MISS FLARNLEYHEARTS

Do you have a band, local or otherwise, that you wish I would address? Do you need advice, be it music-related, love-related, or post-traumatic-stress-related?  Are you strapped for cash and need Depression-era baking tips that will turn your stomach into a hardened, self-sustaining furnace?  Well then, come on and send a letter to Miss Flarnleyhearts and you will be halfway to easier living!!  Miss Flarnleyhearts promises anonymity to those who request it.  Send all questions to iamhaterx@gmail.com.  Can't wait to hear from you crum-bums!!


-X

THE (tur)KEY TO MY HEART

Happy Thanksgiving you Zygote Hippie bastards!!!!!!

PARADISE LOST - THE BLACK APPLES

Heya Pallys!!!  Welcome to another music-elitist roundtable version of Paradise Lost, brought to you as always by your favorite Hater of the X persuasion and the pee-on people's champion.....from the 704.....our very own Lord of the Growing persuasion!  How ya feelin today, Lord?  

 LG: Fine

X: A hippie of few words........rare and preferable.  Today, in light of their month-long Echo residency, we will be dissecting and destroying Zygote East-siders, The Black Apples.  You ready LG?

LG: Not remotely.

X: That's what I like to hear!  Ok, so the Black Apples......I saw them earlier in the year at the Echo. the first thing I noticed about them was their lead singer's chest hair.  you know.... the 4 ft. tall stout fella with the lip mildew mustache and purdy jewelry and stripey shirt.  Their stage appearance, obviously calculated, makes me wanna throw them into a big communal shower and spray them with a firehose.  right in their faces.  Cuz it's not facial hair. It's hygienic neglect. 

LG: The first thing you noticed was their chest hair, and you want to throw them all together into a shower. Got it. I think they'd probably take that as a compliment.

X: I know you would.  And do these guys think they exist in the 70's??  either that or they think they're Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.  Either way, the 70's are over, and lets be honest.....nobody wants another BRMC. 

LG:  For a guy who allegedly walks around in a zoot suit and a bowler, you sure are weirdly hung up on their anachronistic wardrobe. Are we going to start judging artists by what they wear?

X: START???  That's how it's always been, you bastard! And for your information,  my suit is its own entity.  It wears me.  It is integral to the fabric of our society for me to keep alive my personal, as well as our collective, history. But the method i implement in my everyday life has no bearing on anything other than my own old codger sexiness.

LG:  No comment on your sexiness. But I'm willing to entertain the thought that The Black Apples don't experience linear time in the same way I do. Maybe they do exist in the 70s. I don't judge.

X: How do you sleep at night??   The Brat Apples seem to be using their wardrobe the way groupies use their vaginas. They are raping the styles of Yore in order to cash in with all the Zygote Hipster bastards and score rocker street credibility.  God forbid they should bypass a cliche image in favor of good music. 

LG: The Brat Apples? That's cold-blooded, Hater X. Those boys are going to go crawling back to Colorado once they find out you called them brats. And they didn't even piss you off enough to warrant "The Brat Assholes"?  That's some serious contempt right there.

X: Forgive me for watching my tongue!  This is, after all, a family blog, you piece of shit!! Lets move on, shall we?? What the hell are these jerks rattling on about, lyrically?? 

LG: I'm still trying to decode what it means to use your wardrobe the way a groupie uses her vagina. Is it one of your trademark herpes jokes that's gone over my head?

X:  Am I really supposed to take these guys seriously with songs like "where the wild things go?" 

LG: "Where the Wild Things Go"? Is that the "Ehhhhhhhhhh sex with animals" song? Bestiality is pretty provocative subject matter, and I respect them for trying to tackle it.

X: That's because you own 36 cats.

LG: Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure I heard George Glass do a pretty rip-roaring cover of that song at the last RFSL cover's show, so it can't be all bad.

