The songs, which ranged in variety from "Edelman" (an homage to a current dormmate, not to be confused with "Edelweiss") to "James Ferris" (a funky jam about another dormmate--Edelman's original roommate, ironically) to "The Leaves Are Brown" (a self-explanatory and observationally obvious rant about the changing seasons) proved that this band was a new contender to rival popular jam bands such as Phish, the Grateful Dead, and Medeski Martin & Wood.

Webster had not seen such musicality in years, really since avant-garde composer John Zorn adorned the halls of the Thompson Music Building. Several instructors were clearly not prepared for what they heard. Upon their initial listening session, several of these teachers, both full-time and adjunct, were left speechless. There simply weren't words for what they heard. In the band's opinion, this was a sign of success. Shaking heads and total bewilderment could mean only one thing:

"We made it, dudes."

After putting several other amateur acts around campus to shame, the band, still nameless at this juncture, decided they were ready for the big time. A name was in order, and the band was in unanimous concurrence as to where the name would be derived from. Since marijuana was not only the inspiring aroma behind the band (and frequently gave them away) but the lifeblood of these four individuals, it stood to reason that a chronic-centered name would be a necessity. The four hashed through various names, trying them out on their colleagues.

"We tried calling ourselves THC, but everyone said, 'isn't that an R&B group?', so we trashed that idea," said Derek Wilcox, guitarist for the band. Similarly frustrated was pianist Greg Schulenberg, who thought the name Elton Bong might be a pleasant marriage of his favorite piano player and his favorite dormroom centerpiece, only to receive lateral panning when he presented it to his cohorts.

I ride along with the band in Schulenberg's station wagon as they make an impromptu trip to the D-Mart, just north of Manchester on Big Bend. During the drive, they play back the tape they just recorded on a cheap Sony tape recorder in Schulenberg's room. It is obvious that all four were quite baked during the session, and, in fact, still are. Schulenberg swerves down Big Bend ever so subtlely, nearly running the red light at Big Bend and Oxford, after sighting McDonald's as a possible pacifier for the onset of the munchies they've all acquired since the session. Guitarist Jacob LaPrince has brought along his acoustic guitar, and once the song "James Ferris" concludes, LaPrince continues his strumming, prompting the band to reprise the song en route. The tape continues rolling into the next song, which spawns belligerent displeasure. "Turn that s--t off, dude!" pianist/vocalist Bryan McMick yells as he reaches between Schulenberg (driving) and Wilcox (shotgun) to kill the radio. Several seconds later, Schulenberg gets sideways on Big Bend as he peels into the D-Mart lot.

It's clearly not easy being in a band that's about to make it. There are many responsibilities, but the edge of the marijuana still lingering in the Country Squire has these four collegiate jamsters worried about nary a thing. Their lives continue as subdued as normal. Their unified excursions include frequenting the D-Mart, low-rides down to Vintage Vinyl (in St. Louis' Delmar Loop) for Phish bootleg raids in LaPrince's equally-vintage 1966 Dodge Dart, and shooting eight-ball in the Maria Hall game room. The sad reality is that, whilst the gang are collectively cavorting, the record company executives can't get through to Schulenberg's voice mail, as the mailbox is full. These guys have missed more than they've caught, and they really don't seem to care.

McMick shudders as he walks past the Southern Comfort. As it turns out, the 6-foot-3 piano wizard and the old SoCo had a foul run-in earlier in the year. After procuring a twelve of Natural Light from the unsavory establishment, he steps into the Country Squire. Wilcox, still nestled in the shotgun seat, is giggling quietly to himself, and Schulenberg is ready to get rolling. There's barely a second for me to climb in the trunk before Schulenberg drops the car into neutral, and gravity pulls the five of us back onto Big Bend. In his trademark gruff laugh, Schulenberg howls as he lowers the shifter one more notch, and the grocery-getter's bald tires squeal in search of traction. It's back to the studio, in grand style.

McMick is wearing a shirt which says "Cozy Inn" on the front. When asked about the origin of the shirt, he laughs and waxes poetic about a greasy-spoon joint in his hometown of Salina, KS, which serves up gristle with a smile, all prepared on a grill which hadn't met USDA specifications for years. The story goes that the grill eventually went to a landfill, after hanging on by a thread, and was replaced by a newer, state-of-the-art one. The clientele, however, would have none of it, as the new Cozies lacked the classic taste of the old ones. Sensing that their business and future were in jeopardy, the Cozy Inn staff made a pilgrimage to the landfill, retrieved their decrepid grill, and reinstated it, much to the delight of its regular diners.

