Eggy F√cks
Can we talk about Eggy f√cking?
Ok, ok, chill. This is a kid's show. No one is hoisting a camera in the privacy of a bedroom or reading aloud from a diary about sexual escapades. Just relax, we good, Son.
F√cking, like, as the kids say. This fucks. That fucks. Yah, they fuck. It's a term of endearment, of badassery, of grit and capacity. Of something everyone needs to experience because once they do, they'll likely want to do it again (so, like, I guess, real f√cking, maybe?).
Bruh, for real. Eggy does f√ck, so we're going to talk about it for a hot minute. I didn't just make this up. It's a statement, a fact, something bandied about on Eggy instas and fan pages and reddit boards and the like; it's a knowing trademark shared like a hand signal between gang members. Eggy F√cks. And they own that shît.
The origination of the statement is a bit vague, like a rumor bestowed upon heresy or the scuttlebutt of speculation.
Jake muses he could have first heard it at Peachfest 2021. Did you come up with it yourselves? I ask innocently enough. "Hell no," he retorts, clearly not wanting to be the kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
"But we like it."
Once in my early teens my parents dragged me to a buffet breakfast where I was wearing a Grateful Dead poncho. I was a mere wee lad, who'd snuck out to see a handful of shows, but still really had no idea how far the statement, "We are Everywhere" went. As I passed one of the short-order cooks, he glanced up from frying bacon to a charred mess. His brown hair was center-parted, matted and dangling well below his shoulders (c'mon, this is the late '80s, hygiene hadn't gone all Karen yet); his eyes were rimmed morning-bonghit red, his bone-thin frame arched and hunched. He squinted, and perked up bolt straight, breaking into the widest of grins.
Nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile, he toodled, locking my gaze.
My parents glanced over, frazzled, unnerved, unsure of what all the fuss was about. But to me, this was the ultimate connection. Recognition that we'd both been doused in magical musical experiences, as only the Dead could provide. I was in. He told me so. We were now brothers (truth: his pancakes sucked though).
Anyway, Eggy F√cks.
And Ween is Brown, Praise Boognish.
And, of course, Phish could urinate in fan's ears and tell them it's music. Ok, you got me, no Phish fan says that to another, it's just something a journalist once offered (and, frankly, well, yeah, it's kinda true). Fine. Read the Book or Page Side Rage Side or Trey's Gopher Face, or something like that.
So, let's talk about why Eggy f√cks for a second. During Covid, while others scattered to their own secure safe spaces, Jake, Dani, Mike and Alex moved in together, creating their own private bubble, living the music, breathing it chest-deep every single day. Ok, sure, you're saying, that's not really commitment because my Aunt and a gaggle of her wine-drenched lady friends formed their own Covid bubble and drank themselves into sodden messes every night during Covid.
Right right. I see you. But let me crisp this one up a bit. Their most recent tour (fall 2024) found Eggy smooshed into a van of seven, crisscrossing the country for 10 to 15-hour hauls from show to show. A van, not a bus, mind you. When they arrive to their destination, they'd descend into two hotel rooms, one to host the 3-man crew, and the other for the four band members to cram into. Four guys in one room, after 8 years in. Ok, stop it, no, this isn't where the f√cking begins. Sigh.
Obviously, Eggy Fucks because of the music. I mean, yeah, they are a band after all. They can't just like get in a van and sell merch and grin and suddenly be bestowed the phrase of fucking. Yes they carry people on musical journeys, establishing ear worms and harmonies, across a repertoire of hundreds of songs. Mostly, I guess, it's about the jamming. Yeah, yeah, uh huh, jam bands jam.
But Eggy's jams go right into the f√ckery. They hit, they slap, they rise out of depths and cuddle you while punching you in the gut. They'll turn your sweater inside out, and will bleach your tee-shirt whiter than your capped teeth. Any song can become a sound-soaked journey. Any space can melt well before or long after its peak.
Ok, you wanna try some other ideas? Put on these pants: Eggy Jams (lame). Eggy Squarts (Perfect for 7-year old fans), Steak and Eggies? (too literal), Fol'Eggy 'bout It? (mafia vibes). Eggy will hunt you down and murder exactly what it is you think music sounds like? Eggy offers a song about bowling, so could it be... Eggy Balls? I mean, maybe, but I dunno, all this effort is just tiring me out.
How about we just leave it as is. Eggy F√cks.
And that is that.