Only the Good Debue Young

What in the world could possibly be worse than a great band meeting its demise before its time? Death and taxes, my friend.
 
If you ever lived in the Franklin, Massachusetts, United States of America area then perhaps you were familiar with a little four-piece that went by the name of Debue. There may have been an accent mark in there, like in the word Café. But maybe not.
 
These four knew how to jam. That was their specialty. Put them together in a room, give them four instruments, 15 minutes, and one inspiration and they'd blow your socks off. Were they derivative of every great 70s prog-rock band? Sure, but can you blame them? Is that a problem?
 
Unfortunately, Debue met their Maker earlier this year, torn apart by distance. I didn't think distance could tear things apart anymore, not like it used to. Remember before the Internet? Probably not, but bear with me. Remember when you had to use a pen and paper to communicate with someone who didn't live in your hometown? That's when distance was a problem, but not anymore... right? I guess not.
 
Its members were of a different generation, no matter how old they may have been. They were from a generation where meeting someone face to face was what life was all about. These guys didn't have time for technology and e-mail and blogs and digital music. These guys thought that MP3 was John Michael Palermo, III without his first initial. They were too busy filling the air with sound. Good for them. Too bad it killed them.
 
R.I.P., Debue.
 
But wait! Despite their shunning of the technological world, the technological world just couldn't bring itself to shun Debue in turn. Instead, Debue is resurrected by bits and bytes. Joshua is hard at work on an amazing DVD of a live Debue concert. This was Debue in their heyday, at their peak. This was like Larry Bird in 1986 or Sports Night in its first season. This was unstoppable. And so, through the miracle of Digital Versatile Disc, Debue lives again. Even if only in our minds, hearts, and DVD players.
 
I say it again: R.I.P., Debue.