by Andrew Sacher The new Muscle & Bone album, Peace & Light, comes out today (5/27) via Black Numbers. You can order it at the No Sleep webstore, but if you’d like to listen before you buy, check out the…
You can do the stuff where you listen to the entire new album we made, so do that stuff.
Alright, here’s another new Muscle & Bone track streaming over at Pitchfork (CLICK THE LINK) This song is simple and sad, don’t forget you can pre-order this shit over at Black Numbers (ALSO CLICK THAT ONE)
We’ve had a shit ton of plays on this,like more than i ever imagined in a day and i’ve only heard super nice things so right now, being in this band feels awesome. Start bands y’all, make music, create stuff and eventually strangers will take notice and it’ll feel really weird and you’ll get self conscious and make posts about it on the internet.
Hey guys listen to this it’s my favorite song right now!!!
Blen den den den den, dunh dunh dunh dunnnn
Some other fare got to the cab before Spencer could react. Shit! Now I’ll be late again, he thought. Walter is going to have a fucking aneurysm. He had always hoped that when he told people he was an actor, this isn’t what they would picture. Cut to Spencer screaming at yuppie ass-tasters about entitlement:
“Oh, no, please go ahead! I wasn’t waiting here for that cab.” Spencer offered his cab up to the asshole. This one was wearing a pink Vineyard Vines polo and khaki slacks. Judging by his scent, he had obviously spent last night marinating in a vat of Gucci Pour Homme and upon waking this morning, roasted himself to a light golden brown in a coffin lined with fluorescent lamps.
“Well maybe if you’d get off of your fucking phone, you would’ve been able to claim the cab before me, cock-sucker.” The asshole replied.
“I’m sorry, but I had to let the world know that I had just spotted a real life Ken Carson via Twitter.”
“Who the fuck is Ken Carson?” Ken Carson asked.
“You know, Ken Carson. Son of Dr. Carl Carson? Barbie’s boyfriend?” Spencer was shocked. At this point, he gave up on trying to teach Ken on how to be a decent human being and walked away.
Spencer claimed the next cab, which dropped him off at Lot C of Paramount Studios Los Angeles, and he finally arrived at his destination, Stage 8, at around 10:35am; 50 minutes late. He ducked into wardrobe before Walter could notice him. Spencer hoped that Walter at least wouldn’t be able to tell exactly how late he was. To Spencer, Walter was a terrifying man. He always wore sweater vests, he ate steak and eggs for breakfast every morning, and he had this huge mustache, far beyond the point of irony. Spencer often imagined the mustache being fake and that while fucking, Walter would remove the faux-mustache and stuff it into his partner’s mouth. He shuddered at the thought.
“Hi, Sally.” Spencer said, startling Sally, who had her back to him as he entered the wardrobe.
“Jesus! Hey Spence. You’ve gotta stop showing up so late. Waiting around on you keeps me from being able to sneak off for a smoke.”
Sally rolled out the cart of his outfit(s).
“You make it worse you know?” she said. “You could show up on time if you wanted. And calling him Walt to his face? Blatant disrespect. You’re lucky that he needs you, or you would’ve been gone after Season 2 like Punxsutawney Phil.”
Punxsutawney Phil was lovingly named so because of his fat face and frumpy body that made him look like the annual weather-forecasting rodent. It also didn’t hurt that his name was Phil, on and off of the set.
Punxsutawney Phil had a problem with the wardrobes from the moment that he started on the show, and made it his life’s work to convince Walter to do something about them. This ultimately led to his demise. Season Two, Episode Twelve—aptly titled, “Phil Gets Constricted,” was a joint effort. The writers needed a good cliffhanger for the Season Two finale, Walter needed a way to off Phil, and the good folks at the Everglades National Park in Florida needed to raise awareness about the dangers of the Burmese Python thriving as an invader species in their park. Since it’s introduction to the Everglades, the Burmese Python had found it to be an ideal habitat and increased exponentially in number, spreading throughout the Everglades and killing off the park’s native wildlife.
Enter: Phil. Upon a visit to the park with his family, Phil disappeared. Where foul play was originally suspected, Spencer’s character and his abnormally powerful detection skills found that Phil, had in fact, been constricted and swallowed whole by an eighteen-foot-long Burmese Python along with the outfit that he wore on each and every one of the then 25 episodes of SQUEAK.
The show was called SQUEAK, in ALL CAPS, which was ironic considering how it was the story of a nerdy detective with a keen sense of smell. One would think that the title should be “squeak” written in a child-like lowercase scrawl; like the “Andy” font in Microsoft Word. One would also think that the characters would have original names, not just the same first fucking names as the actors that play them. The outfits, however, were the worst. The actors wore the same outfit on every episode, much like cartoon characters.
“All done!” Sally stepped aside so that Spencer could get a look at himself in the mirror.
“Great work, Sally, you are incredible.” Spencer told her, not using sarcasm for the first time today.
