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A review by tommysyk
Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas by Fernando A. Flores
4.0
When I was in a band, my local punk and metal underground scene had long waned out. Shows were scarce, and whenever we got the chance to play one, more often than not it'd only be our friends and about a dozen other people in the audience. Still, that shared energy that erupted once the first chords were struck is unparalleled. It's always been, for me, both as concertgoer and as performer. We were fortunate enough to play a few shows for about two hundred people while opening for more established bands, and for me it was heaven. Whether we played well or badly, it didn't matter. It was commitment. When you get up on that stage, that feeling of brotherhood is a deep, piercing feeling.
It was a fleeting experience. Most local bands stay local bands and that's just the way it goes - strangely enough, I wouldn't have it any other way. Reading these short stories reminded me a lot of those times, the band practices spent talking shit about whatever subject came on, the mischief that ensued when we decided to play football indoors in neat and tidy backstage rooms, the cringey jokes spout at the microphone in between songs at live shows.
It doesn't matter if people remember it or not, as long as I do, much like the artists depicted in 'Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas'. To read these short stories was to swim in a pool of nostalgia, where the water's temperature is comfortable enough to linger still, almost aimlessly, just floating.
That being said, I'll always curse myself for not being born earlier. To grow up in that underground scene must've been something.
It was a fleeting experience. Most local bands stay local bands and that's just the way it goes - strangely enough, I wouldn't have it any other way. Reading these short stories reminded me a lot of those times, the band practices spent talking shit about whatever subject came on, the mischief that ensued when we decided to play football indoors in neat and tidy backstage rooms, the cringey jokes spout at the microphone in between songs at live shows.
It doesn't matter if people remember it or not, as long as I do, much like the artists depicted in 'Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas'. To read these short stories was to swim in a pool of nostalgia, where the water's temperature is comfortable enough to linger still, almost aimlessly, just floating.
That being said, I'll always curse myself for not being born earlier. To grow up in that underground scene must've been something.