Private Ham Grass dove, twisting, and slammed his rucksack into the chunky- style Pennsylvania riverbed soil that had recently been cleaved into a 40- foot trench. Wads of Indian- mined lead buzzed inches from Grass' scalp. The impact drove his messkit into the small of his back. Three prongs of a silver fork pierced the canvas rucksack, the wool of Grass' overcoat, two cotton undergarments, and a lycra and kevlar wetsuit, which the other members of General Washington's troop could not, and should not, obviously see.

"Ouch," yelped Grass.

"All this shootin' and leapin' getting to ya," asked Picksfords, who remained assiduously cheery despite the Imperial muskets pointed their way, and the cold, acidic soil caking his wide smile.

"Brilliant idea, these ditches," he continued.

"Right. Never know why we didn't think o' these 'oles before," piped in Hoggles, who was squirming across the bed of the trench.

"This way, they can't shoot our 'eads off," Picksfords exclaimed.

"Or they can only shoot our heads off," retorted Grass.

Ham Grass was thoroughly tired of being shot at. Not just because his immediate personal safety was at risk, but because it was only delaying his mission: to help the British win the Revolutionary War. The bullets subsided. Heavy hooves plodded near. Sergeant "Gibby" Gibbs rode his wheezing steed to the business edge of the trench, peered over at the shivering soldiers, and announced, "General Washington pushed those bleedin' Hessians back over the river, into Trenton, little thanks to you sort. You can come out of your hiding place."

"Actually, Sir, it's what Ham calls a trench," commented Picksfords. "It actually facilitates war..."

"Shut up," Gibbs snorted. "Come back to camp."

Camp sat in an evergreen copse a short trot outside of New Hope. Low tan tents circled a bonfire. Men huddled over the flame, sipping on steaming bouillon while intently watching the man pacing back and forth a few yards away. General Washington remained in deep thought, studying his frozen breath. Picksfords, Hoggles, Gibbs, and Grass approached quietly. Gibbs dismounted.

"Soups in the pot, don't disturb the General," Gibbs warned before ducking into a tent.

"Hey, George!" Ham screamed. Washington stopped in his tracks and looked silently at Ham, desperately tethering his ballooning thoughts. The men ceased their sipping and stared at the audacious newcomer.

"Who are you, Private?" Washington demanded.

"My name is Bre... er, Ham Grass," Ham announced, "Brrr. It's really cold. Brr."

"I'm quite aware of the climate, but why do you disturb my strategizing?"

"Well, I was thinking... should we really be fighting the British?" Ham said.

The soldiers spat, jumped up, and cried.

"Splitter!"

"Red-coat!"

"Pinko!"

"Queen bugger!"

"Fairy!"

Ham was confident his kevlar would keep him alive long enough to press the emergency wormhole activator button he was now fingering in his pocket, but he'd rather not test the material against 18th Century blades and bullets. He needed to be quick with his words.

"Well, what I mean, Sir... is being ruled by the British really that bad?"

Washington's eyes bulged. "Do you not care about liberty, freedom, and owning guns?"

"Well, sure, those are great, great things. Don't get me wrong. But in, like, 200 years, will it really even matter? We're not that different from the British. We both like Shakespeare and killing indigenous people. I mean, we're going to pay taxes to someone either way. You can't grow into a large nation without imposing some sort of heavily- regulated internal revenue system, you know? Or would you rather be a bunch of squirrel- eatin', witch- believin' states forever? Plus, if you really care about freedom, what about all of these slaves?"

The slaves stopped stirring the bouillon and looked up, hopeful.

"Hmm, you have a point. But this still all sounds like propaganda from the Brits," Washington mused.

"Plus, what's your favorite thing from England? Tea? Poodles?"

Washington thought for a moment. "Well, actually, I'd have to say the literature and prose."

"Okay, good, good," Ham said. "Now, what if, after we secede from King George, he cuts off all imports of British literature to America?"

"Hey, some of us Americans can write," a soldier announced.

"Don't interrupt, Waldo," General Washington barked.

"Actually, the name's Ralph..."

"Shut up. Now, Private, I would hate to lose precious arts. I do love the arts. Man, this is all just getting really heavy right now," Washington said.

"Well, sit down, George, because I'm about to blow your mind. Now, what I'm about to do will confuse and amaze you. I can only say that I come from the city, where such things are commonplace."

"I knew he was from the city!" a soldier shouted.

"He has soft hands! A softie," another added.

"Yes, I'll attest to that," a young nurse said. Ham Grass reached into his backpack and removed a flat metal oval that opened like a oyster. He placed a silver circle inside and closed the device with a snap. A thin, flexible tube ran from the device into the rucksack. Grass pressed a small button with his finger. Suddenly, noise erupted from the satchel. An acoustic guitar strummed quickly and a voice gently sighed, "Moving, just keep moving..." The soldiers looked around with a start, frightened.

"Is he keeping a minstrel hidden?"

"Does he play a guit-ar remotely?"

"He must be a wizard!"

"Hush," Washington said slowly standing. "I want to hear this." The singer continued his soft, dramatic croons from deep inside the rucksack. Weeping strings accented the gentle melancholy of the melody. Suddenly, the song erupted with piano, buzzing guitars, a throbbing club bassline, handclaps, and chrome swirls.

"My god," Washington declared. "This is marvelous. I want to dance. I really want to dance." He began to dance. "What sort of music is this? From the city?" The song shifted back to the bridge of the intro, but with layered acoustic propulsion, woodblock slaps, and voluminous ambiance.

Ham said, "Actually, this comes from England." The song returned to the throbbing chorus before shifting into a soul- lifting solo. A solo actually lifted souls.

