Laughing Matters: Just Call Me Harry

By Ryan G. Van Cleave |  Illustrations by Darcy Kelly-Laviolette

November 2021—During a visit to Chicago last month, an old college buddy (he asked me not to use his name in any of “my stories,” so let’s just call him “Shmeve”) told me to meet him at a hole-in-the-wall bar in a mostly abandoned strip mall in the northwest suburbs. “To see the GREATEST THING EVER,” he promised via text about a zillion times.

I was suspicious. After all, I’d already seen the GREATEST THING EVER (a pit bull farting on a squirrel), but people have different standards, so I figured I’d go. Just to compare. And because Shmeve said he was buying the first round.

As I entered this almost pitch-black bar, I began to wonder if this was some unpleasant surprise birthday party (all the more surprising since my birthday was three months back) or perhaps I’d wandered onto the set of the next Saw movie. “I’ve made a terrible mistake,” I said to the darkness as I began to back toward the front door.

Just then, a purple spotlight winked to life, illuminating four black-robed figures on a stage. Their hoods were pulled so ominously low that I couldn’t see their faces. 

“Oh, a band,” I decided. The first clue was that three of them had guitars, and the other one was behind a drum kit. The second clue was that I’d passed a big sign out front warning LIVE MUSIC TONIGHT. The third clue was my pal Shmeve, sitting a few feet away at a wobbly circular table, waving me over as he said, “This band is great. Totally Accio Awesomeness!”

When the music kicked to life and all four performers threw back their black cowls, I realized what this was—a Harry Potter tribute band. All four sported Sharpied lightning bolts on their heads, they all wore big round spectacles, and all had red Gryffindor Forever! shirts under the robes, which they threw off moments into the first song.

I’d read about such things before on some dodgy Reddit thread or something. Called “Wrock bands,” I recalled, with such stellar examples as The 8th Horcrux, Draco and the Malfoys, and The Knockturn Alley Project. 

“What’s this band called?” I hollered to Shmeve, because the opening song—“I Have a Penguin Patronus”—was really, really loud. As if I could feel my spine rumbling and teeth fillings shaking loose.

Shmeve yelled back something that sounded like, and I quote, “asfmmmkrjjkrlffppjh!”

After some back and forth shouting, followed by Shmeve holding a crumpled-up flier announcing the event, I finally got it. The band was called Harry2. Which made no sense, I told Shmeve. “Because if you square one Harry, you get one, just like if you square the number one, you still get one. It’s simple math.” I frowned. “They’ve got four Harrys. Harry2 should be a solo act.”

As the thump-thumpa wrock music thundered away, Shmeve scrunched up his face and glared at me. “Shut up!” he explained.

So, I did. And while listening to the not-one-but-four Harrys do their thing, I drank the homemade bucket of Butterbeer that Shmeve paid for. I have to say, once I got past the idea that I was the only person in the audience not wearing wizard robes or Quidditch player outfits and whose hands didn’t hold a phoenix-feather infused wand, a Nimbus 2000, or a Sorting Hat, the music wasn’t half bad. Some of my particular favorites?

“Why So Sirius?”

“You Wingardium Leviosa My Heart”

“Moody Wasn’t Mad…Just Misunderstood”

“Ten Points from Slytherin”

During the intermission, I headed to the bathroom, and when passing a table near the back wall, I heard this pickup line: “I’m not wearing my invisibility cloak, but do you think I might still visit your Restricted Section this evening?”

I’m not even going to talk about visiting a urinal between two dementors whistling to the tune of “Improvising at Jazzkaban.” Just no. Some things are best left for couch-discussion with a therapist, amusing as it might be to others who weren’t involved.

“They’re the greatest, don’t you think?” Shmeve asked when I returned to the table.

“So long as you’re buying the butterbeer,” I said, toasting my friend just as he used his red Gryffindor tie to mop up another spill on the table. Shmeve is nothing if not messy. One time in college, he got written up by his RA over roaches. Not that he HAD roaches in his room, but that the roaches filed an official complaint about how messy Shmeve was. 

So, we watched the show that really got wrocking. Not quite dog-farting-on-a-squirrel great, but for Muggles, not a bad second or third option.

As I drained the dregs of our third round of butterbeer, singer Harry grabbed the mic and said the final song of the night would be “Some Dobby That I Used to Know.” Halfway through that doozy, an old, bearded dude started dancing in the teensy space in front of the stage. People hooted and clapped at the guy’s awkward, herky-jerky moves.

Gosh, that dancing guy looked so familiar. I squinted really hard at him, then bumped Shmeve with my elbow as I asked, “Call me crazy, but is that actually Dumbledore?” Meaning Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, the headmaster of the wizarding school known as Hogwarts. A fictional character, of course, but unless I was butterbeer-goggling, that was him!

Shmeve gave me a goofy smile, pointed at me with a wand that appeared out of nowhere, and he said the words to a spell I knew well from re-reading the Potter books too many times. 

“Stupify!” 

True enough, Shmeve.

If you’ve ever watched a wrock band do their thing live and want to tell me all about it, send the details to Draco4President@spam.com. I’ll be watching the inbox with Harry-like enthusiasm. 

For everyone else, I leave you with this Harry-themed haha. 

How many wizards does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Two. One to hold the bulb, and one to rotate the room.