The semi-fictional chronicle of the greatest (or worst) band of our time. By our time I mean now. By now I mean the present. By the present I mean our time. You figure it out.
Since we've already seen all of the other main characters of the blog facing peril or simply be menacing for totally cryptic reasons, let's see what the final member of MFUJ has been doing during this epic epilogue series called May Day.
Slate was never what we would call a good guy. Or a smart guy. Or a likable guy. He was essentially a tattooed man with a big bushy beard and spiky hair that made viewers feel uncomfortable. He was the edgy band member who was responsible for all the unnecessary swearing, controversy and partial nudity (and not the good kind). Yes, he has really been a burden. He went after the Lunch Lady Mafia (and lost in a devastating food fight), he took pictures of his Amazon package and got in trouble (shameful display of cardboard) and he acted like a pretentious douche in webisode 1, an attention-starved idiot in webisode 2, a bluesy vagabond in webisode 3 and an idiot savant battleship player in webisode 4. Talk about inconsistant.
So what has happened to the least popular member of MFUJ, the world's most self-imploding, semi-fictional rock band?
Picture a light drizzle of late spring urban rain falling on a desolate alleyway. Inside that alleyway is a rusty old dumpster. Inside that dumspter is...the rest of this blog. Oh, I sure walked right into that one. Slate was now destitute, penniless and alone. And wet. The rain, remember? After being G Mod's obedient lackey within the band for years, Slate was cast out of the megalomaniacal (yes, we use that adjective a lot, so sue us. On second thought, don't. We have no money and all of our stuff is worth less than nothing; it'll actually cause you to lose money just by owning it) producer's good graces. Without any warning or even two weeks' notice (same thing?), Slate was thrown in the back of a van and dropped off at a random street corner.
Without a name to call his own (and his tattoos washing away), Slate stumbled past the streetwalkers and dealers (mostly black jack and occasionally Texas hold-em). There were bright lights and dark hearts everywhere. Yes, you guessed it. Slate was exiled to the late 70's / early 80's.Is a time travel concept the sign of a writer reaching the limits of his creativity? I won't argue with that. But c'mon. Slate stuck in an era of decadence and lawlessness? That's gold, Jerry. Gold.
But what's so great about being in this time? Well, it just so happens that a young band that is only a few years away from renaming itself to Super Mario and the Koopa Troopas was about to get on stage at CBGB's. We'll let you ponder the possible plotholes that might entail as we leave you for now.
Before the events of the May Day Saga were set into motion, a very distraught Brick went on to write an open letter to fans, critics and people who "accidentally" reached this blog and "accidentally" decided to read a bunch of entries because, well, it's on the internet and that's a public space and open to everyone. To whom it may concern,
You may know me as Brick but really I'm just a man with a guitar. I'm not special. I never set out to be special. Let the special people be special. I just know that I'm not one of them. And I'm fine with that.
I've been playing music on and off for half a decade at this point. Sure, in the early days I was only playing scattered notes and bar chords but my goal was to make music and I went ahead and did it, regardless of the outcome. I just wanted to play and I've been fortunate to get some support over the years for some of my work and I'm grateful to everyone who gave my music and honest chance and didn't just dismiss it outright.
For the record, I know that I'm a terrible musician. I never tune my guitar, I forget lyrics most of the time and I don't always hit the right notes. But none of that's important, at least not to me. I'm flawed, my music is flawed, simple as that. Some people only want perfection. Perfect = boring.
A computer can make anyone sound great and the rhythm will be the same throughout the song. Where's the fun in that? I'm more interested in the struggle of getting through a song. Finding new ways to expand or simplify it. It's not going to be pretty but it's what makes it interesting for me. Sadly some people only care about following strict rules and not about being in the moment or seeing music as a gradual process of discovery and improvement.
Suddenly it's a crime to document that process of musical discovery? If you don't want to watch, you don't have to watch. It's simple.
Music is such an open-ended form of expression. It can mean Opera. It can mean Experimental jazz. It can mean Noise rock. Hell, even a metronome is musical. It's got a beat, right? Sure some music gains wider favor amongst people. Of course people tend to gravitate towards highly polished, well trained musicians or highly processed but good-looking pop stars. Not many are interested in the ramblings of a third-rate punk rocker and his thoughts on music. I understand that.
