H2Bro Trilogy

          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 co-founded 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 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.

More bad news for the Edmund Fitzgerald.

          “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.”

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.

           Part II: Who'll Stop the Rain?

           It is with profound heartache that I must report the breakup of H₂Bro. Though turmoil became obvious toward the end of my initial interview with the McHydro brothers, it’s shocking that such an extreme measure was taken so abruptly. After repeated inquiries, Willy was the first to return my phone calls. 

          “Let me give you the lowdown, Nate (sic),” he began. “Not long after you left kooky Kim’s party, I sipped from Billy’s gallon. Big discovery. Of all the shady shenanigans—he was drinking flavored water!” 

          Aquafina’s Wild Berry Flavor Splash, to be exact. Overwhelmed by the mob, the confession was forcibly extracted from Billy—his older brother cinched in a “tittie twister” as guitarist and H₂Bro loyalist Bo Van Dam intervened to “purple that other nurple.” Willy has condemned the deception, calling it “unnatural.” 

          “That phony,” Willy seethes. “This band celebrates Hydrogen twice and Oxygen once. It’s simple. Pure. And we come to find out that lately he’s been chugging this gutter runoff that’s only like 95% water. The audacity. Flavored water is for sellouts.” 

          Willy pledges the group will embark on a new era, already gigging on Friday, rechristened as H₂Broh. With seven members reduced to six, keyboardist Swinkle has been named Billy’s successor in the spotlight. Though he barely sang at the show I attended, henceforth Swinkle will be called upon for lead vocals on nearly half of their songs. 

          Suddenly my phone beeps. I’m startled. Billy McHydro is on line two. I blurt a hasty “Sounds good sorry gotta go see ya Friday” and end the talk to begin another one. 

          Immediately he bellows, “Say hello to Loudmouth Billy Bass!” 

          To be clear, he pronounces it “base,” as in the instrument. 

          “First show this Saturday,” he continues. “Rockin’ out in Kim’s basement. Gonna bass jam lots of Earth, Wind, & Fire!” 

          I stammer a question about the messy breakup with his erstwhile band.

          “Fuck both water and those guys,” he answers. “Kim turned me on to flavored water to broaden my horizons, and if they’ve got a problem with that, then we’re done doing business.” 

          “OK, I get that,” I say. “But doesn’t it get tougher than that considering the fallout included your brother?”

          I hear a disheartened gasp and then a tussle on the other line. The next voice I hear is Kim’s.

“No more questions! Billy’s frame of mind is very fragile and anti-water, and so I forbid you to make him cry tears. You vulture! Parasite! Hack… OK, do come Saturday. Toodle-oo.”

          She hangs up. My weekend plans are set.

          

          ###

          

         Friday night. I make it to Tweed’s bar during H₂Broh’s sound check. There is more elbow room than there was at the previous show. Already I sense disquiet among the band’s faithful. Willy has a bass slung around his shoulder, meaning that the group has downsized to not only one McHydro but also a sole guitarist. Uncharacteristically troubled, Bo Van Dam approaches Willy. 

          “Any word from… you know?” 

          “Him?” Willy scoffs. “Pfft. Oh, probably falling a few glasses short of the doctor’s daily recommendation—but who cares? Right, boys?!” 

          The others murmur with obligatory support—except for the newly promoted Swinkle, who has added a rainstick to his repertoire. Before hoisting a gallon to his lips, he exclaims something that could be transcribed as:

          “Peeeyaaaauuuu!!!” 

           Members of the audience presumably don’t share Swinkle’s zest. Conversations are hushed. Spirits are curbed. The Drippie I recently befriended nudges me, points to his H₂Bro shirt and then to Swinkle’s H₂Broh attire.

          “Can you believe this shit?” He casts a stink-eyed gaze at Swinkle, who waves in response and anxiously guzzles more. “One of us is a fraud.”

          Everyone winces as a metallic shriek of feedback pierces the air. Daunted but determined, Willy clutches the mic. 

          “You are all witnesses to something so big, so monumental,” he prophesizes. “It’s titanic.”

          With that, Swinkle twinkles the keys to the sparse overture of “Across the Sea.” A resounding strum, an earnest falsetto, and they’ve begun. The performance is solid. I get a sense of genuine anguish from Willy when he belts out the chorus:

          “Why are you so far away from me?/ I need help and you’re way across the sea.” 

