From the Collected Musings of Dr. Neil Algebra, IV:
Born in 1912, I have witnessed times immemorable the sounds of yestreen's popular musics giving pass to the adventurous tones of the subsequent age. It is armed with this wisdom that I tread as prepared as any man can be into the realm of sonance made five-dimensional by the cluster that calls itself simply OFM. I admit to having been a bit embarrassed for their preposterousness in applying a moniker as ambiguous as to suggest nothing of their style or affiliation (to mention naught of the inelegance and boorishness of an acronym), but the true slack-jawed sense of awe came when I met the lads who comprise the quintet.
The most instantly disdaining of the lot is K. Adventure Boggs who, much like an 8-year-old child, immediately jumps in the face of any who take an interest in his band and turns around every attempt at conversation in a deliberate move to confound the questioner. This is all accomplished with the assistance of mischievous, Pan-like cackling and rapid body checking.
The next up to greet my arrival was Mark Ultra, who seemed very relaxed in his own skin. Too relaxed, perhaps. He seemed to melt before my very eyes into the spagetti-like mound of cables that he had strewn at his feet. But with a echoing POP that blew through a few layers of tympanic membrane, his visage appeared before me once again, cursing either his musical equipment or someone named Terry Minn.
What appeared to me to be a drunken, dread-locked boy crashed through the room and, upon spying me, got approximately one inch away from my face and pronounced many admonitions should I try to defraud the group, or possibly try to tarnish their pride and reputation. The rest of the boys assured Dr. Uncle that my intentions were noble and to fetch me a local-variety oat soda from the cold box. He never did reappear.
Eddie Manoeuver was the one that everyone had warned me about, but he turned out to be the nicest of the bunch. When Dr. Uncle failed to return with my beverage, Mr. Manoeuver split his drink with me, though he exhibited some puzzling behavior when he tipped his can beyond the azimuth and pronounced to no one "..and one for my honkies."
After a rousing discussion of Libertarianism, the New Colonial Age, and post-pre-modern popular musics, I departed. I never did have a chance to meet Gavin Elder that day, who seems to be the only member of the assembly that does not utilize a pseudonym. The others silently regard this with a mixture of contempt and disdain, and though none is compelled to elaborate, Mr. Boggs mentions in passing that Mr. Elder does have several personalities for different time zones and different outfits, ranging from a green devil to a doctor of some sort. I did finally meet Mr. Elder after a blistering, virile performance at the Royal Albert Hall. He seemed more like Mr. Elder than the others, and I should like to leave it at that.
Lest you think my interest in the band is purely monetary and ego-gratifying in nature, I do assure you that I have come to adore each of the boys for what they truly are: dirty, hungry, tired, self-centered rock and rollers that are clamoring to suckle the teat of any gentleman representing a recording industry corporation. And in spite of this seemingly insurmountable handicap, they make the most discordant, phylum-bending, and toe-tapping songs that I've heard in almost a century.