X: There you go bringing up George Glass again! Enough with the George Glass!! And if you think that the Black Apples gain credibility just because the George Glass Geezer Trio felt it necessary to feign youthful exuberance for a night by covering a song they were too talentless to write themselves, well sir, you are wrong! If those dago bastards covered one of my songs, I'd dissolve my band immediately, and then I would punch my mother in the face.  God rest her soul. 

LG: Anyway, The Apples are not working within a genre that I really get it up for, and I find the two drummers shtick kind of obnoxious, since the second drummer doesn't really add anything besides decibels. But they've got a better sense of melody than most similar bands, and their live show has a certain drunken power to it.  

X: WHAT THE FLARN DO YOU KNOW ABOUT MELODY???? You.......the fan of Pizza!, featuring Geoff Geisssssssss????  You are lucky I allow you to sponge off of my media prowess.  

LG: Right.

X: Don't get smart with me, son!

LG: Musically, what do you object to?

X: Musically?? I object to the Black Asshole's blatant blasphemy of a certain age-old purist rock variety.  You can't just put on a black vest, pound on a drum and shit out a bunch of half baked pseudo-psych-hipster flarn and think that people who were around for the original first wave of that sort of music will not take offense.  I am ancient!  i have seen it all! Dare to impress me!  If you are regurgitating the obscure in hopes of gaining originality points, you should try and mask your aural putrescence a bit better.  I mean, they're not even attempting to mask their lack of creativity.  Hey Black Assholes.....i have an idea.  How about you put down your bowls of cereal, wash your butts, burn your tight clothing, don matching burlap sacks, and lock yourselves in your rehearsal space until you write a song thats worth a damn.  

LG: Wow. Thats a bit harsh, don't ya think?

X: Must I bring to light the names of the bands they have refried and served back to the public in the form of a steaming-hot turd burrito?? must I?

LG: Yes. You must!

X: The Pretty Things, The Fuzztones, The Cynics, and lastly.....my farts.

LG: You know what? You win. You're such a jerk with your turd pie-this and flarn-that, it makes me want to defend bands that I don't care about. But when you're right, you're right.

X: Meeting adjourned!!

A PUZZLEMENT - RED CORTEZ

 "Hell is other people."   -Sartre

Hello Pallys!  Your favorite friendly neighborhood Hater of the X persuasion came across the Red Cortez blog today (In the tumblr format, of course, which is for brain-dead Communists who express themselves by "blogging" other people's photos.)  It seems their fearless philandering lead singer, Harvey Prechtel-C, recently had this to say:

"Sartre said that man’s innate nature is to fill holes. According to Sartre the hole, void, or abyss is an empty place that we humans have the yearning to fill up. The chance of human life begins with the penetration of a hole- the soul hole and physical ones.  When I first read this I couldn’t get past the obvious sexual implications, but with further reading he makes an interesting case in point for the balance of societal class paradigms.  Though I somewhat disagree with his dwellings, I will admit that he makes an interesting point. In this pattern he would argue that the capitalist turned philanthropist for the sake of filling holes— or guilt as we know it. An endless cycle where one needs the other.  Good man Sartre has a point — filling holes on a philanthropy level is certainly a balance of things— but he dismisses everday acts of good will. He omits the influence of art in that very altruistic nature in mankind—after all, at the very surface of what is the ultimate act of ego (art) can inturn like a mandala be an ultimate catalyst for altruism.  What am I saying?Well, refuting the Sartre argument to a degree when it comes to mans innate need to create…and give.  The proverbial artist filling his own hole."

Ah yes.  Good ol' Prechtel-C.  Now my first question is, does this little Indie-Puke talk about Sartre on a public forum because he A) is emotionally moved to do so, or  B) wants all the hot pre-pubescent aspiring female actresses  to read it and think to themselves, " Hey, isn't Sartre the guy who wrote that weird play called NO EXIT? I had to read that for my script analysis class in College.  Hey, Prechtel-C and I have something in common other than our outfits!"  

The answer is B!  When possible, I support brevity (in other people's writing), so I think he should have just gone with, "I read Sartre, ladies. You want my four inch penis in your mouth, don't you? You do."