“Where are you guys at in the series right now?” Sally asked. They both wanted to keep the conversation going, but were both terrible at talking to members of the opposite sex.
“Season 4, Episode 3,” Spencer said, “and it’s a real stinker. I’ve found that everything between the premieres and finales is just sub-par community-playhouse-grade filler.”
“Well, good luck anyway.” Sally said as Spencer got up from the chair to reenter the bowels of the beast.
Filming begins, and to Spencer it all just sounds like bullshit rehashed from previous seasons. Same structure, same outfits, same people, same outfits, same names, same outfits. It all blends in his mind. A kaleidoscope image of the brown plaid from Kid William’s shirt, the khaki from Geena’s blouse, and the salt-and-pepper mustache decorating Walter’s upper lip. Spencer’s mind twists and turns the colors into a vomit-colored stain which pulsates in his mind. He collapses in the midst of all of the bullshit.
Spencer wakes to the sound of a bird hitting his window. He imagines that some god somewhere gave one of its many-begotten birds just to wake him, to remind him to get back to the set. On his way back to the set, he wonders what kind of bird it had been. It couldn’t have been a bluebird, because Thoreau said that the bluebird carried the sky on it’s back, and the sky is still there. That big blue mat beneath which we’ve been swept. However, Spencer’s bluebird was more like Bukowski’s: drowning in whiskey and choking on cigarette smoke. He ran into Kid William on Avenue P, just in front of the set.
“We wrapped early for the day.” Kid William informed him.
“Goddamnit,” Spencer swore, “What for? We have to finish this season as quickly as possible. There is a zombie apocalypse coming in two years, and I just don’t think that we have fulfilled Walter’s vision of what SQUEAK is to become, and I want that done before the end of days.”
Kid William blushed, intimidated by his charisma. “Well I just read yesterday that when Z-Day does finally arrive, it isn’t as likely that the zombies would crave our brains as we all like to think.”
“We ALL?!” Spencer barked, “That is not what I like to think, Kid William. I like to think that the zombies won’t be reanimated corpses at all, but that the Zombie Apocalypse will actually be a day when the vast majority of the population gets so tired of being cultural failures; trying to keep up with trend cycles, ceaselessly ending up one trend too slow to keep up with hipsters, until they finally just say, ‘Fuck it’ and become addicted to crystal meth.”
K.W. asked, “What the hell are you saying?”
Spencer continued, ignoring his interruption, “You know, and so many people become addicted that society stops functioning properly. Before you know it, there’s no one left to work at the fast food chains because they’re all so tweaked out on ice. Without fast food, what’s left to eat?”
Kid William stared at him intensely, as if the end of days was beginning and Spencer was preparing to make a quarter pounder out of his innards.
He asked again, “What’s the closest thing to fast food, K.W.? That wasn’t a rhetorical question.”
“Human flesh?” K.W. replied timidly.
“Exactly. Human fucking flesh. So in all actuality, K.W., they never really craved our flesh at all, it’s just the only sensible alternative to McDonald’s.” Spencer concluded.
Kid William was miffed. “You’re an asshole, Spencer.”
“Say what you will, K.W., but the Ice Age is coming!”
He left Spencer standing in front of the studio.
Spencer stood in the lot alone, watching the clouds morph and dance across the sky like paraffin wax blobs in a lava lamp. Watching the misshapen fluffy white of the stratocumuli being carried away by the wind stirred something inside of him. I don’t need this shit anymore. He thought to himself. In what some may refer to as, “perfect timing,” Walt exited Stage 8 and was now walking over to him, coffee in hand. Spencer shifted his eyes from the clouds to another misshapen fluffy white: Walter.
“Walt, I’m sure you know that I’ve been unhappy here for quite some time.” Spencer thought that stating the obvious would be a good place to begin.
Walter chortled, “You’re a real charmer, you know that? Do you think that I really give a shit how happy you are? Do you ever wonder if I’m happy? Hell, is anybody happy?”
“I want you to kill me off. Write me off of the show. I can’t do this anymore.”
“Kill you off?! You’re the main fucking character, Spencer, how exactly do you suggest that I do that?” Beads of sweat had began to glisten on pale red cheeks, and in his exasperation, one side of his mustache had lifted away from his lip.
I knew that it wasn’t real! As Spencer silently praised himself for this stunning display of real life detective skill, Walter went yammering on about ungrateful Millennials, social networking, work ethic, et cetera. As he did so, his mustache separated itself more and more from his lip. Spencer eyed the monochromatic caterpillar dancing across Walter’s philtrum. At the end of his tirade, smug and satisfied, Walter took a giant gulp of his coffee. As he brought the mug to his lips, the mustache separated itself completely, allowing the coffee to carry it down his throat.
Walter began to panic, falling to his knees in the lot, retching and clawing at his throat beneath the beautiful blue sky.
“That’s it!” Spencer exclaimed, “that’s how I want Spencer to go!”