Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas, Vol. 1

by Fernando A. Flores

McAllen, Texas is the indie-rock capital of the world; or at least it would be, if all their bands didn't have the pesky habit of disintegrating before ever having their first big success. That's the central premise of Austinite Fernando A. Flores' literary debut, and anyone who's ever pawned their guitar to buy more beer will find much in this book to celebrate. Working from the conceit that all acts of creativity are vital to human happiness, no matter what the public reaction, Flores presents a smorgasbord of interconnected tales about artists who can't quite seem to get their act together--from the performance artist whose most important work was only ever seen by five people, to the revered punk singer who never recorded a single album, to the bar band who accidentally become pawns of a local political campaign--and shows how in all these cases, the mere existence of these artists is a magical antidote against day-to-day ennui and adversity, and that it's actually the rest of the squares who are the true bullshit artists. By turns hilarious, heartbreaking and infuriating, this compact story collection is a loving ode to small-town music scenes in all their messy glory, and a welcome slap in the face to our "Yes We Can" times.

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction, Music, Contemporary, Anthologies, Mental Health

128 pages, Hardcover

First published March 2, 2014

About the author

Fernando A. Flores was born in Reynosa, Tamaulipas, Mexico, and raised in South Texas. He is a college dropout, avid film photographer, occasional screenwriter, and makes his living in Austin, Texas, doing all kinds of things.

Reviews

[Jonathan Katabira · Rating 5 out of 5]

I don't think I'll ever read anything like this ever again. Effortlessly cool, beautifully written, surreal and punk as fuck.

[Charles Dee Mitchell · Rating 4 out of 5]

Flores gives a discordantly strident title to this book of stories that reveal a genuine if at times bemused affection for his characters. The setting is McAllen, Texas, a city on the Mexican border in the far south of the Texas Valley. I live in Dallas, Texas, and have never been to McAllen. But of course, Texas is a big state and McAllen is a world away. Is it a large, small town or a small, large city? I have never really known., nor for that matter really thought about it. Flores’ stories, set it seems in the early 1990’s, create a setting in transition, with the old downtown giving way to malls and a population of restless youth who like the generations that have preceded them are finding their way through the local music scene.

Who knew that McAllen, Texas, had a thriving punk rock scene and an audience ready to embrace it, even if at times warily. Flores’ characters are teenagers or in their early twenties. In most of the stories a small group comes together to play some music, often with little thought of performance. When they do perform it’s as though they need an outlet for their encyclopedic knowledge of the music that has gone before them. There is a club circuit of sorts and house parties. My favorite venue is the best hotel in town where a group can whip drunken wedding crowds into an ecstatic frenzy.

Then something always goes wrong. But these are these kids’ first bands, and you can’t expect them to last. Drugs and alcohol can play a role, but Flores’ book is not a chronicle of debauchery. One band is done in by their brush with small town politics. In the opening story, a group destined to attain legendary status in the Texas Valley comes together, becomes famous enough to attract a local record producer, and then evaporates. What has gone wrong? It’s had to say anything more than that their moment has passed and they have the wisdom to know that. At least one of them has the opportunity to visit with some one who just might be the ghost of Bill Haley.

Flores narrates his stories with a this-happened-then-this-happened-then-this happened objectivity that captures the passivity of his characters as their small world first embraces but then casts them aside. These young men, and they are mostly young men, can be resilient but they are also fragile. You are left wondering if they will be looking back on these events as the best moments of their lives, or as distant memories of something that they just happened to do back when they were kids.

[Lori]

I won't be rating this because it's a book I am promoting. But I will gush about it and tell you all the reasons you should pick it up! For starters, it's got a smoking bunnyman on the cover. Hello?! Fernando A Flores does the indie punk rock scene right with a mish-mosh of hard core, sometimes silly (but totally in a cool edgy sort of way) short stories that dive into the drinking, drugging, and dysfunction of it all.

We're giving away free e-copies for review, so hit me up if you'd like to review it here on Goodreads. I want to feed your reading addiction with some great short fiction!

[Lori]

This is fucking hilarious. I was at AWP this weekend and walked past a cool ass looking publisher's booth. I wasn't familiar with Host Publications, but their covers were pretty badass so I stopped and gawked. I ended up buying this title because of its cover and because it sounded right up my alley.

Wanna piss yourself laughing?

I'm sitting here getting ready to log it into goodreads and I'm thinking to myself, damn, this title sounds soooo familar. And as I pull it up, I see the original cover and edition from CCLaP back in 2014. Would you fucking believe I did publicity on this title for the publisher back then? How the hell could I have forgotten!? That was back before I really knew what I was doing, and holy shit, what a flashback! So thrilled to see it out in the world in a new way with a new publisher!

The original printing: https://www.goodreads.com/review/show...

[Brian · Rating 5 out of 5]

This collection contains the best fiction I've ever read on what it's like to be young and play in a rock & roll band. Particularly the lead story, "The House Band for the Hotel Cuerpo de la Paz." In general the stories occupy a beguiling nexus of plainspokenness and poetry, realism and fabulism, specificity to the Texas scene Flores chronicles, and universality to all artists everywhere. Looking forward to reading more from this author.

[Robert Boyd · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is the last book I read in 2019. It was a Christmas gift from my sister. A book of short stories, it started off so matter-of-fact that I thought I'd get bored by the end. On the contrary--Flores has written a series of stories about a bizarre series of artists--some self-aware, some highly instinctual, living and having adventures in the Rio Grande Valley. I want to know these people, drink with them, discuss music and books and performance art with them.

