The Termite Scumbag Band

There are certain stories that live in the corner of a room like an old guitar. You do not notice them at first. Then someone picks them up, strums a single chord, and suddenly the whole place starts smiling.

Terry has a few stories like that.

This one has been making the rounds for years, and every time I read it I laugh just as hard as the first time. Not a polite chuckle either. The kind of laugh that sneaks up on you, the kind that makes you pause, shake your head, and think about how wonderfully strange life can be.

Recording studios are funny places. They feel serious at first. Cables everywhere. Headphones hanging like vines. Someone in the control room leaning over a console that looks like the cockpit of a small airplane. Everyone trying to look professional.

But music has a way of loosening things up.

You gather a few musicians who have spent their lives chasing songs across stages and highways, put them in a room with microphones and coffee, and sooner or later the laughter starts rolling in like summer thunder.

That is where this story begins.

A simple question over the talkback.
A band name.
A misunderstanding that somehow turned into a legend.

The funny part is not just the mistake itself. It is the cast of characters. A group of seasoned players who had already lived full musical lives long before this moment. Hit records, big stages, late night buses, all of it. The kind of resumes that usually come with a little polish and dignity.

And yet, in one small moment inside a recording studio, they found themselves accidentally christened with a name that sounded less like a band and more like a questionable pest control company.

Which, if you think about it, is exactly the sort of thing that keeps life interesting.

Terry tells it better than anyone, so I will step aside and let him take you into that room.

Just know this before you begin reading.

Every great band has a story.

Some involve platinum records.
Some involve sold out arenas.
And some begin with a confused engineer, a track sheet, and the birth of a band name that makes you ask, “The What?”

We were recording at California Recording Studios, and on the first day the engineer, John Brady, who was in the control room, asked over the talkback, “I’m writing the track sheet. What are you calling the band?”

I said, “The Terry Michael Scott Band.”

John assigned the tracks and we did the scratch tracks.

When we took a break, John asked, “Where did you come up with that name?”

I said, “What? That’s my name, dummy.”

John said, “The Termite Scumbag Band?”

That’s what he had written on the sheet. We all laughed, and I said, “You’d better have your ears checked, Mr. Engineer.”

He swore that’s what he heard.

Pictured are Russ Giguere, who was the lead singer of the hit band The Association; Termite Scumbag (me); Mikey A from the band Three Dog Night; and Richie Costanza, who was with The Knickerbockers. They never dreamed in their heyday that they would play in the Termite Scumbag Band.

I still laugh when I think about it.

Not just because of the name, although that part never gets old. What really makes the story shine is the reminder tucked inside it. Music is supposed to be joyful. Loose. A little ridiculous sometimes.

The older I get, the more I appreciate moments like that one.

A room full of musicians who had already seen plenty of miles in the rearview mirror. A recording session underway. Someone holding a bottle, someone else leaning on an amp, and a name on a track sheet that absolutely no one expected.

For a few minutes, all the seriousness fell away.

Just laughter.

And maybe that is the real heart of the story.

Songs fade. Tours end. Studios close their doors. But the stories stay with us, drifting along like warm wind through an open window.