Four long haired, denim clad, combat boot wearing twenty somethings sit in someone’s basement. From the wood paneling, it’s probably a parents’ basement. Maybe a grandparent.
They argue, three against one. But the majority doesn’t rule here. Maybe it’s his basement.
The meeting breaks up from time to time; the four gyrating their hair together to a “song”. It’s clear these four dream of becoming metal gods.
They have the look. Now they need music. Which, frankly, is secondary.
The “bassist” speaks: “Would you at least consider not naming the band after a potted plant?”
“What’s wrong with Atomic Petunias?”