          It’s the highlight of the set. Willy struggles through the bass lines of the next few numbers. The frustration overflows and he flubs lyrics. Poise evaporates. He calls a desperate audible and switches instruments with Bo, groaning “Take this accursed bass.” When he introduces Billy’s replacement to sing the next song, a jittery Swinkle thrusts his rainstick upward and accidentally cracks a Drippie in the nose. The band commences the mournful “Who’ll Stop the Rain” as she rushes outside, nursing the wound. A few others follow. 

“Don’t go lady!” Swinkle pleads. “I got the cure for what ails ya!” 

          It’s a hollow vow. His vocals are creaky and wavering—like a fickle cat who can’t decide whether to hiss or purr. Matters worsen as the first chorus culminates. “And I wonder, yes I wonder, who’ll stop the rain” is followed by a grueling two-minute rainstick solo. Bafflingly, he repeats the solo after the second chorus. Ninety seconds into the interminable trickles, a Drippie voices his displeasure.

          “Terrible!” he shouts. “Who’ll stop the rainstick!?’”

          The band is drowned in jeers. Mortification overtakes Swinkle. His bladder detonates. Panicked beyond reason, he even sips more and repeats “no no no no” as the stain widens, drops, and drips. The music dies. It’s an act of mercy. The crowd is either laughing or leaving.

          “He can’t handle his water!” Todd Pondo complains with a spike of his drumsticks. 

          “Amateur!” Willy rages. “In this band, we only wet our pants at the very end of holiday shows!”

      

        The disgruntled frontman storms offstage and barges through the exit. As I walk after him, the trombonist Chaz Winnebago blocks my path and offers me a liter of “dank Ice Mountain” to not report what I’ve just seen. I decline. Outside, Willy is gone. 

###

Saturday. When I chat with Billy and Kim that evening, he’s glum but she’s actually thrilled to speak to me—only because I can verify the cataclysm of H₂Broh’s debut. He croaks a barely audible “fuck water,” and then Loudmouth Billy Bass (pronounced “base”) adjourns to plug in his gear. Kim detects my unease. 

“Yes, I’m a teensy bit concerned he’s not drinking enough,” she admits as she sets ablaze an H₂Bro shirt. “‘Mother Nature’s wet dream,’ as he used to rhapsodize, was rather important to him. No matter. He promised me he’ll have a drink after the encore, to celebrate, when he has fully enraptured my mind, body, and soul—by playing ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’”   

          Shortly before showtime, I’m struck by Billy’s literal devotion to “going solo.” His bass and vocals create all the music. Adding to the peculiarity is his choice of venue, of course. Kim didn’t obtain any kind of license, but that doesn’t matter since the bar is totally dry: Billy has forbidden the presence of water.

          While funky, the bass lines of Earth, Wind, & Fire hits “September” and “Let’s Groove” sound eerily lonesome when plucked in a vacuum for eight minutes. Worse, Billy’s vocal chords sound excruciatingly parched; he sings like Tom Waits scalding in Death Valley, with none of the smooth jubilation required to honor the Soul.

          Drippies get restless. I lock eyes with a man endowed with a massive afro. He looks familiar, but a moment later he turns away and covers his face as though he’s embarrassed to be seen here.

          “We want a water jam!” someone demands. 

          Billy’s haggard face crinkles with disdain. Then he twists it into a sardonic smirk. He plays that ominous Dave Matthews Band song “Don’t Drink the Water” to a chorus of boos. I feel overfilled with dread and so I scramble up the stairs, outside for reprieve and a breath of fresh air. 

          Somebody follows. The man with the afro. 

“It’s me. Bo Van Dam,” he says confidentially. “Worried about Billy, but I had to come incognito."

          He adjusts his oversized novelty wig. I nod. His eyes dart. 

          “Willy would flip out if he knew I came. It’s bogus. Deep down he cares the most about Billy. I know he’s stubborn, but come on! His own brother might not-drink himself to death.” 

