I never thought that malware could inspire a song, yet here we are.
Flash back to the early 2000s, a simpler time, when the internet was lawless, and broadband was new. I was parked in front of my Gateway 2000 running Windows Millennium Edition, aka Windows Migrain Edition, an operating system known more for crashing than computing… but at the same time, I had been noodling around on my guitar, aimlessly working through a chord progression in three-quarter time. It was moody. Vague. One of those musical half-thoughts destined to die on a scratched CD-R labeled “IDEAS???” in Sharpie.
Naturally, I did what any artist does in a moment of creative drift: I procrastinated.
At the time, I was into The Sims, because what better way to avoid your real-life problems than by micromanaging a tiny digital version of yourself, trapped in a digital neighborhood. I decided I needed an updated version. The expansion packs were a new idea and, being young, broke, and filled with the optimism of someone who’s never had a virus brick their hard drive, I searched for a “free download.”
Cue: Sex Finder.
I found a file that claimed to be a Sims expansion pack. What I actually downloaded was not a Sims expansion pack. It was a delightful early-2000s STD for your PC: Sex Finder, a relentless pop-up parade of chaos, featuring NSFW ads, fake chat rooms, and antivirus alerts from programs that didn’t even exist.
My desktop became a sleazy Times Square billboard at 3 a.m. I pushed the power button on my gargantuan 21” CRT monitor, picked up my guitar, and muttered something profound like, “Hm!?!?”
From Malware to Melody
That night, I brought the moody chord progression to band practice, more as a distraction than a mission. Matt Galluzzo took one listen, nodded, and by the next rehearsal, he’d written lyrics that turned my aimless riff into something deep and real.
Scott came up with the signature “duh-da-da-duh duh-da-da-duh” riff on guitar.
The lyrics had nothing to do with the virus. No computers. Nothing about the Sims. And no pop-up ads offering “local singles in your area” or “Hot Moms.” Just honest emotion and poetic imagery. You know art.
But the song needed a name.
Still riding the trauma of my digital infection, I smirked and said, “Let’s call it Finder.”
Short. Simple. Inside joke–approved.
And so it was.
A Signature Song, Courtesy of Spyware
Despite its ridiculous origin, Finder became a staple, one of those songs that stuck with us and with the people who saw us live. It had this rising-and-falling energy, a pull that was both emotional and understated. Matt’s vocals soared. The chords finally felt like they belonged to something.
That computer virus, weirdly, helped birth the song.
We still play Finder when we get together. No one knows they’re grooving to a song named after porn spam. But we do. And that makes it all the better.
The Accidental Alchemy of Songwriting
I don’t know that writing songs today is any different. Songs find us when they’re ready to be found. They “happen” when they’re ready. Finder didn’t just find us.
It found us through procrastination, art, collaboration, and software piracy.
Twenty years later, it’s still with us. Pop-ups (thankfully) not included.