I’m unsure if there’s an appropriate place for metal after you’ve been kicked out of mom’s basement. There’s a 0 percent chance of you actually playing in front of real people, or girls for that matter, so you have no shot at finding a venue. If you were able to play music for girls you wouldn’t be in this predicament in the first place, because metal would be the last thing on your mind. You’d have a warm couch to sleep on at the very least. And it’s not that you couldn’t find a venue if you really wanted to. I’ve just noticed the majority of metal heads tend to have absolutely terrible stage fright, life fright, and general fright. All the posturing in the world won’t make up for the moment when you step onstage, stare into the audience, and projectile poop yourself into another dimension.
Then again, wearing a sturdy diaper can usually counteract any on-stage defecation issues — unless that’s part of your act. In which case, poop everywhere and see where that gets you. At least you’ll be known as that guy who ripped off his pants and dumped all over the stage instead of that guy who plays a guitar that sounds like a chainsaw that needs a tuneup.
I know many musicians sell their soul to the Devil in exchange for fame and fortune, but this guy really takes it to the next level. He doesn’t appear to want fame, fortune, or anything else worth having for that matter. He evidently doesn’t want good looks, and he certainly didn’t wish for less body hair, so what does he want? I’d ask Satan to weigh in on the question, but he no longer answers my calls. His secretary puts me on hold, and I have to listen to Highway To Hell on a loop until I give up and douse my phone in holy water to get it to stop.
If I had to guess, I suspect this fellow is trying to melt faces with his blistering speed, like the last scene in Raiders of The Lost Ark, only with fewer Nazis and more potted plants.
Now that’s what I call mucus — er — music. Whisky Coca Cola is the best thing to happen to popular music since Elvis discovered that teenage girls are really into guys who play the guitar and sing. I can’t wait to see Whisky Coca Cola performed live at Coachella and Lollapalooza. These guys are going to bring the proverbial house down and steal all the ashtrays. The only thing left for them to play after that is the Superbowl halftime show, but they aren’t nearly washed up enough to play there. You have to be at least ten years past your prime and you can’t be any good to begin with.
This band is in the perfect position. If at least one member dies in a mysterious gardening accident they’ll be on the top of the charts in no time.
To be honest, this isn’t even that bad compared to most guitar shops. I have a theory that it’s worse when it’s just one or two people playing badly, as opposed to having ten or more people playing badly. When there’s that many basement shredders in one room it all just turns into sludge. When there’s only two or three you can distinctly hear what they’re playing. And it’s Stairway to Heaven.
I’m rather surprised there hasn’t been a single news story about a guitar store clerk going crazy and attacking everyone in a five mile radius. They must be made of much sterner stuff than we mere mortals. Also, I think it would be helpful to implement a “Buy Something or GTFO” policy at every Guitar Center. At least buy a bag of picks or a cyanide capsule. You know, something you need.