Side Order Of Flies

by Scott Hefflon
illustration by Eric Johnson

I have a question for bands: If you can only write and record, say, somewhere between five to fifteen songs per year (depending on whether you’re doing a demo or a full-scale release), why can’t you make all of them good?

I put out a magazine. I listen to a lot of shitty bands. I hear a lot of shitty songs. And I mean A LOT. I write a lot of reviews. Most of them aren’t going to win awards an’ shit, but many of them have a twist, a turn, or something to make the process of reading yet another fuckin’ review of yet another fuckin’ band in yet another fuckin’ magazine interesting. That’s the goal, at least. I have the excuse that if the band doesn’t give me shit to work with, I can’t do shit with it. Sure, that’s passing the buck (when a starving artist fucknut like me could really use a few bucks), but it takes divine inspiration to write a godlike review of a really mediocre band. Or good drugs. But I’ve got a news flash for you fuckos: You ain’t fuckin’ worth it. If you don’t have the talent or creativity to write a somewhat interesting song, don’t cry to me when my boring-ass review might as well say, “they’re not very good.” Here’s an idea: Either get good, or get off the fuckin’ stage! Who asked you to be there in the first place? You did. Your innermost self wanted to express itself, and, nothing personal bub, but I think your innermost self oughtta shut the fuck up. It’d be one thing if you were bad. That might actually be interesting. But far too many bands are just flat out boring. Insipid. Tepid. Dull. Uninspiring. Whitewashed. Characterless. Forgettable. The list goes on, folks, and it doesn’t get any nicer. You want nice? Get a therapist. Pay them. When you get on stage to work out your inner turmoil through some kind of cathartic motions you’ve heard worked for other chumps, and then you ask me to pay for it, and then you’re hurt when I don’t give a rat’s ass about your pathetic mewlings about how unfair life is, Christ, get over it! Take a hint. Get a job. Pay taxes. Breed. But please, shut the fuck up.

Not everyone is creative. Nor is everyone a genius. Not everyone can change a spark plug, either, but that’s a bit easier to learn. Some things just ain’t gonna happen, so ya might as well cut yer losses and get on with the rest of your life. Not every kid in art class is going to paint the Sistine Chapel. But they’ll get a passing grade if they try real hard and don’t throw paint at the teacher. But it’s folly, folly I say, to encourage those without a “knack” for something to pursue it. Sure, dreams are swell, but waking up can suck pretty bad sometimes. While I’d never openly condone shattering an enthusiastic youngster’s hopes, let’s call it persuading them to pursue fields within their natural abilities. I sometimes wonder if Mozart ever fumbled “Chopsticks” in his earliest years (what, at two?), but I imagine he must’ve. He had to start somewhere. But it was recognized early on that he had natural ability, so he was encouraged. Driven by a tyrannical father, if the stories are true, but that’s beside the point. Hell, even Jesus was a carpenter when he was young, and look where he wound up. Um, maybe that’s not such a good analogy. Back to Mozart – remember the scene in Amadeus where old man Salieri was trying to find a tune he’d written that the preacher man would recognize? The melodies that “brought down the house in their day” caused not a flicker of recognition in the universal consciousness. Yet a simple, “charming” little riff by Mozart was not only instantly recognized, it was delightfully remembered. That’s the difference between immortal and forgettable. Only time will tell. And time won’t tell you jack shit if it doesn’t want to. Time’s a mean bitch. It’s rather staggering (not to mention just plain stupid) to aspire to one such as Mozart. Goals are good things to have, but most of us might as well try to evolve into a hyper-intelligent shade of blue. More people achieve oneness with the universe (or at least think they do) than ever become Mozart. Again, not to discourage any of you who really have your little hearts set on whuppin’ Wolfie’s ass, but don’t quit your day jobs trying, huh? He died a pauper, remember? His debtors didn’t give a flying fuck at a rolling donut if he was emotionally and psychically rewarded for his efforts, the bum owed ’em money. A brilliant bum to be sure, but alas, one broke stiff nonetheless.

