The Occasionals

The Occasionals were forged where all great bands begin: a basement with questionable wiring, one working power outlet, and a ceiling low enough to make cymbal crashes a genuine hazard. Between songs we decamp to Wonko's Hole, our local of choice, where the lighting is forgiving and the tab is not. It is here, over too many rounds, that most of our creative decisions are made and immediately forgotten. No evening at Wonko's is complete without a ceremonial round of Malört, a drink that tastes like betrayal and regret. Nobody likes it. Nobody, that is, except Max, who downs it with a serene Sicilian smile while the rest of us recover. The malört has become a rite of passage, a bonding ritual, and the single fastest way to find out who your real friends are. There is a lot of laughter, most of it at someone's expense, all of it deserved. The band is also a living monument to poor instrument planning. At one infamous point we had five guitars and exactly zero bass players — a wall of jangling, gloriously pointless sound that legally constituted a guitar shop rather than a band. We have since corrected this, mostly by convincing Max to switch and by quietly accepting that Dylan's guitar is decorative. Special mention goes to Joe P, whose Michael Jackson cosplay during one particularly spirited set has never been fully explained and never will be. We cover the rock anthems of the 70s, 80s, and 90s for parties, bars, and anyone brave enough to book us. Come for the music, stay for the chaos, and whatever you do — let Max handle the Malört.