The last time I spoke with Brian, the hellfire within his nostril had matasticized and taken control of his mind, soul and body. It’s an unfortunate loss, but as far as I can tell, he can still rip the shit out of a B.C Rich. So until he lets me perform some backseat plastic utencil surgery, I’ll continue to champion the blog so YOU are always in the know.
Yes, the Oohlas are nice…and yes, the Oohlas are fun, but what he didn’t tell you was of their obsessive and perverse association with satan. While roaming the back alley of some venue in some city, I happened to notice Oohla songbird Ollie Hopnoodle snipping off a lock of a sleeping John Balicantas jet black hair with a pair of rusted (possibly bloody) scissors. I hid behind a dumpster and watched as she placed the snippet of his essence into a small plastic bag, a pentagonal star drawn in sharpie ominously detailed her devilish intent. I shuddered, how could such a pleasant young woman have duped me into thinking her a model songstress when really the ink of Diablo himself coarsed through her black veins. She stank of sulfur and the rot of a thousand mangled kittens. Could it be that the Oohlas were actually the musical mercenaries of the dark lord? I decided to further investigate, hoping beyond hope that I had stumbled upon a misinterpretation of a wicken ritual, those cats are down with trees and shit. I tiptoed out from behind my hiding spot with an unlit cigarette dangling from a pair of trembling lips, sure that she had not seen me. “Need a light love?” she said delightfully, her face bright with honey and hearth embers. I nodded, trying desperately to conceal my horror. With the flick of her pretty wrist, my Marlboro red began to smolder. Panicked, I sipped deftly as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but the taste of black magic was strong in the smoke. “I know you were watching me. I saw you, I see everything,” she said in a voice not her own. “Join us and you will posses the power that you so obviously covet, dear boy.” All of a sudden a fist grew tight around my rapidly beating heart, bringing me to my knees. “Ollie please no!” I stammered, but she did not relinquish her poltergeist grip. “I WANT YOUR SOUL!!!” she bellowed in a sub-bass moan, a THX worthy howl smothered in hot boar musk and sex-crime perspiration. Just then, as I could feel the good within me drying to sand, John leapt out from the shadows and struck her across the face with the backside of his hand, emblazoned with a tattooed black crucifix. She screamed and collapsed to the ground, her head buried in her hands. Writhing in agony, the pitiful Oohla cried out one final feral scream before her body burst into a cloud of black dust. I had known from the first show with the Oohlas that something was not quite right, their music was impossibly good and their demeanor far too fetching. They had sold their souls for rock and roll.