After my initial ride-along with the band, they adapted what would become their official title. A long, extended jam in Maria Hall 157 (which Wilcox and LaPrince shared, joined to McMick's room via a pink tile bathroom) gave birth to a giant moose....a cannabis moose, in fact. Once the joint had been passed liberally, all four began chanting the chemical title of their fuel: cannabis. The chorus became an easy sing-along, and instantly immortalized the band to such a degree that they adapted the new song title as the name of their band. Cannabis Moose was here to stay.

Mere days later, maverick filmmaker Bungalow Timmy (Pan/Tilt/Rack Focus, Fahrenheit 151) turned in his media card at the southwest end of the Sverdrup Technology Complex for a Panasonic VHS Reporter camera, and went on his way. It was a given that the Moose were deep in a jam by this point--after all, the lot of them had skipped classes that day, too undermotivated to engage in any sort of cognitive activity, save to play their instruments. They had, in fact, camped out in Schulenberg's room the night before, having collapsed mid-jam from exhaustion. No one had seen any of them for twenty-six hours. Bungalow would be the first. He stuck a battery in the camera, found a VHS tape in his room, and, in classic D.A. Pennebaker fashion, maneuvered through the halls of Maria and Loretto on his way to make history.

Bungalow was not unfamiliar with the band: he had shot McMick's likeness in a Ben Folds Five video that same year with fellow frat brothers Ryan O'Halloran and John Screechy. In addition, he lived right next door to the lanky pianist, having assumed the role of Edelman's roommate once Moose song inspirator James Ferris was summarily booted from his digs. Schulenberg frequently dropped by the Fahrenheit 151 fraternity to imbibe with the boyz and add his splash of unique humor.

As the story goes, Bungalow Timmy made his final turn after climbing the stairs one story, and crossed over into Loretto Hall. Schulenberg's über-tolerant neighbors seemed to care not about the clamorous drone which strangely failed to alert the residential life staff that blatant substance abuse and reckless tomfoolery were aweigh in the walk-in humidor, safely ensconced in the corner of the building. Bungalow knocked, LaPrince answered, and the door closed behind them.

A few hours later, Timmy managed to escape unharmed from Schulenberg's harlequin-like antics and Wilcox's mellow, repeated attempts to push his frozen shrooms on the filmmaker. Thankfully, his footage was still intact. Of course, his clothes could never be worn again, as the hash had irreparably bonded with the fibers in Timmy's rugby shirt and jeans. The footage was raw but salvageable--the completed nine-minute opus can be found on the Fahrenheit 151 DVD, if seeing the band's only visual documentation will satisfy. Timmy created the best of what the band was able to give him in that short session. Built-in video effects greatly added to the euphoria most assuredly being felt by the five at the apex of the jam.

"No, you're not seeing double, even though we usually are," Schulenberg chuckles when asked about the instrumentation of the band. Actually, that's how the band became such an instant, smashing success. Neither McMick nor Schulenberg nor LaPrince nor Wilcox knew of each other when they first descended upon the Webster Groves campus. They arrived from different parts of the nation, converging at first for their love of music and the subsequent pursuit of developing their passion, but later for a far loftier goal: to become the best underground dorm-room band nobody ever heard of. If you've heard their CD, "The Leaves Are Brown" (which you haven't, since it's not available anywhere, nor has it ever been), you'll certainly take note of the perfunctory, punctual, poignant and pungent musicality therein. The influence of the crushed plant they adore is equally apparent in their lyrics, titles and music. Many a spliff was roasted during their tenure, and they doubtless continue to burn on, like the eternal flame. Timbrally, the doubling of instruments--two pianos, two guitars--was an innovation the likes of which Webster had never even considered. And the Moose did it first. Also, minimalist lyrics have added immensely to the band's feng shui. After singing "Edelman/Edelman/Edelman/Edelman" eight times in succession, the listener is fully aware that the song is in reference to a person named Edelman. (Composer Philip Glass was reported to have wept after hearing this song, citing it as inspiration to achieve even greater minimalist levels.) Likewise, with "The Leaves Are Brown", there remains no doubt at the song's conclusion that the leaves are, in fact, brown. These were lyrics everybody could relate to, man. In 1974, Joni Mitchell sang about the "starmaker machinery behind the popular song", and twenty-three years later, Cannabis Moose is a testament to this, albeit in a rather haphazard way. They ARE the starmaker machinery, even though they appear quite oblivious to that fact. Either that, or they're doing a great job concealing their motives. The former seems more likely.

