Huge shout-outs to all the cool folks that hang out on the boards.
Previously on BOTR...holy crap, they're going back to day one. There's everyone assembling in Chicago, hugging; we see DODES banging away on his keyboard; Amanda's throwing the horns and rolling away in a limo; in Cleveland, Daryl flips the bird and looks left as he makes a right turn into a parked bus; Pittsburgh; the college party when COFFEESTIRRER double-books and leaves HOLE-OH out of a gig, and Rebecca objects, and Boob is all like, "Yeah, we can do that. We just did." Jerk. There's a neat cut between Brandin yelling, "SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!" and DOODOO'S backup singers singing "shut up" prettily; Rebecca's cymbals are flaming out of control, and she gestures with her sticks to someone to put out the fire; Rex smashes his guitar. FLOWDES is cut from the tour. Nashville and New Orleans fly by, and ROLO plays "Blue Lie" and SHITCAKE plays on a balcony. Some highway footage rolls by, the road sign says Tampa, and we bid farewell to HARLOW. Sigh. Bye, girls! LICKERFLICK and SNACKCRACKER are left to duke it out in Miami; Beastie says his thing about "corporate yuppie rock" continuing to "reign supreme" if his band loses, and then the Dallas Goodfellas knock on his door and ask him to eat a little crow. That brings us up to speed, just about.
Here we are, season finale, 2:39 a.m. at Tobacco Road, the red-table-clothed blues bar. FUCKERFACE and BAINDESOLEIL are all knuckle-bitey and grim-faced. Oh, boo hoo! It's so rough! Being on a TV show and getting paid and all that! Let me get my tiny violin! The tour guy and gal explain the rules: The band has to eat all the worms and then lie in a coffin filled with rats and not move for thirty minutes. Just kidding. up for the bands is the Battle of the Bands, the purse for which is $5000. The audience votes on which band they like the best. Each audience member's vote is worth one point, except for a few specially-invited-by-VH1 music-industry "experts" whose votes are worth five points. Unless SUCKSOULER can raise $1,719 more than FUCKERLICK, the winner of the BoB will win the show. Wow, SC really sold a lot of fucking merch. They should open a store when they go home to San Diego. Maybe a Taco Bell franchise. Or a Radio Shack. ["Or an H&R Block, Bob." -- Sars] But wait, there's a bonus opportunity -- to play a rendition of the national anthem at a Miami Heat game. SHITSPITTER are stoked; FLICK, not so much. Corey dubs it "cheesy." Sutton says he's "psyched." And wait, there's another bonus opportunity. Sutton says he wants to win both of these opportunities, just like "we want to win everything." Maybe now's the time to think about the possibility that you may lose. Just consider it. Roll it around in your head for a while. Is it so bad? It is? Well, then, too bad for you.
In the SHAKERATTLEANDROLL van, Sutton babbles on about how he really wants to sing the national anthem and how he used to be "jealous" of people that got to sing it. Sutton? Dare to dream a little bigger. His band titters nervously. They know better than to bust on Sutton. I, however, don't care: I'm not in his stupid band. I know lots of famous people have sung the national anthem, and that it's performed before every sporting event and stuff, but! Singing the national anthem. Is. Not. Cool. And it's not cool to be all into it. Hell, every boy band and Jessica Simpson clone out there has done it. Has Weezer? I bet they haven't. So sorry, but I had to say it. SNACKCAKE practices and works out vocal parts and writes down the music and everything, and Beastie sits there smugly and says his band works so hard, and the other bands don't work and aren't focused, and he bets LICKERFLICK is just watching TV. I raise my middle finger to Baba Beastie just as we get a shot of FLICK…watching TV. Well, they sure showed me! But I still hate the CRACK. Brandin plays guitar all alone, trying to do an arrangement all by himself. The band doesn't even come with him to watch him sing.
Brandin walks down the hall, not skipping, not clapping, not all happy like he usually is. Even his white belt sags. In the audition, he sings a very sad but pretty rendition of the anthem. The judges clap. No "woo"s. CRACKSOULER are hanging around, licking their chops, grinning hugely. Beastie asks animatedly, "Did you smash your guitar?" What a dick. Brandin hangs out as they go into their rendition, which it kills me to say actually was pretty rockin'. Those fucks! But they did a good job. I still hate them, though! Not getting soft on you! The Miami Heat guys throw them a bone, saying they've heard hundreds of renditions and theirs was great. Okay, SOULCRACKER did a good job, okay? OKAY! Am I fired now? ["No. I liked their rendition too." -- Sars] They totally win it, Brandin says he's "relieved" to not have to do it, and we cut to a hysterical interview with Rex (who is looking quite mad, you know), who says, "Let me tell you a little story about bonus opportunities. THEY SUCK. Pure SHITE." Hee! And the VH-1 censors totally don't catch the word "shite," so it's unbleeped. Heh.
