Metro Pulse/Music/Eye on the Scene

Fester's Mailbag

Special correspondent Fester Bangs writes:

Greetings from Hell. I've been writing for the fishwrap currently wadded in your gnarled little paws for an entire three weeks now, and already I have feedback pouring in like so much untreated sewage from all parts of the globe. Which means I've received three whole letters (not counting the usual crank email from grandma) that apparently emanated from three entirely separate locations, amazingly enough, written by three—no less than three, count 'em—three different individuals, all of whom have different questions to pose to the ever-sagacious and magniloquent Fester. Slap my ass and get out the smelling salts; I guess wonders never cease.

Never let it be said that Fester didn't respond to his abhorring public. So I read 'em, every single shit-scrawled and misspelled word of these el-sucko epistles, and I'm answering them, in the fashion I think will best connect: using lots of profanity, and very small words. Christ, you people pain me.

Q: Dear Mr. Fester: Why are you so mean? You talked to that nice fellow Dugan from the Come-Ons, and you were terribly sarcastic and ugly to him. He's a very good person, even if he does pee the wrong color.
And those guys in Superdrag are so nice and so talented, but all you did was cuss them and make fun of them and show them disrespect. I think you're nothing but a bitter, pathetic old meanie. Why can't you say something nice for a change?
Billy, from Farragut

A: Well Billy, all I can say is that I am soooooooooooo sorry. After I read your letter, I plopped right down in my office chair and cried my little peepers out. That's right; Fester sat there in the middle of his busy, busy place of work and blubbered all over the nice things on his desk, like the coffee cup with the naughty pictures on the side and the green fungus growing in the bottom, and his favorite unregistered handgun, and those measly few five- and ten-spots he borrowed from other people's desk drawers...
That kind of thoughtlessness and ugliness just won't do, especially not in a nice family-oriented publication such as this one. I promise that from now on I will never again write anything that you or any of our other wonderful, nice, discerning readers will find unhappy or offensive in any way. You pussy.

Q: Dear Fester: I'm in a band, and I'm pissed off. How come nobody from your stupid publication has come out to write about us yet? We are brilliant, the best thing to ever come out of Knoxville; all of our moms, and most of our friends say so. In our first (well, okay, our only) show, we blew that Klezmer band right off the VFW stage. And our songs are so original, we don't even recognize them ourselves.
Just what the f___ exactly is your problem? We anxiously await your call.
Tobias, lead singer of Canker Sore, Fountain City

A: Toby, Toby, Toby. Would that old Fester and his cohorts over here at this lovely shithole I like to call Metro Pulse had the time to go stumbling into every garage, outhouse and toolshed in Knoxville and its outlying metropolitan statistical areas to get the skinny on all the many fine, fine, artistically peerless virtuoso genius undiscovered mega-talents such as yourself and your buddies in the Sore. Unfortunately, we have something I like to call "time constraints"; I won't go into a lengthy technical explanation of this concept, but what it means is that we don't waste our incredibly valuable work hours randomly wandering the city looking for indolent stupid-f- such as yourselves, most of whom have not even sought to get our attention by way of a letter, a tape or CD, or—god forbid—a phone call or email. On second thought, scratch that last part, because I really don't want to communicate directly with any of you.
At any time, you may choose to make contact with us via any of the aforementioned, and if the mood strikes us (i.e. you call enough times to make pests of yourselves) we may deign to stop looking at Internet porn long enough to speak with you. Or not.

Q: Dear Mr. Bangs: I am a freshman journalism student at the University of Tennessee, and I would like know what is the one trait which has most enabled your long and outrageously successful journalistic career?
Anthony, Hess Hall, University of Tennessee

A: I'm glad you asked that Anthony. I would have to say that the secret to my success lies with the abundant goodwill I harbor for my fellow man, with the wellspring of love and humanity and kindness that resides within my breast, with the feeling I get when I wake up every morning, and think, "This could be the day that I really make a difference." Now go f—- yourself.

Emma here: Fester, while long on charm, can be a bit short on details. If you have any desire to get in touch with him or me, write down your deepest thoughts, stuff them in an envelope with cold, hard cash (or a CD or some gum or whatever), affix proper postage and send it to: 505 Market Street, #300; 37902. Or you can email me at [email protected] and I'll make sure to pass it on to Fester the very next time he is conscious. Thanks!

Go.

(You know the drill. See the Calendar for the details.)

Thursday: Femi Kuti at Blue Cats.

Friday: Vance Thompson Quartet featuring Paul Haar at The Platinum.

Saturday: Old Crow Medicine Show at Laurel Theatre.

Sunday: Edward Kellogg's Tennessee landscapes at Hanson Gallery.

Monday: Make apple butter.

Tuesday: See Through Human (formerly Surface) at The Pub (formerly Campus Pub).

Wednesday: DJ Storm returns to Fiction.

—Emma "Poodle Juice" Poptart