Soyez réalistes, demandez l’impossible!
— street graffiti.
THE GET QUICK DOSSIER
THE GET QUICK is more than a band, they are legend. In a career spanning seven decades and the release of easily over one hundred albums they have managed to be both surprisingly diverse and consistently great.
Their fearless experimentation and continual innovation have inspired countless musicians and helped spark the growth of a remarkable variety of musical genres. Of course, along with their pioneering conceptual albums, they’ve also penned some of the greatest pop songs of all time –– as legions of loyal fans throughout the world will violently attest.
Along the way they have lived and worked nearly everywhere that is anywhere, and places “in between,” …but TGQ’s headquarters remains their original home base, the birthplace of David Bowie — Philadelphia PA.
Called everything from *the wickedest band in the world* (Samuel L Jackson) to *absolutely no comment* (Gene Simmons), catch them while you can and get to the bottom of this seductive madness.
Ladies and others, we present to you and yrs, THE GET QUICK.
HERE’S THE PREAMBLE, PEOPLE
How is it possible that The Get Quick are not universally famous?
Because they are most definitely and absolutely fabulously famous SOMEWHERES in the universe —
just not quite... here.
Some people will call it another Mandela Effect, because, you see, there seem to be a few us out there who vividly recall growing up in a world where The Get Quick - along with The Beatles, Stones, Who, Floyd and Zeppelin - were undisputedly considered one of the legendary bands of the Classic Rock era. But, strangely for us, most other people around today claim to have never even heard of them.
So just what exactly is the deal?
Are The Get Quick from another dimension?
Am I?
Some people think so. Some believe that The Get Quick have existed in several timelines — perhaps even several at once. I don’t know if that’s possible, but it would explain some of the odd details about the band and their mythology (no pun intended, they are mythic — but not a myth).
That right there is classic TGQ, isn’t it? The way they seem to slip sideways through the grooves of history, always just skirting the edge of what’s real and what’s imagined. Right before my eyes, and yet... like a ghostly afterimage flickering behind a two-way mirror...
You meet people now and then — usually late night at a diner, or at a record fair, or in the last few crumbling forums of the old web — who swear they remember The Get Quick being just as big as the others. Stadium shows, magazine covers, hit records, top 40 loitering. Some recall multiple vivid t-shirt designs, specialist bootleg traders, ITV programmes, and even action figures. But when you try to find proof, it’s all soft focus, faded memories, and static. A flyer or a fanzine here, a snippet of an interview there, a dubbed cassette with no label. How can a band be absolutely everywhere and nearly nowhere at the same time?
Or is it the same time?
Back to the theories.
Are The Get Quick the symptom of a parallel cultural history bleeding into ours? I could believe it.
Others think they started right here, as part of a government experiment in sonic frequency manipulation and mind control that got out of hand, and so they were scrubbed from the official narrative. Possible.
Then there’s the idea that it was us who slipped timelines. That our original history included The Get Quick as cultural giants, but something happened — maybe around ’67, when Erik Evol crashed his car and shattered his psyche — and fractured reality too. Time forked. In this version, The Get Quick are mostly forgotten. In another, they’re Gods.
If The Get Quick aren’t from another timeline, they’re at least tuned directly into one. They’re either an antenna, a transmitter, or a glitch.
Do you remember them as megastars? Or are you just starting to hear the signal?
Either way, they’re out there, somewhere... And their shadow is looming...
* * * A Quick Note from Ida, Me (Keeper of the Cosmic Scrapbook):
All right, darlings. Let’s just get this out of the way before some poor, perspiring archivist or legal intern with a magnifying glass starts hyperventilating: Yes, most of the photos are AI. Yes, a few timeline entries are what you might call... inspired reconstructions. And yes, I might have borrowed a pinch of Nancy Drew and a touch of The Amazing Kreskin when connecting certain dots. But honestly—what is truth? What is fiction? And who left The Get Quick alone in the billiard room with the master tapes and an ancient French grimoire?
The Get Quick Dossier is not, strictly speaking, “accurate” in the fossil-brush-and-card-catalogue sense. It is not peer-reviewed (unless you count Mox the Roadie, who sends occasional cryptic postcards from Paraguay). But it is, I dare say, emotionally accurate—spiritually true. And that counts for something in this holographic funhouse of a world, doesn’t it?
When I was in seventh grade, I covered my school notebooks with band logos: AC/DC lightning bolts, Ziggy lightning bolts, TGQ lightning bolts—eyelinered saints, six-stringed scepters, electric sigils of rebellion. Now I do the same with digital archives, dead pixels, black coffee, and late night longing. I don’t claim objectivity. I claim obsession! And if I sometimes hear Reed Russolo whispering my name across the hiss of a cassette dub—well, who are you to say he isn’t?