SQUIRT OF THE FLOWER

 Here's another question for ya:  Is the intense hatred I feel for this hipster douche-bag perpetuated by my pre-conceived notions of his douche-baggery??  Or would I feel the same if the greatest songwriter of all time, Mr. Harold Arlen (God rest his soul) were still alive today to post such a thing for his fans to read?? 

Here's the answer:  my notions of his douche-baggery are not so much pre-conceived as they are a reasonable response to his aggressively demonstrable mental retardation.  I never had the honor of meeting or knowing Harold Arlen. But judging by his work, I'd be very surprised if he were the type who would have felt the need to whip out his pecker and hose down the internet with his clucking, justifying his desire to create music with some half-baked, ill-sourced shitsmear of a philosophical "musing". ("I somewhat disagree with his dwellings?" And which "dwellings" are those, Prechtel-C? The POW camp? The house where he shacked up with Simone de Beauvoir?) If Harold Arlen were the type of guy to write shit like that, I probably wouldn't like him in the first place, and he probably wouldn't have created the enduring classics we're able to enjoy today.

THE LAST WORD

Maybe I've got it all wrong.  Maybe Prechtel-C is just an artsy francophile, sitting at some sidewalk cafe with a sketchbook and a stack of high-brow essays on his table.....sipping an espresso and gnawing on a lemon bar, wearing a handkerchief wrapped around his neck, twisting his full-bodied bangs around his index finger while reciting his dwellings.  OR.....maybe he's a phony frantically searching through wikipedia for an "insight" on Sartre he can pass off as his own, sweating profusely in fear that someone will see through his bullshit.  

I do not know which of these is correct.  But what I DO know is this.......he is without any doubt having much more sex than I am.  And that, my dear pallys, is the root of all my bile and brimstone.  An old Codger's gotta find an outlet......a reason to keep the blood in his veins pumpin.  And Prechtel-C and his band of merry musical morons make circulation so easy. 

H8 BITS : bite-sized bundles of vitriol

-Boy oh boy, the fabric of our collective musical existence is tearing apart at the seams, dear Pallys!! I take one long 4-day nap and what happens??  I wake up to anarchy.......dogs and cats living together......mass hysteria!!   This morning, the omniscient Bronny over at Buzzbands filled me in on the current state of everyone's favorite Douchebag Hipster hangout, Spaceland.   Looks like perrenial ass-head promoter Mitchell Frank and longtime weiner-loving venue owner Jeff Wolfram are parting ways after a long drawn out business marriage. Seems as though these two misers have decided, after fifteen years, to be miserly in the form of two separate entities.....this way they can cover more band-raping ground.   I doubt this bodes well for all the local up and coming musicians hoping for a break. Wolfram says, “Basically, we wanted to do our own booking in-house so we could offer better packages to bands and be a little more competitive.”  Right there.....its that word........COMPETITIVE.  Competitive??  Competitive with whom??  The Hollywood Bowl??  You morons already cornered the market in the East LA scene with your putrescent penchant for offering up the best of the musically overrated.  Good ol' Scoop over at CGT covers the topic well, and even offers up some ideas on how to improve the new club (now called The Satellite).  There is one thing though that I disagree with in his musings.  There is almost a tinge of blame being put on the bands for the slow business of this club.  Despite my disdain for all the Zygote Hippie douchebag bands that infest this town, I have to disagree.  Spaceland is no different than any other club in that they rely solely on the bands to bring them all their business.  Had they actually invested some time and effort into helping the bands populate THEIR club, we probably wouldn't be having this conversation right now.  And getting rid of one bloated indifferent promoter in favor of in-house booking by local Yeti Jennifer Teft isn't really a change at all. Is The Satellite taking notes from the current White House Administration??  Claiming to want change while simultaneously pulling from the old guard??  The only other booker in this shitty scene who has a more pathetic reputation than Jen Teft is The Fold's Scott Sterling.