I'm lucky to have the freedom to share my music with people using the web. Sure, sometimes I post songs that aren't of the highest quality, but it's me playing, me singing and it's my channel so I can use it as I see fit. Sure I could strive to achieve more polish to my sound but then it wouldn't be my sound. Even if I tune my guitar, and practice till the cows come home from work, I'll never sing beautifully, my playing will always be full of mistakes due to my own limitations. That doesn't mean I'll stop playing. Some of the old blues musicians played cheap out-of-tune guitars and sang out of key but I still find them much more compelling than today's auto-tuned stars.
Struggle is beautiful, it's inspiring. I don't want to sound pretentious. My music has always been about struggle. Me struggling to overcome obstacles whether they were in my life or within the song itself. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes I fall flat on my face, but it's my right to share that struggle and not be suppressed because it isn't perfect.
If you want to hear someone play a perfect cover of some classic rock song, you're in the wrong place. I'm not going to give you perfection. My music is honest in its raw, unadorned ugliness and that's the way I like it.
If you support me in my effort to get better, thank you. If you're only interested in being fashionable or fellating the egos of the perfect mannequins posing as music's biggest stars, then don't let me keep you from it.
And so we, the writers, have returned to the MFUJSF blog with merriment and joy. Wait a minute, that doesn't sound like us. We're usually either depressingly nihilistic or idiotically comical. Ok, now that we've finished beating ourselves up and leaving us vulnerable to the virtual vultures out there, let's get back to the blogging.
For those who are keeping score at home, this is part 2 of the May Day Saga.
As you may know from past entries (and if you don't, shame on you), Tigerman finally got a normal 9-5 job working on television. Now who would be crazy enough to hire a six foot tiger creature who plays the bass? Tiger International Channel, a cable channel catering to Tigers living far from home, of course. Now this wouldn't an MFUJSF story arc without some dark twist hiding somewhere 9otherwise why bother , right?) We'll get to that soon, but first...
Tigerman had been working for Tiger International for a few months now. Everyday was pretty much the same. He'd claw his way out of bed at seven for his morning grooming ritual. Then he'd feast on a gazelle or whatever's in the fridge before lunging out the door at nine. When he finally arrived, he'd flirt with the female security guard before taking the world's slowest elevator upstairs.
The actual office where Tigerman had been working was a tightly knit community that had reluctantly allowed the bass player to join their ranks. He was assigned a cubicle and given menial assignments to take up his time. But being hungry for meaningful employment outside a profitless rock band. Besides being slightly invisible to the fine ladies in the office (or completely invisible; he is a tiger and those stripes offer a great camo index) and doing the work of various higher level employees, he seemed content with his new life outside of obscure rock and roll music.
His eyes would grow weary, his paws sore and his neck stiff and strained, but he still kept showing up anyway. He had the newfound confidence present in those who have been given employment an he wasn't about to throw it away over some irrelevant detail like exhaustion. It was at this point, one day, when he was logging the upteenth "Tiger Movie Studio Presents" promos tape he remembered Shadow's fourth and final guide for new employees.
1) Just because you're employed doesn't mean you're out of the woods just yet. In fact, you're out of the woods and into the jungle. Welcome to it.
Tigerman reflected on the wisdom of this line as he pondered how complex the office ecosystem was. The managers were the head of the food chain, always wandering the halls as a duo, walking the fine line between friendly and oppressive.Next came the lovely ladies who strutted around the office in high heels and sub-designer clothes (I'm not sure that means what you think it means) whose beauty was eclipsed only by their incessant conversations amongst themselves. Then came the mid level editors and other essential staff... the very bottom is reserved for the sla... I mean interns. They're at the bootom. there ain't nothing foither, I mean further.
2) Keep a low profile by working hard without showboatingor rocking the boat (pretty much avoid boat metaphors) to avoid jealousy and scrutiny.
Yeah, Tigerman was pretty much doing a lot of work and keeping out of the spotlight, even as the company was now under new management. Tigerman had yet to see who the new boss was. Every time the new big cheese walked passed, Tigerman was busy reading timecodes or creating dissolves. But as the employees around the office began to slowly disappear one by one, Tigerman became increasingly more worried about who this mysterious new leader was. Tigerman's mentor at the company, a wise but sly jaguar, kept joking that the new boss was related to the MFUJ bassist but that seemed impossible.
