Hatecore, a Love Story

The entirely realistic dangers of working in the music industry.

Every time I strike a string I dare the devil to make an appearance, but he never shows. My lurid visions are inspired by a trance hidden in the rhythm, in the wailing guitar, the pounding drums. Everyone here looks taken by hell and filtered through cheese cloth laced with acid, in technicolor. Maybe its just me or the drugs, but they all look like carnivores. The stage lights beat on their chests and faces.

My vocal cords contort and I fire the air from my diaphragm, up through the false cords and out through my throat, the dive bar fills with auditory rage and the breathing walls scare me into a state of calm resolve.

My chorus ends and I see the sweat swing from lengths of hair and land on people behind who take it like a well paid prostitute with another satisfied customer. The human maelstrom swirls and I can't hear a word i'm saying anymore, I play the strings in awe of the repressed violence escaping in bursts. 

Flailing arms form breaking noses change to stomping matches and mashed man-b***s, and I don't miss a single line. As despicable the behaviors of these people I can hardly fight it, for they are mine. CPA's and garbage men side by side unleashing their abject humanity to the onslaught of my songs, there is a sweet irony in it that I enjoy. 

High on stage what I do pails in comparison to the art in front of me, my role is to read my script, to do the song and dance and that isn't art to me. What these beasts, these creatures are doing comes from within where art is born. If this is what my stupid little stage show provokes then maybe I am more of an artist than I give myself credit for. Who could say?

I strum the last power chord before the mixer comes in bridging the rhythm. I shake the numbness from my hand and take a swig from my bottle, which would be filled with water if I were a smart man, but I've planned an early death so as it happens, its booze. 

The moment arrives and I pump the low E string leading into the breakdown and the world spins. Everything is mute, with the rhythm low the roaring crowd mouths my words back to me, their jowls agape and their lips curl over bloodlust canines.

Mortal

Me

The monster

In

The mirror

My words reflected on the faces of my fans, who at this point know the meaning of the words far better than I do. Some of them have probably edited our wikipedia page.

Mortal

Me

The monster

In

The mirror

Something incredible happens, incredible because I hadn't expected it. One man joins us on stage and begins doing his best impression of a pissed off gorilla, and I realize what the meaning of love is. He throws his hands to the crowd, palms toward the drums and I look behind me. Pete, my longtime drummer looks terrified but doesn't stop playing.

The rest of the humans press against the stage and hands begin to lash out in front of me, the ones squeezed against the stage fight to get up. These are the people who love me.

More and more people manage to push themselves up through the mass of flesh as others climb over, I don't stop playing. I start the last chorus with more excitement than a kid at christmas as audience members grab at my shoulders and torso. 

The pounding of the bass drum stops and I hear cymbals crash to the ground, and I feel the stage collapse behind me, I feel nails cut through my clothes and tear at my flesh. Surrounded by horror, this is my family. 

I feel blood trickle down into my pants and I don't stop playing, what I feel isn't pain, but warmth, what the Buddhists might describe as enlightenment. I hear my bassist, John, screaming in agony and yelling my name.

"Ray! Raa.." his throat gurgled as it filled with blood. I couldn't stop smiling.

At last, the final roar, a full ten seconds of lung power escaping through my voice. As the audience crushes in around me I can feel my organs being rearranged and for the first time in my career the scream is genuine. 

My voice dies out among the blood-hungry lovers of my tunes, and as my mangled body is carried away a lasting, final truth brands itself in my brain.

You are the price tag for adoration. You don't belong to you anymore, you belong to those that engineer your reverence. 

Author's Note

First entry at writers cafe; don't hold back in your review I want to know your honest thoughts,

Reviews

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn..]

Don't let the white hair fool you ... This old man from Texas pounded the drums in many a band over the years as a rocker from way back, playing everything from Black Sabbath to Grand Funk Railroad--Don Brewer being my all time favorite drummer in the world ... That said, your pen has crafted an intriguingly interesting tale of band life on stage that takes a morbid twist towards the dark side of life--or I should say,the dark side of death ... This story should receive a good number of reads from the younger generation, as well as those old codgers like me who have not forgotten the thrill and exhilaration of performing for a live audience, for there is no feeling that quite compares to watching a crowd totally get into your performance ... A job well done ... I will share in more detail via private message ...