The Lottery League: Where lots of Pabst and idealism have turned the Cleveland music scene on its head

This was no easy task. By the time they stopped accepting applications, they had 147 participants, many of whom had played together. So the guys created algorithms and spreadsheets listing the various incompatibilities among players. They assigned each person a number and printed up packs of sports-inspired trading cards that featured each musician along with band stats and other random facts.

Then they took another page from the sports world: They organized a mock draft. Using a Bingo-ball hopper, they began drawing balls etched with the players' numbers. After several dozen draws, they all gazed at each other in amazement. "The pairings — it was like magic," says Delzoppo. "We were like, 'Holy shit! This is totally gonna work!'"

Now the real draft is upon them. The guys walk onto their makeshift stage, sending the crowd, which seems to believe in pre-drinking, into a wave of whistling and applause. Kristoff dons a Mexican wrestling mask. Chief Matt Majesky wears a gorilla suit. And all of them sport Devo-like lab coats.

Posted on the wall behind them are 33 Roman numerals — one for each band that is about to be created.

They spin the ball hopper, which releases the first number. "Number 83! Scott Pickering," one chief announces over the PA. Another grabs a blown-up version of Pickering's trading card and posts it on the wall under the first Roman numeral.

As the draft rolls along, the Pabst and Jameson set in, and the band configurations seem equally drunk. One band ends up with three singers. Another consists strictly of men with huge beards. The lead singer of Nunslaughter, a metal band, discovers that his newest musical counterpart is an indie-pop songbird. And a married couple randomly ends up in the same band.

By this time, the chiefs don't even need their "sheet of incompatibility." When the council assigns one guitarist to group number 14, the crowd erupts into a drunken chorus of "No!" Having referred to their handy trading cards, even strangers know he once shared a band with another member of 14. "It just spread like wildfire," organizer Mike Pultz says. "It was contagious."

It's now the fifth round. One person's already passed out in a corner, still clutching a balloon. After five hours of drafting players, almost all 147 are assigned to bands. People begin stumbling around the room, searching for their new mates, squinting into strange faces between glances at trading cards. They jot down phone numbers and dole out hugs to complete strangers, moved by the Pabst and the possibilities of the unknown.

When the members of band No. 27 find each other, they quickly start bouncing around ideas for names, like giddy fifth-graders at summer camp. "Anal Cheater," one suggests. But his bandmate mishears. Thus, the Anal Cheetahs — a band that includes a brooding singer-songwriter and an Autoharp-playing neuroscientist — are born.

It's around midnight when the draft finally ends. P.P. Envy, bassist for Ghandi SS, is the final draw — the Lottery League's version of football's Mr. Irrelevant. The council shoos everyone from the room, ordering them into the next-door bar. "That's it, folks," Sotelo announces. "Now get to work!"

A month after the draft, back in room 408 at Rock and Roll City, the members of Ghandi SS barrel through their new songs.

As Fish busts into a symmetrical beat, Straub's beefy frame hunches over his bass, picking out a catchy, almost prog-rockish riff. Meanwhile, Hrbek, the shoegazing axeman, layers on atmospheric guitars as Bertolone tosses in even more noisy, atonal effects.

At first, everything is a little off. But somewhere in the fifth or sixth bar, the band clicks into a groove. Everyone finally finds the song's real rhythm. Each instrument helps the hook along, adding a unique touch, just as it should.

Despite its members' differences, Ghandi SS has quickly found its sound. You could almost compare it to the established stoner-metal outfit Sleep — a strange pick, since there's not a metal dude to be found in room 408. "I was surprised how we all immediately saw eye to eye," Bertolone says. "We just got right into practice, and it felt like a band I've been in for a while."

The writing process has been surprisingly organic, Straub says, usually starting with a part someone already wrote and building from there. "I just came in here and hoped to learn something," Straub says. "So far, I've never played with someone like Noah, with his shoegazer sound."

"It's cool to hear what Noah is putting over songs," Fish chimes in. "It's like, 'Whoa! I never would have done that.'"

The members of the new Chicago UK have made similar discoveries. At a charming old house in Tremont on a recent Monday night, the band gathers to practice in a living room cluttered with records, music equipment, and screen-printed posters. Morte Treehorn, the longtime leader of local legends Kill the Hippies, sits at the drums, though he typically plays guitar and sings.