Misson: Man Band tracks a reality show’s efforts to restore four former boy-banders to their chart-topping glory. RS’ Rock Reality Show Recaps track our efforts to be sympathetic to their cause. Here’s our second report:

Thirty Mantastic Minutes in Five Sentences: We’re back at the House That Justin Timberlake Built, or the mansion of *NSYNC’s Chris Kirkpatrick, where Bryan Abrams from Color Me Badd leads things off by auditioning for Celebrity Fit Club for five minutes. Abrams wants to lose weight because he feels that in order to succeed in the entertainment industry, you need to have the total package, which evidently doesn’t include talent. We learn where Abrams acquired those extra pounds: beer, and lots of it. During a party that features women who are Rock of Love reject-caliber, Abrams, who had been sober for two months, gets so drunk that he begins telling partygoers he’s both “big and pimpin’.” The next morning, a hungover Abrams blows off his workout program, further proving that he’s in desperate need of a twelve-step program.

The Rockin’ Struggle: The Man Band has two tasks this week: Write songs that will impress their producer, Grammy-winner Bryan Michael Cox, and come up with a band name. With Max Martin not around, our quartet struggles to compose a simple chorus; instead, they opt to joke about the word “dictaphone.” The band name meeting goes only slightly better, with Plan B and After Life among the more fitting choices.
The Funniest (And/Or Most Honest) Moment: Bryan Michael Cox admits the only reason he’s producing the group is because if he can make the Man Band a success, it would “validate” his career.

The Rockin’ Finale: The band’s manager Katie McNeil tells the gang that she’s booked them a halftime slot at an Orlando Magic game in three days, even though they have neither a song nor a band name. It sets the stage for the inevitable reality-show humiliation payoff: Post-Shaq Magic fans would boo Elvis during a halftime performance, so it’s a given that the Man Band can expect nothing less than a full-court press of empty beer bottles thrown their way, which Rich Cronin seems all too aware of.