3) Don't mess with the status quo. No one likes a trouble maker.
Looking outside of the little cubicle he had been given, Tigerman saw a bunch of the bigwigs gather in the conference room and he knew fro sure that the big kahuna would be in there. Using all the sneaky maneuvers he had learned from playing an obscene number of stealth games, he creeped (I believe the word you're looking for is 'crept' but whatever), crawled and tiger-rolled to the conference room door and pressed up against the wall. A few weeks earlier, he would have run into some colleagues along the way but they all seemed to have disappeared one by one and were never mentioned again. He drew a heavy breath and exhaled his antelope sandwich breath before pressing his ear to the door.
He heard a gravelly voice driving the meeting and some scattered protests from the various middle managers. Before he knew what to say, the meeting had ended and the door opened followed by a parade of disappointed middle-aged felines. Some noticed him standing against the wall so conspicuously but were too disappointed by the meeting to give a flying fig about the office idiot.
4) That man behind the curtain (or swivel chair)? Pay no attention to him.
Noticing that he hadn't seen the big boss leave, Tigerman entered the conference room and saw one swivel chair turned away from the door in the most ominous way possible. as he stepped further into the office, he hear the door, the person in the chair spoke in a familiar gruff tone like his voice had been shredded and then stitched back together with barbed wire.
"How are you enjoying your first real job? It's nice, ain't it? To be a part of the real world."
"I uh... I guess."
"You know, I expected a little more gratitude."
"Who are you?" asked the confuzzled tiger. Really? Confuzzled...oh, I get it. Fuzz. No, it's still not funny.
"Me? Oh, well. First you lose my sunglasses and now you've lost my name. I knew there was a reason that I never liked you.
"G Mod!" Tigerman screamed in horror as he ran to the door, only to see that it was locked and MFUJ drummer Shadow was blocking it. "E tu, Shadow?" he said with an equal mix of melodrama and betrayal.
"Sit down, pussycat," said the megalomaniacal record producer, "we have a lot to discuss."
Outside the office window, a huge stone tower was being constructed...
In a stroke of true stroke of storytelling genius, we will begin this story close to the end and continue over the course of a few blog posts as a big miniseries/flashback cluster****.
MFUJ HQ Mark II (You know, that place where Websiodes 3 and 4 were filmed) was now surrounded by hundreds of angry scholars, hipsters, anarchists and other frustrated unemployed individuals. The masses descended upon that isolated lake house like the Dark Side of the Moon on the album charts. And just like that album, they refused to go anywhere for a long, long time. We did mention them not having jobs, right? They carried with them picket signs and fury in their hearts. It was May and the local fauna was scared witless by the mob.
Inside, Brick, our reluctant protagonist who sold his soul for a band that essentially went nowhere except for a few meandering blog adventures, was in hiding on the second floor. The situation was desperate on both sides. Brick, facing the latest in a depressing long series of downward spirals, was unsure if this would his last stand. His band mates were nowhere to be found and it seemed like he would have to face the onslaught from the Occupy protesters all on his own.
That morning had been quiet. The sun had woken him with its golden reflection in the lake that sprawled outside his window. There wasn't even the slightest breeze to disturb the water's surface, leaving it in a rare state of stillness that unsettled Brick greatly. He knew it wouldn't last. Peace never does.
Unshaven, unkempt and drowsy as hell, Brick stumbled about looking for nourishment but the cupboards had become empty during his dazed state. Things had seemed to be getting better in recent weeks. He had gotten a reporting gig a few weeks ago.
The band had stopped functioning for a while but for that little window of time it seemed like Brick could see a life beyond his own self-destructive music.Unfortunately, however, progress seemed to be short-lived. Despite his excellent postproduction skills, the report failed to catch the attention of the Network or audiences. They felt that a reporter should inspire confidence rather than pity or disgust and hired a former model for the job. Brick returned back to HQ crestfallen and alone.
And so it had been for weeks as he slowly let himself go to the point where he knew not where consciousness ended and where delirium began. And suddenlyhe found himself alone against the horde for reasons he did not know or wish to comprehend. He could feel the collective breath of the protesters outside. It was heavy and it was out for blood, his specifically. In his mind, there was no retreat this time. He would have to face them...
