So I’ve got a work I tried to sell, but in the end I don’t think it would actually happen since it does reference a popular hit from way back when. Honestly, I love this song, and listening to it last Halloween made me really think things over. And since newer bands naming themselves after popular older songs is always in vogue, this came out of it. This is one of those bits of writing that formed simply by putting one word right after another until I was confident I had enough just to keep going with it until a decent end.
Just as a warning, there is some mild bad language and general references to the excesses of life. Drugs are bad. Stay in school.
Happy Halloween, folks!
So here we are:
Sons of the Purple People Eater (Or The Great Erick Shelby’s Last Hit Record)
by Patrick Anderson
in epub or pdf or just keep reading.
The drums, it’s the drums that are the key to a good band. These drums just aren’t working out. They’re the core of the band, and this core is playing at half the speed he is supposed to.
“Stop!” I yell into my microphone. “Just stop.” I point at Pete and crook my finger.
His bright, expectant eyes look back with deer-like wonder. I keep gesturing until he finally stands up from his stool and walks over to the door to the booth. My hand kills the mic.
“We’re recording!” I shout damn near loud enough the rest of the band could hear it through the soundproofing. “You can’t play it like in rehearsal?”
The small, skinny boy jumps and grabs his elbows defensively like I might hit him. I feel like hitting him. “There’s too much money sunk into this for you to fuck around. Do you hear me?”
He nods meekly before beginning to turn towards the door.
“I’m not done with you,” I snap. “Play it right.”
“’T’s our band,” he snivels in a near whisper.
“The fuck you think it is,” I jump up, pointing again. I hit “Play” on the board, isolating his drum track. “What does this sound like?”
He hunches into himself even tighter like he was about to curl up into a ball on the floor and have a good cry.
“Well?” I ask, feeling the rest of the band watching from the other side of the glass.
John comes over. He knocks. The new Strat that Wallace bought him hangs loosely around his neck. He gestures around himself. “Are we going to get back to this?” He yells.
Will, the bassist, put his instrument down and start towards the outside door.
I release the mic, “Okay, fine. Let’s take a break.” I was quickly losing control of these lads. I am sure George Martin had his days with his own favorite boys, but these boys are not the Beatles. They’re barely even Green Day, for fuck’s sake. Continue reading