So what might "Death of a Fly" conjure in my mixed-up mind, so cluttered after the collection of 43 years of cranial junk?
Well, informed of the famed Funeral for a Fly long ago by a thrift store Robert Ripley paperback, I cannot help but think of the darkened ruins of a mausoleum built on Equiline Hill by the Roman poet Vergil. I think of a common housefly laid to rest 2000 years ago in a massive marble catacomb with paid mourners feigning grief by torchlight as their wily patron looks for one of the most twisted tax breaks ever. And I think of Vergil himself, as emcee and chief eulogist for his supposedly beloved pet that night, wearing a tight black t-shirt underneath his tunic, stepping to the mic and wailing on about the "DEATH OF A FLY!" before stepping back and letting Hazelmyer take one of his quāālude freight-train solos.
The A-side of the Halos' sixth 7" is some of the greatest scuzz-rock in this half-acre or hell's, and Vergil would know, too. Tom Hazelmyer said that he wanted to play like Scratch Acid, but all his fingers could do was play Wayne Kramer. Don't let that fool you; like their conceptual forebears The Sonics and The Stooges, Halo of Flies will reveal themselves as damned good musicians on those occasions when you dig past the glorious aural sludge.
Garage rock became garbage rock and ex-Marine Hazelmyer's thinly veiled contempt for most on this mortal coil became the fuel for not just a lo-fi band with all the right modpunknoise influences, but also an entire goddamned record label--though let it be said right here and right now that I sure as hell don't go in for that 300-copy limited edition bullshit.
Anyway . . .
There was once a man who disguised himself as a housefly
and went about the neighborhood depositing flyspecks.
Well, he has to do something hasn't he? said someone to someone else.
Of course, said someone else back to someone.
Then what's all the fuss? said someone to someone else.
Who's fussing? I'm just saying that if he doesn't get off the wall of
that building the police will have to shoot him off.
Oh that, of course, there's nothing so engaging as a dead fly.
I love dead flies, the way they remind me of individuals who have met their fate . . .
That's a more recent poet, Russell Edson, and the name of the poem is "The Death of a Fly," encountered 15 or so years ago when Cerveza was snarfing down the profoundly weird prose-poetry of Edson like cough syrup or something. I doubt Vergil would have approved, but I have an idea that Hazelmyer would, especially the part about "individuals who have met their fate."
Halo of Flies - Music For Insect Minds - 04 Death Of A Fly.mp3
This file was removed March 13, 2009. If you're still way interested in coming up with a copy of this--and really can't figure out where you might get one--drop me an email and I'm sure I'll be able to figure something out for you.
File under: Garbage Rock