But I digress. To return to the original question, why isn’t every song your band releases a gem, a real masterpiece, a take-the-world-by-storm kinda song? There is a process called natural selection. It ain’t kind, but it’s effective. If you ain’t cuttin’ the mustard, the tides will turn and wash you away. And that’ll suck. Here’s a tip: Read the early warning signs. If general consensus is that you are a no-talent hack, you might decide to pursue other avenues of gainful employment. If even your friends are trying to politely bring your attention to the fact that you couldn’t carry a tune in broad daylight, in an open field, with all of nature’s creatures singin’ backup, perhaps it’s time to give it up. Hey, buck up, buddy! These things happen! Some people can’t rub their tummies while patting their heads, some can. It’s the luck of the draw, pal, and if you can’t deal with it, find a friend to commiserate quietly with in some dark corner somewhere until you can. Then go do something you’re good at. Preferably something that also makes you happy, but let’s not expect to always find gold in these green pastures. I’ll put it this way: If your pursuit of happiness dictates you create, or shall I say “regurgitate,” something you insist is revolutionary and/or self-fulfilling yet others find repugnant and painful and wish you’d fuckin’ stop, don’t you think there might be something wrong? Something a little out of whack? And if someone (or everyone) gives you a few hints, a subtle nudge, or a fuckin’ whack upside your stupid, blind-sided head, perhaps ya oughtta listen. Practice does not always make perfect, it often only drives the neighbors nuts.

But for the non-suck legion, my question stands: You’re given a year to write songs for your next album, yet you have the nerve to release crap and call yourself a band? This is what you do for a living? I ask you to produce a handful of interesting songs every twelve months or so and you can’t deliver? When I order fries at some fast food chain, I don’t expect them to vary significantly from the last time I ordered ’em, but I want them quickly, and I expect them to be yummy. That’s what I’m paying for. Digging a little deeper, I don’t ask that the person delivering those fries to me to be emotionally or psychically rewarded by the transaction (more power to ’em if they are), I just want my fuckin’ fries! If a band can’t scrape up a few juicy songs to serve up once a year or so (I avoided the mustard cliché for taste reasons), perhaps they’re in the wrong line of work. To counter the inevitable “work vs. art” excuse; Go screw. If you expect someone to spend the money they worked to earn on something you shat out because you’re a dried-up has-been that never really was, don’t be surprised by the angry response you get. You deserve to get lynched for stealing, ya bastard, so “unfavorable response” is gettin’ off easy. So why aren’t all your songs great? You do so few of ’em, you’d think you could make ’em good. If not, hell, nothing wrong with being a one hit wonder if you change the world. How many breathtaking masterpieces did any of the greats do? Most of us would die content having produced one thing of such unspeakable beauty that it transcended the ages. Most of us feel a moment’s rapture if our bills get paid for the month. We set our sights low for good reason. But if you’re supposed to be an artist, an artisté even, there must be a function you serve.

All your wanking about, all your thrashing and grinding of teeth, all your soul-searching dilly-dallying about in your innermost soul… Guess what? You’re fired. We don’t want you to write songs and play them for us anymore. You’re no fuckin’ good. You take too fuckin’ long to produce something someone else can make faster, better, and cheaper. I don’t give a shit how long you’ve been doing this, how much it molests your inner child, or how many mouths at home you have to feed. You suck, so you’re fired. Understand?

Mr. Hefflon is the Editor/Publisher/ Asshole of Lollipop Magazine and wishes it to be known that this piece should’ve been printed in Suck On This MagaSpleen except for the simple fact he hasn’t put out issue #1 yet, nor does he plan to ’til he damn well feels like it. “Why I’m Not In A Band” parts I, II, and III are also on hold, as are “Why Writers Suck” and “Leggo My Ego,” a three-part series on why ‘zines are a waste of natural resources. Future projects include visiting each and every human being on the planet, insulting them, then writing about how much they suck.