McMick initially met LaPrince through matter of course, as they were suitemates at the far end of Maria Hall's fabled first floor. Shortly thereafter, the Thompson Music Building, an aging half-timbered mansion (which actually resides on St. Louis' list of historic buildings, thereby prohibiting very necessary renovation) which was converted into the music institute for the college, served as the congregatory locale for the four as a unit. Professors taught in tiny ex-bedrooms, and steel fire doors stood oddly beside the original molded oak ones. As the program was small in size, proportionate with the school itself, the musicians came together quickly, their chops honed and flexed in tandem through various ensembles and combos. Both guitarists landed in jazz combos, while McMick focused on classical piano. It was unclear exactly what Schulenberg's pursuit involved, but composition definitely played a hand in it, as well as piano performance. (Schulenberg had entertained members of the first floor very early in the academic year with a duet featuring opera major Dominic Mostaccioli and himself in the University Center's Sunnen Lounge.)

Once the four tracked each other down in the dorms, the rest was history. Despite the duplicity of their instruments, the four found a common bond in music and weed, and that sealed their fate.

And what a marvelous fate it was. Music professors at Webster hung their heads in shame. The words "I can't follow that" rolled all too easily off their decorated tongues. Many music students packed it up and moved out to New York, foreseeing a more successful and less competitive experience at Juilliard. Gig after sold-out gig earned them legions of fans--"Mooseheads", they called themselves. Through the thick purple haze, McMick could easily be mistaken for a younger Todd Rundgren, his hair flailing insanely as he pounded on the keys. At the other piano, Schulenberg, in a striped shirt, resembled one of the Muppets, with his animated facial expressions and goofy ejaculatory comments. The guitarists seemed content to exist in their respective buzzes, strumming away furiously, and chanting as the song called for it. At one point, another fellow dormmate, Justin Scarborough, came on board under the pseudonym of Haiku Man. Scarborough didn't play an instrument, except for the occasional rain stick. His role became that of the fifth wheel, something every successful quartet needs. And he was always a real crowd pleaser.

The live gigs started with the Maria Hall game room, as the band camped out at one end of the pool table, playing to a crowd of a dozen people or so, who were less than thrilled that "Friends" would not be shown on the big screen that night. Then, there was their first remote gig at Cicero's, down in the Loop, where LaPrince first attempted to "chase the dragon" (blankly following the vapor trails of smoldering weed) during the show. As the "dragon" led LaPrince off the stage, a massive conga line formed behind him, the participants of which were equally mesmerized by the overpowering atmosphere. The line eventually engulfed the rest of the band, and took its cashed following out onto the streets of the Loop, emptying the club. The Cicero staff, infuriated by this farcical sham, disavowed all business with the band, publicly declaring in the Riverfront Times that the Moose would "never get another gig in this town...ever."

However, Moose fever was simmering just inches below the surface of St. Louis, rising in temperature with each Fat Tuesday's gig and midnight rave they crashed. The unfailingly loyal fan following eventually brought them to the Galaxy on Washington Avenue (where a sell-out crowd stormed the stage, and almost carried McMick off in the throes of admiration, but for the prompt intervention of the security staff).

Rocked by this terrifying but nonetheless bankable evening of business, the band was subsequently booked at the American Theater, where the Gen-X crowd, packed into the establishment, transformed a mosh pit into a no-holds-barred free-for-all when a doobie packed with Wilcox's "kind bud" landed in front of a bass tube and was subsequently blown off into the ravenous crowd. As the band began playing "The Leaves Are Brown", Wilcox tossed his Strat to the side, took a nasty plunge into the crowd, and chased desperately after his precious herb, reportedly screaming, "the leaves are GREEN, man!"

