Pitchfork

My badass hypothesis-- one I've staked much of my musical career on-- is that last-name band-naming is the secret formula for instant success and stardom. The proof speaks for itself: Winger, Nelson, Bonham, Dokken, Danzig, and Dio, to name only a few. For over 20 years, I counted on my last name, Haywood, as my ticket to celebrity.

That is, until a group of bastards from Brooklyn decided to lift my birthright, the righteous moniker of my forthcoming avant-metal band, Haywood. My band would have featured me, Brad Haywood, on vocals and autoharp, along with my sister Kelly on bass flute, and my dad chopping wood. I was also toying with a way to work some midgets into the equation, with my mother as coordinator. Awesome!

But alas, t'was not to be. I've known it since 2000, when my friend Bradly (with no "e"-- how weird is that? My friend is a fucking adverb) picked up a copy of Haywood's second LP, Men Called Him Mister, from a D.C.-area bargain bin. I listened, expecting little, but the more I heard, the more I knew my dream was not only in hot water; it was plainly a bad idea. It was best to leave the Haywood legacy to men who, although not Haywoods by birth, were Haywoods at heart. Or at least had talent.

Unfortunately for the world, the Haywood legacy consists of only three LPs. The latest of those, We Are Amateurs, You and I, was released in late 2001 after the band split to pursue other projects. It's an excellent work of catchy indie-pop, reminiscent of Built to Spill, with a profoundly personal and sentimental side.

"Button Up Buttercup" is so good it almost burns itself onto your next CD mix. The tune employs three or four hyper-melodic guitar hooks, the best of which oscillates with a stiff drumbeat to lead stunningly into the chorus. It would find itself subject to the rarely used "repeat" function on your disc player if it weren't for its follow-up, "Six Stars," a simple, sentimental love crush ("I adore just/ Your gorgeous eyes") delivered with passionate, blurry-eyed authenticity.

Competing with "Button Up Buttercup" for top-honors on the disc is "Don't Go Breaking (My Heart)," which takes a heartfelt turn with group-sung vocals. These are contrasted with percussive instrumental bridges, the last slowing to a near-complete halt before firing back into a final power-chorus and instrumental section. In less capable hands, it might be boring, but Haywood's musicianship and maturity make it a powerful thing.

We Are Amateurs, You and I boasts the talent and focus of a band that's played together for nine years. The final document sounds like both a personal diary and a thank-you note, a last shot from a band in their prime. They have done my family name proud. Memories of the elementary school perils of my surname prompt me to ask one final question: "Hey, would you guys come back?"