In which our brave hero, Comandante Meloy, and his merry band of 30-somethings rediscover the rock opera. It is a dark and tragic thing, with which this company had previously only had the slightest of an experience (for more, see issue #124: The Decemberists and the wondrous five-headed Tain-beast).

The story begins, as most do, innocently enough, with the band smoking pot in their underground lair, bemoaning the lack of really, really long songs (the band has yet to hear of this mystical Joanna Newsom faerie). A decision is made that the best way to rectify the situation is to play all songs into each other, rather than leave the court-mandated two-second gap. Thus, they move from the druggy, listless “The Island” into a standard-issue Meloy piece like “Come and See,” and there is great rejoicing.

Tragically, someone, probably that treacherous Chris Funk, knocks a switch on the group’s magical new Casio keyboard, sending the brave Meloy back to the ‘70s and the terrible fate that is known simply as “The Landlord’s Daughter.” Unprepared, he keeps his wits about him and adopts a falsetto sure to keep him safe from the organ tones and guitar theatrics crashing about him. He manages to escape unscathed, crawling his way back to the present, slaying the devious Funk with the pure boredom that is “You’ll Not Feel the Drowning.”

What comes next for these five intrepid adventurers? What do these fateful seas hold? Where will the magical Casio keyboard take them next? Fair warning, young reader, the fields of the Civil War are always near when the banshee Laura Veirs is present.

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