"This is what you would be missing if you were to win independence. Great music like this would never get distribution in America," Ham said. "And that would be the true injustice."

The next song began with a sliding guitar hook and marca- driven percussion while a harpsichord weaved throughout.

"Wow, a harpsichord," Washington said. "I really like those."

"Yeah, you don't even hear those a lot in this kind of music. The great thing about this band, and this album particularly, is how classic-- or at least, classic to these British musicians-- elements such as keys and pianos are subtly integrated to drive the rock. A fellow named Billy Preston once played like that on Let It Be...

"Shh," Washington commanded. "I want to hear this percussion better. It reminds me of the rattle of millions of beetles, returning from the heavens."

"Funny you should say that, because..."

"And those harmonies. Stunning. It's all so serene, crystalline, yet my hips can't quite control themselves. Those harmonies remind me of the boys I used to hear on the beach," Washington muttered.

"The who?" a brawny soldier asked suspiciously.

"Yeah, them too," Ham added. "See, this is why we can't go to war with England. I want to hear this music. I want my children to hear this. I especially want future generations in, say, 1999 to hear this. Because I bet even then this music will hold up. This sort of music is timeless. It's what the Brits call "pop." It's supposedly an easy, mass- produced art. Some liken it to the musket. But there are so many intricate workings that can't be dismissed."

Ham continued. "You heard the delicate piano, the layers of acoustic guitar shifting underneath, dodging the searing swipes of emotive electric guitar. The drums are tighter than a well manned, high- walled fort. They rumble freely, yet constantly hold down the always progressing rhythm. The bass pops and undulates under nimble, strong fingers. The production brings to mind cold winter days like this. You can see the singer's breath seeping from his mouth. An echo of lake- locked islands and castles holds the pop in cavernous spaces. Yet, as you have seen, it still makes you want to shake your ass and give up war."

"This song sounds like a good one to march to," Washington noted as the stomping "What Went Wrong in Your Head?" pounded along under falsetto la- la- las and a longing vocal delivery. Squirts of wah, timpani, and gentle backwards feedback spiced the moods. It was epic. What initially seems like a tossed- off act of youthful rock rebellion somehow blossoms into greater significance. Sort of like throwing tea off a pier.

Picksfords finally broke the conference with his squeaky voice. "I say we listen to Good Ol' Ham Grass! Let's hear it for the super Grass! After all, he taught us about those ditches or whatnot and even his cooking. Those burger things he made were quite delicious."

"Three cheers for Ham!" Hoggles shouted.

"So be it. Tomorrow, I will call a truce. We shall give in to the Redcoats. We can go home to our wives and make nasty love to the sounds of this funky 'Mary' song."

Ham smiled with satisfaction. He smugly slipped his hands in his pockets. Somehow, his hand accidentally pressed the button in his pocket. Ham suddenly disappeared with a magnesium flash. The soldiers all gasped.

"He was a wizard!"

"Perhaps this was sign from God!"

Washington approached Ham's rucksack and rummaged through the contents. He pulled out two rectangular black boxes covered on one side with a spongy material. Several other silver discs lie in the rucksack. General Washington picked up one and examined it by the fire's light.

"Puff Daddy..." he mumbled. "It's all about the Benjamins. I wonder what Benjamins are."

Washington continued to dig deeper into the bag. He pulled out what appeared to be green currency. On one bill, he saw a poor portrait of himself. He jumped back. The bill was labeled as one dollar. Another wad of bills were labeled as being "100." Ben Franklin's sardonic smile looked up off the bill and mocked Washington.

"Franklin?! That sissy! He gets the 100! I'll be damned!" Washington cried. "This can only mean one thing-- I must crush the British. Music be damned! I must get that 100 space! But how?"

"Sir, I found something under where Ham was standing," a soldier called. It was a silver coin.

The coin was branded "New Jersey" across the top. A small boat was depicted carrying Washington, Picksfords, Hoggles, Gibbs, and others across a frozen river.

"That's it!"

"The river!"

"We cross at dawn."

"But tomorrow's Christmas."

"Okay, the next day."

224 years later in a South Chicago laboratory...

A pale green flash erupted in the middle of the room. Brent DiCrescenzo appeared in the room. The Professor sat up and ran to Brent.

"How did it go?" the Professor asked.

"Great," Brent said, catching his breath from the indescribable act of time travel. "I think I convinced them. Let's check out CDNow!" The two moved over to the iMac and punched up CDNow. Brent searched for Supergrass' self- titled album. It was listed as $32.99-- an import.

"Damn!"

"I suppose it didn't work, Brent."

"But I had them! I finally broke them down! It's just not fair. Americans need to hear this music. Supergrass is as beautifully produced as OK Computer but infused with the down- to- earth fun of early Beatles. Supergrass meld elements of just about every god- level rock band of history. The ghost of the '60s and '70s resonates throughout. The album is seamless, circular. It works both for times of quiet isolation and sweat- soaked communal interaction. Ambitious elements are melted effortlessly into seemingly traditional structures. It's the closest to George Martin's sound I've heard in the '90s. Space and Hades. That's what this is all about. Introspection and jest. The sky and the crotch. Rock and roll at its finest. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair."

"Brent, look at the bright side. You have the album. You've lived with it for months, experiencing beautiful, graceful rock that other Americans can't share."

"Well, yeah."

"Let's go grab a bite to eat."

"Okay, let me grab my money. Shit. I left it."

"It's okay, I have some cash," the professor said, picking up his money clip. Brent and the professor looked at each other. Puff Daddy's face grinned up at them from the one dollar bill.

-Brent DiCrescenzo