-I would like to keep Eagle and Talon in a snow globe on my nightstand so that I may admire their dizzy dame charm forevermore whilst dreamily drifting off into the murky sludge of the collective Id. How possible is it for an old Coot like me to have a shot at being their groupie?  I know what you're thinking.......you're thinking, "Hey hey hey, X!!  Come on now!  Don't use your media prowess in such a pathetic low-brow fashion!"  And to that I say, I'LL DO AS I PLEASE!!!  I am not below grovelling. 


-Le Switch has a new album available.  Turns out that they're better off with their current lineup.  As much as it was quaint to involve novelty multi-instrumentalist Maria DeLuca into the fold, she was only muddying up the cohesion between local Horn-rimmed-Buddy-Hollyish Aaron Kyle and company.  Pure rock is the way to go.  And these kids provide it!!  So now that you Switch boys are on track.....do your old pal X a favor and write a song thats not in 4/4.  Then dedicate it to me!  I will be waiting expectantly! 


-Local Dago-Hippies George Glass also have a new album available. Homework assignment: try writing lyrics that aren't stained with sad-sack, lovelorn candy-assery!!  You goombahs most likely descend from a long line of heartless assassins.  Now act like it!!  Make your mama proud!!!


-Why is this band relevant??


-Why isn't this band more relevant??


-The Arcade Fire needs to die already. There, I said it!  And I am the only one.  So be it!  These overrated slack-jawed-Hippies have gone far enough!!  They are single-handedly responsible for spawning every band in the world that finds it necessary to have more than five members.  Stop the Boat!!  Get the Hell out!!  If I have to look at that lead singer's bangs for one more second, I'm gonna vomit in my porridge!  Mass appeal does not equal talent.  Here's proof.

FIRESIDE SERIAL #1

A.T.E.

"God damn it, I’m in a fucking rock band! What could be better than that?"  Michael Gillette drunkenly feigned enthusiasm for the company of yet another magazine interviewer.  Never in a million years did he believe he would actually grow bored of being in a rock band. But after three years of what seemed like an endless barrage of interviews, radio spots, live guest appearances, and touring, he had had his fill.  The backstage greenroom was teeming with people.  A mix of musicians, crew members, fans and industry execs.

The interviewer scribbled onto a yellow notepad.  A hand-held recorder lightly hummed on the tabletop next to her.  A fly buzzed busily around it. "So now that you're finished wrapping the new album, what are your feelings on how it turned out?"

"Personally I think it's the best album we've ever made.  And that's a relief, because now, regardless of how the public receives it, I'll feel confident that we put our best foot forward." 

Michael pulled out his flask.  Lately he had been indulging more and more in booze and pills in order to spice up his live performance experience.  His manager was up his ass about it too.  It drove him nuts.  And so did playing the same twelve songs every day for two years.  He pulled an orange bottle from his inner jacket pocket and twisted off the lid.  He threw two pills into the air and caught them both in his mouth. He took a long pull from the flask. The fly circled around his head.  It landed on his face.  He shooed it away.

"Whats in the flask?"

He smiled. "Can't tell you all my secrets. Gotta keep the mystique intact."

"Can I have some?"  

"Nope!  All gone."  He tilted his head back and drained the half full container.  Michael imagined what she would look like with her clothes off. 

"Well that should do it. I think I've got everything I need."  She clicked off the recorder and placed it inside her purse.  "And I think you should pace yourself.  Your show's in a couple hours."

"Would you excuse me for a second, doll?"  Nothing annoyed him more than a responsible female.  