A couple of weeks later, they finally made an April 2nd appearance at the Kiel Center, forcing John Mellencamp, who was originally scheduled that night, to cancel. This proved to be a momentous occasion for the band, since they had seen Phish there only months prior. LaPrince spent most of the show facing directly into a giant fan, originally placed on the side of the stage to cool the band from the effects of the hot lights. Eventually, this fan began channelling the collective expelled ganja from the hopped-up crowd, stoning him further and further into submission with every breath drawn. Derek Wilcox propped himself up against his Marshall stack, and spent the second act of the show staring off into the Kiel's lighting grid, occasionally offering a "yeah" into his microphone. Schulenberg and McMick eventually led the crowd in a sing-along to the tune of Elton John's "Honky Cat", which would become a signature duet tune for the two kings of the keys. The band returned to full strength after a poetry reading by Haiku Man. They brought the guitarists back on, encored with a foot-stomping rendition of "James Ferris" and promptly fled the stage.

Following this performance, the band adjourned to the O.T. Hodge Chile Parlor at Union Station for the infamous Slinger (two cheeseburgers, topped with scrambled eggs, coated with chili and sliced potatoes), certain to ensure a good night's sleep and a crappy morning. Once the restaurant exceeded its capacity by fans who had caught the band's wind breaking down the street and decided to come in for adulation and autographs, the four piled into Schulenberg's Country Squire, parked illegally in the Union Station lot on the sidewalk outside Hooter's, fired up a bowl, and outgassed flatulently all the way back to Webster U.

The morning after is always one borne of mixed feelings. On the one hand, there's a natural high that comes from playing in front of thousands of fans screaming "James Ferris" at the top of their lungs. (It seems that James Ferris was actually in the Kiel crowd that night, and was heard chanting, "Say my name! Say my name!" as the band jammed on his namesake song for its final encore) On the other hand, the exhaustion from having inhaled way, way too much reefer for one night, combined with its demotivating effects, is enough to keep Bryan McMick, Jacob LaPrince and Derek Wilcox from turning over in their now-quiet suite. It's a Sunday, and McMick's roommate has already showered and headed out for the morning. The steam has dissipated from his shower, and all that's left is sunny silence. The four bandmates, baked into perfunctory nirvana, haven't a care in the world.

It's difficult to say where these phenoms of pot music will go next. The combos and recitals continue at Webster, as the men that are Cannabis Moose are profoundly unaware of their celebrity status. People always give them a second look, recognizing McMick's stringy locks from afar, or LaPrince's classic Dart rolling northbound to Delmar. But they continue to forage on through the perils of academia, not really sensing exactly what's going on. Schulenberg has yet to empty his voice mailbox, but the gigs keep coming, and if there's a dimebag in it, then they're all for it. But McMick will be heading back to Salina and the Cozy Inn soon; Wilcox will pack up his Datsun 240ZX and take I-44 all the way to Tulsa; LaPrince's already back in Festus, and Schulenberg's Country Squire will find him back in Jefferson City. As the parts of the whole scatter, it remains to be seen how easily they'll reassemble. At the height of their popularity, it seems as good a time as any to bow out, still blissfully ignorant of just how huge they've become.

McMick and Schulenberg are enjoying a peaceful night under the stars near the end of April. It's been two weeks since their Kiel show, and McMick's repeated dorm violations have driven the Res Life staff to evict him from the dorms. It's a sad night--McMick's last in his bed in Maria 155. Schulenberg has come by, and they've taken two lawn chairs out the window, violating one last rule as they sit on the roof directly above the cafeteria. Out of a third-story window, the two hear their own voices, singing "James Ferris/Sittin' outside smoking a cigarette" from someone's stereo. It's a beautiful night; one which could turn rainy later on, but it'll probably wait 'til morning.

"So, where are you heading to?" Schulenberg inquires sublimely as he turns his bloodshot eyes skyward.
"My aunt and uncle live over off River Des Peres. Screechy and I are moving into the upstairs."
"That's cool."
"Yep. Not too many options. Dr. Schtack said I could live with him, but this'll probably be better in the long run."
"Well, the way I see it, man, stick with family. They won't screw you over." Schulenberg remarks philosophically as he fumbles in his pocket for his lighter. McMick begins singing along with the CD playing out the window.

Just then, a female RA, clad in the customary white Gorlokoly T-shirt, sticks her head out a fourth-story window, points a flashlight down on the two Mooseheads, and crows at them to get off the roof. McMick and Schulenberg look at each other, grin, sit back, and wait for the cavalry. It's not that they don't care anymore....

.....well, actually, that's exactly what it is.

Reprinted with permission.

Copyright © 2002 Fahrenheit 151