Bonus opportunity number two: "One of the hottest clubs" in Miami is "re-opening," and the first band to find this so-called hot club and confirm their booking gets to play the party. Oh, and models will be prancing around. At that salacious detail, Dom pricks up his ears. I mean, his cock starts stirring in his pants. I mean -- oh, there's no way around it. Dom runs and runs and leaves Rex and Brandin in his cologne-soaked wake as they wheeze, "No running!" Rex says, "Our lungs were BURNING." Hee. Sutton and Beastie duck into some restaurant and get help from the locals. Dom peers into a darkened nightclub just as Rex finds a flyer on the ground with the club address -- and they realize they've gone the wrong way. Rex and Brandin hop into a cab and collapse against each other all Patsy-and-Edwina-ish, Brandin gasping, "I'm gonna die." Beastie runs into the club, pushes his tongue against the club owner's anus, and confirms their gig. Fuckers.
The oh-so-steaming-hot-like-poo nightclub is called The Goddess, which sounds like a Chinese restaurant. It should be called The Panda Goddess, or The Golden Noodle Goddess, or something. Beastie salivates about how cool it is, and Fletcher and Dominic say defensively that hey, they were INVITED and are going to hang out "with the models or whatever." Hey, if they didn't go, I think I'd worry. But Dom takes his Valtrex twice a day, like the ad says, and can go swimming and horseback riding and to parties with models just like a normal person. SHITSPITTER takes the stage to a roomful of very thin, all-black-wearing, arm-folded, tight-lipped, rosy-cheeked-yet-severe-looking "beautiful" people. They plug their upcoming BoB gig with their "buddies FLICKERSTICK," at which Corey and Rex barf down their sleeves. "Buddies" -- yeah, right. Then they start playing that song that goes, "I'm a JERK, leaving you all by yourself," and the models prance out, and it has to be the most mismatched models-to-music I've ever seen. And I watch Fashion File a lot. It's just a bad match. Dom drools at all the scantily-clad females. Apey says they played a good set and that "people liked [them] even though they weren't a typical rock audience." God, Apey is so goddamn smug! He can tell everything about a person just by looking at them! Dom tries to hit on a model named Monica, but gets yelled at by the stage manager. Hey, he really needed to talk to her! It was important! Then Apey earns my pity by saying that they "got to look at really hot models" when they were done playing. "Look"? AP, there's this magazine called Vogue. You can "look" at models there. But when you're in the same room as a person? You can actually go up and talk to them. Maybe even dance a little, like Corey and Bob and Beastie and Ramsey are doing. See? You too can interact with members of the opposite sex! But don't do that little shooting the pretend gun, blowing it off, and sticking it back in the holster thing that Beastie does. That's just lame.
FLICKSTICKER decides to drive to Fort Lauderdale to try to get a gig to promote the BoB. Things are tense in the van; Rex's head is bobbing like one of those taxicab dogs. Dom's passed out drunk, and Corey yells at him. Dude, Dom's sleeping. He can't hear you. They roll up to a bar called Cheers, where a band is playing a twangy song. The lead singer/bass player is wearing a headset mike and HA HA HA HA HA! Sorry, I think Janet Jackson is the only person that can wear one of those and not make me laugh. FLICK sets up half-assedly, Brandin says to nobody in particular that Rex is in the van trying not to boot, and the band plays a terrible-sounding set (with Rex, who has apparently conquered the urge to speeyack). They have really bad sound. The bass drops out, the guitar drops out, and Dom is wasted. They start to fight on-stage. Oh, no. It's really bad. A lady walks up to the stage and asks if they "know any Offspring." Dominic, how about you? [rimshot] Thank you -- stick around for the reunion show recap! Dom keeps yelling, "It's falling apart!" A guy in the crowd shakes his head. Dom storms off-stage.
Back at the FLICK hotel room, a fight breaks out. Some dude -- a cameraman? A production assistant? -- is holding Corey back. Dom has a swollen nose. Brandin separates the two of them and says he's "disappointed" and that they picked the wrong time "to drop the ball. This is what they want! This is what they want you to do!" Seriously, the night before the BoB? Sure, the pressure is on, but don't lose it now! Dom acts like he did nothing wrong, and Brandin tells him to shut up. Dom tries to get another shot in on Corey and Brandin straddles him, yelling "shut up" a few hundred times. Then he gets off and says, "Shut up and go." Dude, can I just say I yell at my dog the same way? Although I like to say "GIT!" Then, with each guilty party banished to a neutral corner, Brandid says he's "disappointed" again. They should be ASHAMED of themselves. And GET OFF THE COUCH!
ASSPOUNDER trots off to play the national anthem. Can we stop for ice cream too? Please? No, we have to sell CDs? Aww.
In FLUSH'S hotel room, no one's talking to each other. Stress, pressure, yeeks!