          He elaborates on how terrible he feels about the saga. While he does so, the low vibrations stop. We hear a woman’s piercing shriek. Before long, a far-off siren wails, gets louder. Two paramedics arrive and go down the steps with a gurney in tow. Somber Drippies escape from the basement and linger next to Bo and me. The first paramedic emerges through the doorway, his hands gripped to the gurney, whereupon Billy lies wan and unresponsive.

          “Worst case of dehydration I’ve ever seen,” the EMT pronounces.

          His coworker nods gravely and they wheel Billy McHydro into the ambulance. 

Then we hear a different kind of siren, a protracted “Nooooooo” that originates at a distance and quickly amplifies. Kim rushes outside, into the open space of a world that can scarcely contain her primal scream. Tears stream down her face.

          “He never played ‘The Wreck!’” she bawls inconsolably. 

###

       Part III: Bridge over Troubled Water

       Billy McHydro had endured a severe bout with dehydration as he recovered at St. Agnes Hospital for three days. When he finally spoke to me over the phone, I was relieved to hear gusto in his voice again. What restored that gusto should come as no surprise.

          

       “When I woke up to feel the IV drip coursing through my veins, it put me back in hydration heaven,” Billy recalls. “I hate to sound like a rock cliché, but that needle was a real lifesaver.” 

          With Kim by his side, he convalesced. He was enlightened by a nurse who explained to him the essence of hypotonic intravenous therapy. 

          “Yeah, she broke it down talking some fancy science shit. Turns out there’s diluted water in there, not authentic H₂O,” he says with a sigh. “That’s karma for you. I felt guilty for digging impure water all over again, and much to my chagrin, I realized Willy had been right all along.” 

           The younger McHydro was all too eager to remedy his lack of a drinking problem. He downed a total 18 pitchers on his second day in the hospital. Hours before his release, he became a hero in the children’s ward by telling the youngsters to never give up as he poured several “water bongs” for them to take down.

           Upon departure from the hospital, Billy made plans to write a full-length rock opera about a time-traveling Kramer from Seinfeld having himself a freak out for the ages at Woodstock. 

          Those plans were scrapped a minute later when Willy implored him to rejoin H₂Bro. (Billy then sold me the rights to the intellectual property of “Kramer at Woodstock” for a twelve pack of Deja Blue.) 

          “This whole fallout has taught me a lot,” Willy tells me. “First and foremost, I miss the hell out of my little brother. Second, our band sucks without him. I’m sick of my own smartass parents asking if the second ‘H’ in ‘H₂Broh’ stands for ‘Hagar.’ Finally, I’m only going to be an asshole to the people I don’t like.”

          When questioned if he therefore intends to call for a truce with his sibling’s polarizing girlfriend Kim, Willy snapped, “Of course it does, you scrawny jackass.”  

          “Truth be told,” he elaborates, “I was a bit intimidated by Kim’s junior college schooling—and maybe a little jealous. She’s actually inspired me to go to UW-Fond du Lac. We got a contract to overhaul the plumbing there. Gonna solve me some equations left on the chalkboard like the genius from Good Willy Hunt! (sic)” 

          I catch up with Kim next. 

          “Perhaps I’m imperfect,” she admits. “Only by withholding my lady flower from him Billy did he finally cave in and experiment with flavored water. And in regard to ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald,’ I do still adore it, but I just learned my grandfather only knows a guy who knows a guy who died aboard that tragic vessel. Thus my obsession may have been slightly overstated.”

           The mending trio agree to convene in Kim’s basement for reconciliation. Following some nitpicky negotiations that by and by manifest in Willy and Kim murmuring apologies at the exact same time at the count of three, we linger awkwardly. At last the perfect tension-breaker occurs to Billy. He gestures to me. 

          “I sold this rube the rights to ‘Kramer at Woodstock.’”

           That induces spasms of hysterical laughter from 75% of the group. They celebrate my perceived folly by breaking out some of the bottles that set me back nine bucks.

          “A toast to Nate’s (sic) unquenchable dreams!” Willy declares. 

           I leave minutes later with a parched throat. Willy bellows up the staircase an invite to their reunion show at Ziggy’s. The story’s unfinished so I can’t say no.

          ###

As a rock and roll sentimentalist, it’s empowering to be greeted by the iconic riff of “Smoke on the Water” when crossing the threshold into a crowded bar. I mingle and when I spot Kim, I’m startled. Clad in a white band tee, she’s uncommonly bubbly. She must have a twin, I surmise, but I realize I’m mistaken when she opens her mouth. 

