Lisa faded early on. Too much testosterone in the Hut perhaps? One of Wally’s buds, Russ Benson, a “Doctor Who” doppelganger, brought more keyboard acumen and hormonal balance. The quintet practiced intently. Peter wrote more songs, tried to find his voice, and Paul, scorching on guitar, contributed a pair of reggae tunes. Danny studiosly took to his new bass guitar. Matt drummed up a storm worthy of Stewart Copeland. And Russ hung on to the charging fray. REM, the Cure, and the Police were early models, but they ran all over the map, cutting a few new roads. The lyrics were mainly boy-girl obsessions, from a bewildered boy angle. Ye olde romantic angst.The question was where to get their gig feet wet, and perhaps make a little money. Uncharted waters.

A down-on-it’s-heels bar on Oleander, McPatrick’s, took them in about half a dozen times. Bad Rabbi joined them on a couple occassions. Playing for their friends proved to be a suitable incubator, and the band performed with furious abandon. Breakneck tempos and echoic maelstrom overlayed the garage-pop. Being such loyal fans of the Peds, they got to open for thier heroes at the revered Wit’s End. They also paired with the unlikely Stormz, their ROCK coverband nemesis (think REO Special) at Hobie’s.

The beach action was drying up, the legal age raised to 21. The shuttered Crest and Wit’s End were supplanted by The Mad Monk, a barn-like structure closer to the college, and this became de riguer for out-of-town bands, and those out for loud entertainment. Stanley negotiated warming up for a string of “new wave” acts, starting with The Circle Jerks. Opening for buzzsaw Wendy O. Williams proved a tad confrontational audience-wise, and Peter, his concentration blown, called for an early exit. They got docked. Things improved greatly with a slot with the dB’s, after which Peter Holsapple complimented Peter D.

Lynn Watts had provided PA services for the Squirrels shows, and his house became an alternate hang, away from the Ms. D’s eyes and good ear. The relationship tightened, enough that the group decided to oust odd Russ to accomodate him. Felt kinda dirty. Was “The Real World” more than just a show? Lynn brought a handful of new songs, and a more disciplined drive to things. Then Paul spun out too, for personal reasons, and Lynn filled the gap with loud staccato synth fills. The group found itself backing Lynn, under the moniker Totally Original. At least it was work (played Hieronymos Bros. Seafood!) and the execution as well as the sound cleaned up. Ken Byrd, a fiery audio engineer, lent his enthusiasm and twitching hand. Paul returned to a more seasoned squad. Subsequently, power shifted almost daily. Things with Lynn became too much to bear, and he too parted ways. The prog influence had rubbed off on Peter, and he began using an alternate tuning and playing a little keyboard himself. The band was veering into Tears For Fears territory, and developing an identity crisis.

One by one they had drifted from the Squirrel Hut, shacking up downtown with new girlfriends. They tried in vain to find rehearsal space, a surrogate urban Hut in the district, where they had become scenic and sonic fixtures. At one time the core four all worked in the kitchen at Cronie’s Cafe, at 2nd and Princess. They could walk to work, and to play. A new cosmopolitan thing was starting, the artist ranks were swelling, and the film industry had just come to town. The hip gathering spot was Front St. News, below Squirrel ground zero, 9 S. Front. A sunny storefront aquarium, with a bakery in the back, artsy magazines, delicious coffee, and imported brews, it turned into the living room of downtown. It was a golden era.

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