This site is my love letter, my séance, my stunt-girl scribble in the margins of the official screenplay. Believe me, those cosmic jokesters The Get Quick have always been the ULTIMATE UNRELIABLE NARRATORS. I’m just trying to pick up where they left off.
So poke around. Believe what you like. The proof is in the pudding.
—Ida Prescott, editor-in-swoon
MY Get Quick Dossier
Compiled with great affection, mild obsession, and a healthy dose of confusion by Ida Prescott
Hello, you.
I suppose I should start with some kind of credentials for this but I don’t really have any. I’m not a historian, a journalist, or a musicologist — though maybe I’m slowly turning into all three. What I am is someone who remembers something I’m maybe not supposed to remember.
My name is Ida Prescott and I remember The Get Quick.
Not vaguely, no, not in that “oh yeah, my cousin had a patch on his backpack” kind of way. I remember them.
One muggy summer night in 1981 (or possibly ’82; I’ve learned not to be too precious about time) the folks were away and I was dragged (or perhaps smuggled, depending on who you ask) to the Hullabaloo in Rensselaer, NY by my older brother Zak and his revoltingly too-cool friends. They were all lanky limbs and Marlboro breath, and I was the tagalong geeky little sister with braces who was supposed to sit quietly and not embarrass anyone.
Instead, the second The Get Quick stormed the stage I completely lost my mind. Everything was suddenly strange and electric and enormous. I screamed in glee until I lost my voice. Danced until I forgot who I was. I fell asleep in the back seat on the way home, clutching a button that said “GET STRANGE.” The following Monday I told everyone at school. I fed on their envy and basked in the glory.
And then... life moved on. Sure, memory faded, but was not forgotten. Yet unbeknownst to me, the reality of what I had experienced had seemingly evaporated.
Years later, when I was packing for college, I scoured the attic for proof. The records. The tapes. The t-shirt. Anything. I went through all the boxes — no trace. I called Zak. He didn’t remember the concert. Or the band. (...!?) My friends had no idea what I was talking about. My mother thought I was remembering a movie(!) No one in my freshman dorm had heard of The Get Quick. I asked my dentist. Nothing.
It was like I'd dreamed the whole thing — except I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t.
Which brings us here.
Over the years, I started gathering what I could. A dog-eared fanzine here. A scratchy 7-inch there. Blog posts that vanish days after you read them. But then I started meeting others who also remembered — though never quite the same details. That’s when I knew I was on to something. Something weird. That’s when I began calling this thing I was assembling — this scrapbook to hold onto my sanity — “The Get Quick Dossier.”
MY Get Quick Dossier.
OUR Get Quick Dossier.
This site is for anyone who remembers The Get Quick. Or thinks they do. It’s part archive, part map, part message in a bottle. You’ll find clippings, theories, flyers, interview clips, secondhand bootlegs, whispers on message boards last updated in 2003, feedback loops, echoes, fragments, tape hiss.
Because even if history has ejected them, tried to erase them, The Get Quick were real. ARE real. I was there. And I’m here. And I’m not the only one.
Maybe you remember them too. Maybe you’re just curious to get acquainted.
Either way, welcome to the mystery.
– Ida
P.S. If you’ve got anything — photos, tapes, memories, anything — please reach out. Every detail matters. Every fragment fits.
WHAT’S NEW
“What’s New? Oh, Only the End of the World—Again.”
Darlings, brace yourselves: yet another TGQ website has shimmered into view like a mirage in a fever dream. And this one? It’s got that uncanny whiff of legitimacy—like someone accidentally left the vault door ajar in Disney’s Haunted Mansion and all the real ghosts came dancing out. Is it actually them? Or just another well-oiled echo in the great TGQ machine? Frankly, I’m torn between belief and hysteria—but don’t take my word for it.
👉 Pre-game with my hot take HERE.
👉 Peer into the actual possibly-actual abyss: HERE.
Next, a delicious oddity: I unearthed a rather warped little blog claiming to be penned by a long-faded insider from TGQ’s anointed golden era. Think: scotchy breath, tweed jackets, and secrets no one was meant to write down. The thing reads like a proper memoir, only spiked with mescaline and dropped into a Matrix séance of digital rain. Hot gossip galore! Conspiracies abound! Check it out for a hefty dose of 21 century psychedelic paranoia.
👉 Sip that truth-serum tea: HERE.
👉 Listen to an audio episode: HERE.
Then—ping!—an anonymous message like something out of a Le Carré novel: a broken link, now vanished, that briefly revealed an astonishing article. Lost and found—or more like found and snatched away. But I grabbed the goods while they flickered into existence. Mitch ruminating on the new release and, as ever, things far stranger than music.
👉 My second generation(?) copy of the spectral dispatch: HERE.
And finally—if you’ll indulge me—a bit of candlelit reflection. Why I’m still here. Why we all are. Why the signal never dies, even when the stage is dark and the amps cold.
👉 One last confession: HERE.
