While wildly popular in Canada's Northwest Territories, Until We Get Kicked Out Of This Town Again: The Clark Schpiell and the Furry Cockroaches Without Butts Story, never really took off in the US, despite the numerous gigs the band played in the Science-Fiction section of the Waldenbooks at which David worked.
What follows is an exerpt from the seventh chapter of that book, titled "Chris's Story." Enjoy.
the BALLAD OF BOY-NETT: Chris's story
They knew to really get off the ground they needed a manager, someone to herd them up and get them to gigs, and even to rehearsals, and sometimes even to bed. They turned to another member of their circle of friends, one who hadn't expressed much interest in the limelight but who had the skills the band needed to get underway. They turned to Dave's little brother, nicknamed "Boy-Nett," to handle the business aspects of the band. There were tensions at first, since many band members assumed that a manager would take care of many of their non-creative day-to-day concerns (like brushing their teeth and bathing them) but once it was clear where responsibilities lay, the careers of all seven began to soar.
Boy-Nett was a born organizer. "You should have seen him," Dave said. "He could take a hamper full of socks and sort them in no time flat. I mean different kinds of socks, too. Different colors!" At the age of fourteen, he re-organized the family's pantry to save his mother time in cooking, a four-day project that she later estimated had saved her twenty-three seconds over the course of twelve years.
His contribution to the group was immediate and profound. At the first rehearsal he attended as their manager, he noted that only Geiser and Eck were actually playing, and in fact everyone else was standing there doing nothing except occasionally scratching themselves or staring at invisible things in the ceiling. The following now famous exchange took place:
"Dave, what's your role in this band?"
"Then maybe you should sing."
So the next number they tried it that way. Since Dave didn't know the words (at that point, there weren't any) and wasn't sure how to work the microphone, he stuck it into his mouth and moaned on several different pitches in succession. At first it sounded sad and pathetic, like an animal dying, until Dr.M (then, "Mr.M") walked over to the soundboard and cranked every level on the mic up as high as it would go. Everyone's ears bled and cracks formed in the walls, but after a few minutes everyone stopped and looked at each other in awe. Something had happened. Thanks to Boy-Nett, they had a sound.