From the Snuts to Harmonica Lewinsky: we have officially run out of band names
What’s the definition of “snut”? In Danish it’s a term of endearment, in Norwegian the muzzle or snout of an animal. In my house, it’s what I might call one of the more impressive items my three-year-old proudly presents to me, having dug it out of her nose. But recently it sat atop the UK album chart as the name of a Scottish rock band, winners of the latest indie chart battle against south London’s Dry Cleaning, whose music brilliantly captures the frustrated ennui of finding a desiccated tenner in the pocket of a crisply pressed blazer, and who probably soon hope to tour with Industrial Hot Wash, Toilet Duck and the rest of the New Wave of British Heavy Soiling.
The rise of the Snuts and Dry Cleaning has been heralded as a great rock comeback but, more importantly, it is also conclusive proof that we’ve officially run out of band names. With the entire dictionary stripped bare by desperate “the” bands, many have resorted to just making up sounds now: the Snuts, the Hunna and the Lathums might as well be called the Shmurgleshnurgles,
the Bleurghs or the Phraaaarpexcusemes.
It’s not just indie acts who are at it. Most rappers are taking on the monikers of bow-tied child entertainers from the 1930s: see Yung Bleu and Lil’ Dicky. Every other new electropop act expects me to know all of the hieroglyphic secrets lurking behind my keyboard’s Option key, and there are so many random Vs, double-vowels and intentional misspellings dropped into names for legal reasons that review sites now read like anti-lockdown Facebook comments.
A common recent tactic, inspired by the early examples of Austin psych rockers Ringo Deathstarr and DJ Joy Orbison is to repurpose, mash and mangle a famous name into a brand-new musical identity. It is still a crude artform: Com Truise, Donny Jepp, San Holo and Barry Helafonte have picked the lowhanging spoonerism fruit and only a few outfits have spotted the real potential (if only Harmonica Lewinsky actually played a harmonica). But we are
yet to see much real linguistic inspiration: a jaunty shanty act called Sailor
Twift, say, or the kraut-jazz improv combo the Don-Vaude Can Jamme.
This name-based nightmare is the result of 60 years of no-hit wonders stockpiling the rights to all the best words, so I propose an amnesty. If you own a cool but little-known band name from decades past that you’re not using any more, please donate it to a local act lumbered with a name like a recommended PayPal password or a heavy vehicle reversing. Anything to help prevent another Working Men’s Club or Jockstrap. Please, rights holders, show some mercy: it’s a total Dumpstaphunk out there.