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| The McHydro brothers, their drummer, the setlist, and me. |
H₂Bro Part I: River of Dreams
I clap my hands as H₂Bro takes the stage. In an instant, my applause is drowned out by hollers and shrieks coming from the fans of “Wisconsin’s most hydrated cover band.” Brothers Willy and Billy McHydro pose with charismatic smirks behind their mic stands and guitars. Willy sets down his first bottle of Deja Blue. By night’s end, he’ll finish 20 more. 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 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.
###
 |
| A hardcore Drippie. |
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 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 grant 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. He inserts his key into the ignition of his Volvo.
“You OK?” I ask.
“We gotta stop at 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 pretty 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.
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| Kinda disappointing. But look at their enthusiasm! |
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| 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. Her stare is studious. 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 someone who did, or something. What matters is the sorrow in my bosom. If not H₂Bro, then who shall quench it?”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.
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| (As I said, this one's got pictures.) |
It is with profound heartache that I must report the breakup of H₂Bro. Turmoil became clear by the end of my interview with the McHydro boys, but I’m shocked to see this extreme measure happen so suddenly. After repeated inquiries, Willy was the first to return my 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 Bo Van Dam got involved to “purple that other nurple.” Willy has condemned the deception, calling it “unnatural.”
“That phony,” Willy goes on. “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 went to, Swinkle will be called upon for lead vocals on nearly half of the group’s songs.
Suddenly my phone beeps. I’m startled. Billy McHydro is on line two. I blurt out a hasty “Sounds good sorry gotta go see ya Friday!” I end the talk to begin another one.
Immediately he bellows, “Say hello to Loudmouth Billy Bass!”
To be clear, he pronounces “Bass” like the instrument, not the fish.
“First show's this Saturday,” he continues. “Rockin’ out in Kim’s basement. Gonna bass-jam lots of Earth, Wind, & Fire!”
I stammer a question about the band’s messy breakup.
“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 with your own brother?”
I hear a disheartened gasp, then a tussle on the other line. The next voice I hear is Kim’s.
“No more questions! Billy’s frame of mind is fragile and anti-water. 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’m at 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 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, he’s gonna be dry-humpin’ his way through life—but who cares? Right, boys?!”
The others murmur with tired support—except for the newly promoted Swinkle, who has added a rainstick to his repertoire. Before hoisting a gallon to his lips, he shouts something I’ll try to spell:
“Peeeeeyaaaauuuu!!!”
The crowd doesn’t seem to share Swinkle’s excitement. Conversations are hushed. Spirits are low. The Drippie I met at the last show nudges me. He points to his H₂Bro shirt, then points to Swinkle’s H₂Broh shirt.
“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.”
A metallic shriek of feedback pierces the air. Everyone cringes. 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 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 basslines 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 begins 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. Confoundingly, he repeats the solo after the second chorus. Ninety seconds into the endless trickles, a Drippie turns on the band.
“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 from behind his drum set. He spikes his drumsticks.
“Amateur!” Willy rages. “In this band, we only wet our pants at the 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 thrilled to speak to me—only because I can report the cataclysm of H₂Broh’s debut. Loudmouth Billy Bass croaks a barely audible “fuck water.” He staggers to his amp to plug in his gear. Kim detects my unease.
“Yes, I am 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 basslines 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 jubilance 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 the Dave Matthews Band song “Don’t Drink the Water” to a chorus of boos. I feel overfilled with dread. I scramble up the stairs, outside for reprieve and a breath of fresh air.
Someone 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 wig. I nod, understanding. His eyes start darting.
“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 admits how bad he feels about the saga. While he does so, the low vibrations from the basement fall silent. We hear a woman’s piercing shriek. Before long, a far-off siren wails. It gets louder. Two paramedics arrive. They 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. Billy lies pallid and unresponsive.
“Worst case of dehydration I’ve ever seen,” the EMT says.
His coworker nods gravely. 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.
Billy McHydro had endured a severe bout with dehydration as he recovered at St. Agnes Hospital for three days. When he 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.”
Billy resolved to treat his lack of a drinking problem. He downed a total of 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.” He then got out a funnel with a tube attached and showed the kids “how to take down a water bong.”
Once he left the hospital, Billy began work on a side project, a rock opera that serves as a rare bassist/ baseball crossover. When a rock star bassist turned minor-league manager takes over a team of scrubs, he inspires them out of their slump by showing them the magic of bass grooves, which gives them confidence. Soon the entire roster is jamming on bass in the clubhouse and hitting grand slams on the field, in Basses Loaded.
Those rock-opera plans were scrapped a minute after he told me about it when Willy texted him: “Bro, rejoin H₂Bro.” In exchange for a twelve pack of Deja Blue, Billy sold me the rights to Basses Loaded, which I maintain is a nifty idea.
###
Later that day, I speak with Willy.
“This whole breakup and reunion has taught me a lot,” Willy says. “First and foremost, I miss the hell out of my little brother. Second, our band sucks without him. My own smartass parents asked me if the second ‘H’ in ‘H₂Broh’ stands for ‘Hagar.’ Finally, I’ve gotta be more kind. From now on, I’m only gonna be an asshole to the people I don’t like.”
