I had not given Hostess Bakery much thought in many years, until the announcement of their recent demise. Even then, however, my thoughts did not turn to sugary goodness, but to the realization that, without Hostess, there will be an entire generation of college kids to whom the following pop culture reference makes no sense — my favorite band name of all time:  “Breakfast Bake Shop”.

I only knew one of its members in a tangential sort of way, but my understanding is that the name was appropriate on all levels.  If you keyed in on the ‘bake’ portion of that name, you’d be right.  They were not referring to Hostess fruit pies.

Keep in mind that this was the early 90’s in Seattle, when you were in the minority if you were not in a band.  These were the days of house parties, when word of the party was spread the old fashioned way (flyers! telephone poles!).  You bought a keg cup for $3 (sometimes free if you were a girl), and if things worked out well for the hosts, the party covered the costs of the kegs and provided seed money for the next one.

I was friends with some guys living in such a party house — actually, two different houses over the years, with a rotating cast of roommates.  Parties at Amityville and The White House were a regular weekend occurrence.  Often, bands would play at these parties….. haphazard bands with names like Celibate Twist and Breakfast Bake Shop.  I’m fairly certain that most of these bands never played a gig anywhere other than their buddies’ houses, but that was OK.

My memories of those parties, I’m sure, have morphed over the years.  They have taken on a mythical quality, and I am keenly aware that they are best viewed in the rosy glow of hindsight. My memories exist in snippets, in hazy vignettes. A beer-soaked floor that your feet stuck to.  Steam rising from sweaty bodies in a crowded, dark room.  A muddy basement, the floor above us bouncing in synch with pounding music and feet.  Watching my friend, a Cure fan, joining a band on stage and singing “Just Like Heaven”. On a different night, watching a band side-stage, leaning against the amps with my friend, who was dreamily eyeing the striped shirt-clad drummer.  She was into drummers.  I’ve always been more of a guitar girl.

I couldn’t tell you what kind of music Breakfast Bake Shop played, or whether they had any original songs.  I just remember dubbing their name as my favorite, which was no small feat.  Bands were everywhere, each striving to have a name more clever than the next.   Reading the “What’s Happening” column in The University of Washington Daily was a must, not because we intended to go and see those bands, but in order to see their names.  I have it on good authority that writers at The Daily would often make up names of bands that didn’t actually exist.

Once, as a full grown adult in a fit of nostalgia, I ate a Hostess Twinkie. It was awful. The creamy filling was nothing like I had remembered it. Just like those parties, I suppose it should have stayed in the past as a tasty memory.

Even now, in the post-Hostess era, my husband I still declare it when we think something would be a good band name.  But I always forget to write them down, so if I ever started a band, I don’t have a list to work from. And besides, I don’t think I could do any better than Breakfast Bake Shop.