And The Band's Name Is...
by Kate


The first question any interviewer asked was, of course, "Where did you get your name?"

The other bandmembers would smile sheepishly and look at Oz, and he would answer as innocently as possible:

"I named the band after the saint — he's the patron saint of beggars, and, y'know, it seemed appropriate..."

"We got the name from the county in Tennessee where we met — yeah, we're based in L.A., but we were all on these separate road trips..."

"We're named after a professor of Jason's — he was a real pain, and we started using it as an insult to each other. And then it just became the band name..."

"There was this Canadian comedian we met on one of our first tours...back when we were called 'Abernathy and Poetry' or something like that — the name seemed better..."

"We were called 'Files,' but our first posters had a typo in them."

"Oh, there was this hotel, in London, and it had this name, and I thought 'That'd be a good band name,' and it kinda stuck."

"It's the name of a church I worked in when I was touring England."

The interviews continued, each bright-eyed television presenter getting a different version of the origin, until the one day when the band's extremely mellow UK tour, opening up for a more popular and more local band, stopped in Bath.


The sun set on honey coloured sandstone buildings, and the usual students crowded around the club's entrance, all university, wearing weatherbeaten jeans and smoking furiously.

In the middle of the queue, sandwiched between a tall boy who could have barely weighed more than the clothes on his back and a short girl with multicoloured yarn braided into her hair, stood a middle-aged man, wearing khakis and glasses, looking utterly out of place — someone's father, maybe, spoiling his daughter with a show.

The doors opened, the show began, and the man sat at the back of the club, perched on a barstool and watching the band intensely. A professor, maybe, writing a book on the youth scene and its inevitable destruction.

The band ended their set and walked off the stage. As the crowd milled closer for the main act, the man slid off of his barstool and walked towards the door. An agent, maybe, looking for the latest phenomenon to package and mass- market to the youth of America.

He stood outside, looking at the band poster, deep in thought when someone stepped behind him.


"Hi," Oz said. "I see you got my message."

Giles turned around. "Message?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Oz pointed at the poster.

Giles looked at it again, then looked at Oz, smiling sheepishly. "When I first heard of the band's name, I thought that it was some sort of stunt. When I heard all your explanations for the name, I..." He shuffled slightly, putting his hands into his jacket pockets. "Well, you certainly evaded the question, didn't you?"

Oz smiled slightly. "It'd be difficult to admit that you named your band after your high school librarian..."

Giles pinked slightly, smiling and looking down. "Yes, well..."

"...Especially when you've had a crush on him since then..."

Giles looked up. "What?"

Oz smiled again and slid his arm around Giles'. "Why else did you think I named the band after you?"