The room started to spin.  Too many drinks, he thought to himself.  He wobbled over to a nearby couch and let his entire weight fall.  Stretched out along the length of the uneven cushions, his head resting on the inside of his left bicep, he stared intently at his own flesh.  He followed the blue-veined path running down the length of his upper arm and into the soft inner crook of his elbow joint.  He wanted to stay on the couch for a year and a half.  All he wanted was sleep.  And his own bed.   The fly circled and looped into an abrupt landing on his arm, right in the middle of his gaze.  His reflex was to brush it away, but his head was pounding violently.  Any sudden movement would have him crawling for a toilet for sure.  Instead, he just focused his gaze upon the guest on his arm.  The fly darted around in millimeter blips.  He could feel the weightless tickle of tiny legs flicking back and forth.  His head pounded.  His eyes grew heavy.  Michael felt a peaceful connection with the insect.  Just by offering up his brackish skin as pored ground, he felt closer to it than any person he'd met over the last few years.  He needed water.  Getting up was no good at this point, though.  Better to stay where he was.  Besides, he didn't want to scare his new friend away.  He admired the fly's features.  Six barbed legs.  Translucent wings.  A long hose-like snout.  He felt a tickle.  He noticed the eyes.  Blood-red eyes.  Larger than normal .  He laughed at the absurdity of such a creature.  As his mind slowly drifted off peacefully, he thanked his stars that he wasn't cursed to a life of eating and living on piles of shit.  He really was lucky.   This thought played in his brain on a loop as his eyes slowly lowered.  And in one quick instant, the fly dug its head in and slipped under the surface.

********************************
********************************

"Wake up Mikey!" 

The abrupt jolt of his drummer's voice felt like shards of white glass cutting into his skull and hooking into his eyeball.  He jerked himself upright.  There were at least six or seven people gathered around the couch, all with worried expressions on their stupid faces.

"Ech...ohl....the Fuck????" 

"Dude, we're due on stage in ten minutes." 

"Why the fuck didn't you wake me up earlier?"

"We were trying man.  You weren't responding.  I was about five seconds away from calling a medic. You alright" 

"Fine.  Just need water."

He was lying.  He wasn't fine.  His stomach was extremely taut.  There was a burning vibration in his chest.  It was almost as if his lungs fell asleep tingling.  His left arm was itching and burning like mad.   His mouth and throat were completely dry.  He forced himself up and staggered toward the bathroom.  He slammed and locked the door behind him.  The sink water was ice cold.  He splashed it repeatedly onto his face.  He craned his neck and hooked his lips around the faucet.  He sucked and sucked at the water.  His arm was a furnace.   He stood up, looked at himself in the mirror.  Fixed his hair.  Straightened his collared shirt.  Clutching his arm and forcing a smile, he muttered under his breath, "rock n' roll." 

The lights in the arena were off.  There was only the roar of the crowd accompanying the random pattern firebug flash of cameras and cell phones.  The band sauntered onstage.  Another eruption from the masses.  The sound engulfed and intoxicated.  As the lights came up, Michael walked over to his amp and strapped on his guitar.  The drum and bass beat kicked in with force.  It was the band's hit single.  The crowd was in a frenzy.   What were the words??  He couldn't remember the fucking words.  All he could think of was the burning pain in his arm and the warm tingling in his chest.  He walked back toward the drumset and leaned against his amplifier.  

 "Hey.....you ok??"

"Fffuhnn.....Fine. I'm fine."

The first verse kicked in. Michael centered himself and remembered the starting lyric.  He stepped up to the microphone and opened his mouth.

The flies poured out in piston-like bursts.  Arching masses of dead, wet clumps falling to the lip of the stage like winged blackberries in mashed potatoes.  Michael tried turning his body to face upstage, but his knees gave out and he collapsed to all fours.  The puddle of dead insects squirted out from beneath his knees.  The smell was unbearable.  It was not a human smell.  It was something older.  Something empty.  The ancient rot of ages.  The insects kept coming.  Wave after wave until finally his stomach was empty.  Michael forced himself to look at the crowd.  Nothing but silence and stillness.  

 "We love you Michael."

He burped.  A fly popped out of his mouth and buzzed up and up and up, into the glare of the lights.  The mob of people stared forward in amazement.  Then the entire audience erupted into cheers of victory, begging the band to begin again.  Michael straightened himself, brushed the insect spittle from his mouth and strummed the first chord of their hit song.  Just another night at the office.