I ask if he intends to make a truce with Kim. Willy snaps, “Of course I do! For the love of Rain God--you’re as stupid as you are skinny.
“Truth be told,” he continues, “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 redo the plumbing there. Gonna solve some equations on the chalkboard, like the genius from Good Willy Hunt!”
I catch up with Kim next.
“Perhaps I’m... imperfect,” she admits. “Only by withholding my lady flower from 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 meet in Kim’s basement to reconcile. Some nitpicky negotiations take place. Eventually, Willy and Kim agree to mutter apologies at the exact same time, at the count of three. Both seem unaccustomed to saying they’re sorry. We linger, not sure what to say next. At last, wanting to break the tension, Billy gestures to me.
“Hey, I sold this dope the rights to Basses Loaded.”
That gets a huge laugh from three-quarters of us. They rejoice and bust out some of the bottles that set me back nine bucks. (Author’s objection: Four strings on a bass, four bases on a baseball field. Coincidence? I see potential.)
“Let’s have a toast to Nate’s dumb, unquenchable dreams!” Willy shouts.
I leave minutes later with a parched throat. As I make my way up the staircase, Willy calls an invite to their reunion show at Ziggy’s. The story is unfinished, so I can’t say no.
###
As a rock and roll sentimentalist, it’s great to be greeted by the iconic riff of “Smoke on the Water” when crossing the threshold of a crowded bar. I mingle a bit. When I spot Kim, I’m startled. Clad in a white band tee, she’s downright bubbly. She must have a twin, I suppose, but I realize I’m mistaken when she opens her mouth.
“They’re going to play ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald!’” she exclaims. “Let’s party!”
It’s a strange combination of words from a strange girl. But I don’t have the heart to deny anyone a high five.
To the crowd’s delight, aquatic classics by the likes of the Beach Boys, CCR, and Led Zeppelin precede the funeral dirge of Kim’s desire. At the end of a roaring first set, the McHydros supply more commentary.
“In high school, when the school told us we didn’t have the money to fund the Super Soaker Club, it was Billy who said, ‘We’ll just fund it ourselves by putting on a carwash. So fuck you, Principal Parker!’ So what I’m trying to say is: my bro’s got character.”
“At that same carwash, you and me had our first ever wet T-shirt contest,” Billy says. “You won.”
“Now that’s some recall. After all these years, you still refresh my memory.”
“To be alive and have memories--it’s good shit sometimes.”
“Whoa, what’s got you so optimistic?”
“Well, I owe it all to picking up the bottle again.”
“Oh, right. You know, not drinking is a serious problem.”
“It’s some dangerous shit.”
“Almost killed you,” Willy says. “Not drinking’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--going to group meetings.”
“That sounds rough.”
“Nah, we make the most of it. Sharing stories. Feeling, healing. 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. They get ready to rock.
Anticipation mounts in Kim as the second set passes. She dances in big, mistimed jumps from side-to-side. Her moves have the nervous energy of someone who needs to pee. Every few minutes she snatches the playlist from me. She eases her worried mind by pointing to “The Wreck.”
The band is immersed in music. They don’t dare stray from the stage at the end of their second set. Instead, they chug copious amounts of Mother Nature’s Wet Dream. (That’s aside from Swinkle, who refuses a gallon-jug from Bo Van Dam. Swinkle points to his crotch, then points to his head knowingly, and offers a toast with a Dixie cup full of water.)
Bo Van Dam feels out some gloomy notes in C major. Kim’s fingernails dig excitedly into my forearm, recognizing the notes. She’s ready. Willy sets his drink aside and approaches the mic. An adoring Drippie cuts into the moment and screams: “Speech!”
Other fans repeat this request. Willy takes a step back. I don’t know this man very well, but I think I can read his mind. He’d rather not give a speech. He thinks it’s cheap to analyze certain things. It’s a bother to explain these moments that simply need to be felt. But Willy is up to the task. He leans into the mic.
“Love is a compromise,” he says.
With that, the lead guitarist grits his teeth and plucks the sharp, mournful twang Kim has awaited. Her fingernails scrape against my forearm as she rushes the stage, shoving past Drippies. Willy defers vocal duties to his younger brother, strums his part, and stares at a clock on the wall for the next seven minutes. Many Drippies do the same. Few leave. Kim is enamored. Billy sings.
“That ship was the pride of the American side/ Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin…”
The crowd doesn’t even pop at the mention of our home state. Yet, this drawn-out dirge has made Kim fantastically happy. If the bare minimum of art is to connect with one individual, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” is a success.
Surprisingly, when the song ends, Kim’s first response is not to applaud.
“PLAY IT AGAIN!” she begs.
But Willy is quick to win back the crowd. He calls for the last song. Todd counts the time on his drumsticks, eager to imitate the great John Bonham. Kim pouts but soon recovers—remembering, I hope, that love really is a compromise.
Waves of support rise from the Drippies. Willy picks the jagged riff from “The Ocean.” Zeppelin was also a band known for excess, but as we know, H₂Bro does things a little differently.
I sing along and mimic guitar riffs like a big dork. It’s so easy and fun to bounce around and rock out. This all feels familiar, as though I’m reliving the whole experience...
It’s like Deja Blue all over again.
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