My Bloody Valentine plays the song that was the anthem of almost everyone I know during 1991-2, "Only Shallow," as ASSLICKER'S van rolls up to the arena and Beastie-itis says he "can't think of a better bonus opportunity" than to play "The Star-Spangled Banner." What an ass-licker! I'm sure he's just saying this because Sutton said it was a dream of his to play the national anthem. Anyway, the announcer is all, "SSOOOULCRRRACKKERRR!" Bob doesn't close his high-hat cymbals at all, so it sounds like PSHH-PSHH-PSHH! But the crowd "woo"s and everything. "SSSSOULCRRACKERR!" They do a decent job, but Beastie is all over the place.
One hour to the BoB. There's a montage of SPOOLSPOONER slapping hands and hugging all the people they invited to come out and vote for them. How interesting that they never bothered to make friends in any other cities. I bet the people of Chicago and San Francisco and Cleveland and Memphis and Nashville and New Orleans and Pittsburgh are crying big fat salty tears right now. And by "crying big fat salty tears" I mean "thanking the skies above they didn't have to face Beastie and his giant teeth bearing down on them, talking shit a mile a minute and staring at them with his huge, bulgy eyes." FLICK hangs in the shadows in their black turtlenecks, swigging beer and looking scared. Fletcher says he's "disgusted" at how the CRACKHEADS are out in front of the club pressing the flesh and kissing babies and everything. Brandin says he really wants to win just because CRACK talked shit about them.
SOULCRACKERSANDCHEESE takes the stage first, opening with the Emeril song, as I call it, because Beastie yells out "BAM!" from time to time. Three people mosh. Quit doing that. Corey says in an interview that CRACK "forced themselves onto a heavy crowd." I'd have to agree. Where's the song about Sutton being so tired of being lonely? Or the "I-iii-ii-ahh! Did everything, you asked me to, and I-iii-iii-ahh!" song? I guess those don't play in "a rock room," as Baba Beastie calls it. So they play their stupid "hard rocking" tunes, and people clap and "woo." Beastie says Florida is "by far the tightest community of musicians and fans" he's seen on the tour, and they close with the "Staring At The Sun" song, on which Beastie no longer screams. Outside, Beastie says he "never felt so appreciated or at home, and [he] has to thank those people." I bristle at the use of "those people." Shut up, Beastie.
FLICKERSTICK'S turn. They open with the mellow, sweet song "Smile," which is not on their CD (and thanks so much for sending it to me, Julie! It rocks). The crowd nods their head collectively, then scream when the song is done. Corey says that "there is a connection between us when we're on stage, it's a connection, and it's undescribable." They bust into "Direct Line To The Telepathic." Dom trashes his drum set. Corey says, "The music is healing, and the experience of playing it heals us." Then he levitates and tells everyone to eat nothing but vegetables. Just kidding. As Brandin plays alone, CRACK hangs out backstage and call his song "Execution By Christmas Lights" an "audience killer." The crowd screams when he's done, though.
Judging time. Two five-point dudes say they voted for CRACKSOULER. Then the guy from Inner Circle (the COPS theme song writer! He's rich!) says he's voting for FLICK! "They're ready," he says. Dan from Anthrax says he's voting for FLICK, because his vote "always goes for the band that plays from their heart." It's too close to call, though.
The bands are told to assemble on a boat. In their van, SHITEATER says that FLICK are "a bunch of pussies" and will "be drunk and crying" when they find out they lose because they think that FLICK thinks that "it's inconceivable that [CRACK] is as good as [FLICK]." People, this is how the CRACK acts. When they come to play your town, know they're talking shit about the people they're driving away from, and will kiss your ass when they're right in front of you, and then will drive away trashing you. Grade-A, 100-percent assholes, with a lot of drive and a little talent and no heart at all. I wouldn't even go see them for free to make fun of them in person. Bob calls FLICK "pantywaists" and says he's "starting to kick some ass," and I have to laugh, because he is so full of shit that it's leaking from every orifice. Bob is such a tool. Bob is a toolshed. Bob is Home Depot.
The boat is very deluxe, with champagne and sushi and everything. The bands chow down and wait to hear who the winner is. FLICK hugs each other, and SUCK smiles smugly. The breakdown of tour earnings is:
FLICK: $6,947
SNACK: $10,894
CRACK has a lead of $3,947. Fuckers. But check this out:
BoB scores:
SUCK: 185
LICK: 218
FLICK WINS! FLICK WINS! And for the music! "We won for all the right reasons," says Brandin. And that smug fuck Beastie isn't even bummed. "The only reason I would have been upset would have been if we hadn't done our absolute best." Oh, so you worked like dogs and lost anyway and feel fine about it? Fine. Keep on living like that. You'll explode one day. Maybe you'll eventually learn that success is enjoyable too. Bob says he "didn't think FLICKERSTICK didn't deserve it." That's generous. Sutton says he thinks FLICK "are incredible." That was nice. Corey asks the unanswerable: "How did we make it?" Brandin points out that this sort of victory "can only happen in rock and roll." And thank god for that. Rock on!