“They’re going to play ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald!’” she rejoices. “Let’s party!” 

          Its' a strange combination of words from a strange girl. But I rarely have the heart to deny anyone a high-five.

          To the crowd’s delight, aquatic classics by the likes of the Beach Boys, Creedence, and Zeppelin precede the funeral dirge of Kim’s desire. At the end of a roaring first set, the McHydros supply a final interview in which Willy fondly reminisces.

“In high school, when we were told there wasn’t enough money to fund the Super Soaker Club, it was Billy who said, ‘We’ll just do it ourselves with a carwash fundraiser, so fuck you, Principal Jones.’ ‘Cause my brother’s got character.” 

          “At the carwash was where we had our first ever wet T-shirt contest,” Billy notes. “You won.”

 “I owe it all to picking up that bottle again.” 

“Yeah, not drinking is a serious problem.”

          

 “Some dangerous shit.”

          

 “Almost killed you,” Willy says. “It’s a lot worse than flavored water.”

 “Which I only got into because my girlfriend pressured me.”

          

 “Well, many others are in the same boat as you.”

          

 “Yeah, it’s a pretty common story I’ve been hearing, at group meetings.” 

 “Sounds rough.” 

“Nah, we make the most of it. Sharing stories. Did I tell you I’m bringing back the Super Soaker Club?” 

          “Gnarly! Get those fuckers hydrated, bro!” 

          H₂Bro trumpeter Tootie Dribbles nudges the McHydros and gestures at the stage. The boys swat each other on the back in lieu of the hug they were building toward. 

          Anticipation accumulates in Kim as the second set passes. She dances in big, mistimed jumps from side to side with a swollen bladder and aching kidneys, oftentimes outside the bathroom door, waiting for relief, both physical and spiritual. Of course the latter is always more elusive. Every few minutes she snatches the playlist from me and assuages her worried mind by pointing to the title second from the bottom. 

          The septet is so immersed in music that they don’t dare stray from the stage at the end of their second set. Instead they guzzle copious amounts of Mother Nature’s Wet Dream (aside from the newly disciplined Swinkle, who refuses a jug from Bo Van Dam, points to his own crotch, and then taps a finger against the skull that encases his wizened mind). 

          Bo Van Dam turns down to practice a sharp, mournful twang in C major and Kim’s fingernails dig excitedly into my forearm. When Willy sets his drink aside and approaches the mic, a Drippie capitalizes on the magnitude of the reunion and screams: “Speech!”

 

          This request is parroted and again and Willy is taken aback a few steps. I don’t know this man well but for once I can read his mind. He doesn’t want to give a speech. He thinks it’s cheap to analyze. The bored look on someone’s face when you describe to them a profound dream you had, the surge of life that comes from being inside a lover, or the horror of showing your ugliest humanity always to those you love most and the redemption of being welcomed back… it’s a burden to explain these moments, but Willy is up to the task. 

          “Love is a compromise,” he says. 

          With that the lead guitarist grits his teeth and plucks the sharp, mournful twang Kim has been waiting for. Her fingernails scrape against my forearm as she rushes toward the stage, maneuvering and shoving past less-enthused Drippies. Willy defers vocal duty to his younger brother, strums his part, and stares at a clock on the wall for the next seven minutes. Many Drippies follow suit. Few leave. Kim is enamored. Billy sings.

          “That ship was the pride of the American side/ Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin…” 

          Not even mention of our home state can rile the crowd from their befuddled torpor. But this unnerving, ongoing dirge has made Kim maniacally happy. Surprisingly, when the song ends, her first response is not to applaud. 

          “Play it again!” she begs. 

          But Willy is quick to win back the crowd and he calls for the last song. Kim pouts but soon recovers—realizing, I should hope, that love is indeed a compromise. 

          Waves of approval rise from the Drippies as Willy picks the jagged from “The Ocean.” Zeppelin was another band known for excess… I’m able to sing along and mimic guitar riffs like a huge dork with the greatest of ease because this all feels so familiar, as though I’m reliving the whole experience. 

          I take a swig of water. It’s like Deja Blue all over again.