Kili-kili nyo Killers!
I would just like to express my sheer disappointment from today’s news.
Yesterday, I was telling a friend to keep the happy-happy-joy-joy link I shared with him for tomorrow’s sorrow. Little did I know that tomorrow’s sorrow had my name etched on it. In Helvetica bold and Pantone 1955.
This morning, I thought, the 31st is just days away; maybe I should start brushing up on their songs again. Hot Fuss was the only album I enjoyed immensely and in its entirety. The rest, imho, was blah save for some songs here and there.
See, I even created this playlist:
This was the grand plan, you see.
Read My Mind was playing when the IM popped and the bomb was dropped. There was no way but to respond to the news but with a crisp “ULOL.” I found the link, read it with disbelief. This can’t be true. Baka naman sa Singapore lang.
The most logical thing to do was to call the ticket sellers. Which I did because I can be logical too. I can hear the smirk of the girl on the other line. “Tuloy po. San po ninyo nakuha yang balita?” Hmm, let me see ah, in this ultrasupermega thing called the internet? Apparently, they aren’t online as it happens.
The tweets flooded, pointing to links that had the said press release. One was posted on this music channel’s blog. Okay. So. That’s. It. It’s. Oveeeeeeer.
Yes, I am so upset, I’m still shaking just thinking about it. My innards quiver in frustration. My blood curdles into the consistency of stale taho.
I shelled out a significant amount of money, and might have even paid more if people were in the same deranged plane as I am. Yes, that’s despite the little possibility of watching it for free. That’s how much I wanted to secure my place in the dusty grounds of MOA.
But more than the moolah, which should be refunded of course, a friend sums up what makes this whole cancellation shebang utterly disappointing & frustrating: Minsan na nga lang may pumuntang matino, na-cancel pa. Puro na lang tayo Pomeranz.
Yes, and add to that The Cascades: Still Alive, stress on the sub-title please, and The Beach Boys whose boys I’m assuming are already fathers to boys. We are hungry for our groups of our time, our Day and Age, whose songs we sung or danced to, whose lyrics we post as status messages in this very social networking site.
And so I ask you Brandon Flowers and company, how did it end up like this? Did it start with a kiss? I had a feeling the indefinite hiatus was a publicity stunt, so that you could rake in the bucks like Beyonce’s husband who retired but resurfaced.
I don’t give a damn if that’s the case; again, I was willing to pay. But no, Mr. Flowers and friends: today’s announcement was a crippling blow to your legions of fans, some who had the mananahi craft wedding gowns smothered with sequins and feathers, bought engagement and wedding rings, booked priests, and borrowed AK-47s and M79s for what could’ve been the marriage-proposal-shotgun-wedding-of-the-century. Ahem.
(Or is my marriage-proposal-shotgun-wedding-of-the-century the “unforeseen circumstance” you were referring to?)
Photo by Katrina PallonI’m sorry but today you’re not humans and neither are you dancers. Today, you are dunces. And yes, I say it with a smile. Because I mean it. Everything will not be alright. There may be no motive for this crime, yes but believe me Natalie, I am pissed. You can feel it in my bones. I may be on my knees looking for the answer but it’s clear: indie rock and roll has been stripped off its glamour. And you are not on top. Andy is not a star. It’s only natural.
And yes, it will be a long time before I’ll use your lyrics again in one deranged, disappointed, and dripping with disdain paragraph.
Tomorrow, fellow frustrated friends, let’s huddle at our usual spot in Cubao as we all shout, “Kili-kili nyo Killers! We will kill you!”
Raise your hands, sabay-sabay. Let me see your kili-killers, ayyy. | Photo via Marquee MagOh and see you on the 31st. Not of this month, but on March. Kings of Convenience are coming.
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