          

          “Like a Super Soaker that spurts refreshing notes,” Willy adds. 

          I’m amused by the harmonious nature of their insights. It’s as though the pair have tapped into the same stream of consciousness. As with any brotherhood, however, dissention happens. Having emptied his latest Deja Blue, Willy reaches for Billy’s unmarked jug. In a flash of ire, the younger McHydro slaps away Willy’s lunging hand. 

         “Get your own!” he snaps. 

          They glower at each other until I clear my throat, segueing to my next question.

          “Is it fair to say you two don’t always see eye-to-eye?” 

          “You could say that,” Willy allows, sustaining his sideways glare. “Like, we have our disagreements when it comes to set lists.”  

            “This guy refuses to play ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,’” Billy says, motioning his thumb like a dejected hitchhiker. 

          I’m reminded of the cryptic remarks made on the set list they signed.

“Augh, that song is so depressing,” Willy gripes.

  

          “So is ‘Like a Hurricane,’” Billy retorts. “But we play that.” 

          “That’s not depressing, it’s bittersweet!”

“Semantics! Either way, ‘The Wreck’ is a work of genius.” 

“Pfft,” Willy sneers. “According to Kim.”

She materializes at Billy’s side at the mention of her name.  

       

“Indeed I did express such a conviction,” Kim says. She swishes the clear liquid in her martini glass with a studious stare as she caresses her boyfriend’s back. “Yes, I do hope the band pays homage to Lightfoot’s true opus. My grandfather died aboard the Edmund Fitzgerald… or he knew somebody who did, or something. What matters is the sorrow in my bosom. If not H₂Bro, then who shall quench it?” 

          “Wow, how eloquent,” Willy says in an icy tone. “Did your girlfriend go to junior college?”

          “You’re Goddamn right she went to junior college!” Billy roars.

          A nervous bandmate intercedes to separate them. Todd, the drummer. He lures Willy to a distant corner to do a “water-cooler stand.”

          Social awkwardness resurfaces and I make plans for departure. It’s 3:45 in the morning. I phone for a taxi. While I wait, Kim gushes to her lover about the “organic, haunting splendor” of the version of “The Wreck” from Lightfoot’s All Live album. Minutes later, Willy returns, prompting scowls. The couple decides to resume their chat by the water cooler.

Willy’s foot bumps against the half-empty jug his fellow McHydro had placed on the floor. It seems pretty commonplace, yet his brow furrows deeply. He scrutinizes the thing.

          A Drippie taps me on the shoulder and asks if I called for the cab parked in the driveway. In a haste I scramble for my coat and say goodbye to Willy, but he barely seems to notice as he bends down to pick up the jug. 

          I hustle up the stairs. As I fling the back door open I’m struck with déjà vu when I hear that same voice of an alpha male transcending the commotion down there. But it’s an angry wail this time—ferocious enough to finally silence the party.

          “HOW DARE YOU!”

          I hesitate but then I detect headlights reflecting off the garage door, fading in intensity. My cab is leaving me. I chase after it. Running past basement windows, I see blurred snapshots, glimpses of chaos, a hurricane of humanity with two men at its epicenter, stamping in puddles of water, both screaming. Everyone screaming.

          The cab stops and I get in—headed home to bed and then a deadline to meet. I’d left at the crest of some gargantuan wave and I could only contemplate what it meant.