[Benoit Lelièvre · Rating 4 out of 5]

DEATH TO THE BULLSHIT ARTISTS OF SOUTH TEXAS, VOL. 1 was an enjoyable little oddity I was able to knock back in a day, due to a long commute in public transportation. The dialogue-less stories of Fernando A. Flores read like something halfway between a journalistic report and local folklore. Flores describe a very peculiar, idiosyncratic way the career arc of several type of bullshit artists: the hotel band, the self-destructive punk rock band on a political crusade (which was my favourite story), the performance artist, etc.

The object Fernando A. Flores' stories is not art or redemption through art, but the existential drifting process that drives a person to dabble with artistic pursuit. The delivery of these stories is quite particular, but they all share a certain laconic beauty. A muffled, thumping melancholy that unites the often nameless character and draws thematic parallels between their adventures. DEATH TO THE BULLSHIT ARTISTS OF SOUTH TEXAS, VOL. 1 is not the iconoclast, rebellious read that I though it would be but it speaks loud to whoever took art seriously at one point.

[Sonia · Rating 4 out of 5]

love! a collection of (fictional? pretty sure..) stories about the south texas music scene — some irreverent, sad, hilarious, lonely, surreal, magical. i personally am a sucker for slice of life stories about specific characters and their little worlds so this was a perfect book for that. some of the longer stories dragged a bit at parts but that was really no match for how enjoyable i found everything else to be. punk is not dead🫡

[Jason Pettus · Rating 5 out of 5]

FTC DISCLOSURE: I am the publisher of this book.

This collection of stories about failed punk bands and other artists in the same small southern Texas town is coming out from my small press (the Chicago Center for Literature and Photography) on Monday, March 3rd. As always, there will be a free ebook version you'll be able to download at [cclapcenter.com/bsartists], starting on release day, so I hope you'll have a chance to check it out. We're also handing out free advance copies to anyone at Goodreads who promises to write a review of it here, so drop me a line at [cclapcenter at gmail.com] if you're interested. This will definitely be our funniest and most crowd-pleasing book of the year!

[Peter Landau · Rating 4 out of 5]

A friend posted that he got this book as a gift and loved it. I can see why. The stories about people being weird and creative without career and other constraints led these tales in odd but believable directions.

[zack qureshi · Rating 5 out of 5]

Beautifully distills the essence of punk with an intimate mosaic of Texas and Texans.

[Grace · Rating 5 out of 5]

I do wish I could go to all these shows. I liked the surreality/punk bridges- I often forget about that nexus.

Bread8 forever!

[Paolo Latini · Rating 5 out of 5]

https://americanorum.wordpress.com/20...

Musica e narrativa hanno da sempre avuto una relazione particolare, o se non da sempre, almeno da quando la musica, sotto la sua forma più popolare, è diventata parte dello stesso immaginario da cui gli scrittori attingono per costruire le loro storie. Questo lo sa bene Jonathan Lethem, che non solo ha scritto pezzi di carattere musicale e un intero libro su un disco, ma ha anche usato la musica che ascolta e ama come ingrediente fondamentale in alcuni suoi romanzi: la rock band che aleggia sullo sfondo di You Don’t Love me Yet, l’ossessione con Prince del protagonista di Motherless Brooklyn, il soul e il rock degli anni settanta su The Fortress of Solitude. Non è l’unico a costruire un immaginario narrativo su esperienze musicali: Stone Arabia di Dana Spiotta nasce dal folk folle e iperprolifico di reclusi geniali come Jandek, Daniel Johnston, R. Stevie Moore, oltre che da dischi “fatti in casa” come Oar di Alexander Spence, McCartney I di Paul McCartney o Emmitt di Emitt Rhodes; Shotlung Lovesong di Nickloas Butler non esisterebbe senza Bon Iver né il recente Destroy All Monsters di Jeff Jackson senza i Destroy All Monsters e molto post-punk, sebbene venga usato in forma astratta, senza che nel libro venga citato nessun vero disco di nessun vero gruppo.

Ma esiste anche un percorso inverso che dalla narrativa va alla musica. Su Sister e Daydream Nation dei Sonic Youth ci sono pezzi ispirati da Williams Gibson, da Philip Dick e da Denis Johnson (apertamente citato su The Sprawl), i Velvet Underground hanno fatto pezzi ispirati da Hubert Selby Jr., oltre che dalla novella Venus in Furs di Leopold von Sacher-Masoch, e uno dei pezzi più belli e famosi di Kate Bush è espressamente una versione di Cime tempestose in formato canzone.

Tutto questo viene condensato e esemplificato nella novella “The Exit and Arrival of Beebee Kwaiczar” di Fernando Flores, dove il Beebee Kwaiczar del titolo ha iniziato a fare musica seguendo degli impulsi che gli sono arrivato dalla lettura dell’opera di fantascienza dello scrittore (fittizio) T. S. Cortada: prima di Cortada, Beebee vedeva la letteratura come “qualcosa di lento e esclusivamente bucolico,” ma dopo aver saggiato le potenzialità escapiste della fantascienza e generi limitrofi, ha visto chiaramente come anche la musica potesse e dovesse cercare una realtà aumentata non necessariamente plasmata sul quotidiano.

Quella novella fa parte di un intero libro, Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas, che contiene dieci racconti—o favole, come vengono poi definiti in quarta di copertina— e tutti più o meno orbitano attorno a band più o meno fittizie della scena musicale più oscura e alternativa nella Rio Grande Valley nel Texas Meridionale, a ridosso del confine col Messico.

In realtà esiste una prima edizione del libro, pubblicata in una tiratura limitata a duecento copie col titolo leggermente diverso Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas Vol. 1 da CCLaP (ossia Chicago Center for Literature and Photography) nel 2014 e che conteneva sette dei dieci racconti presenti nella seconda edizione del libro per la texana Host Publication, che a quei sette aggiunge il già citato “The Exit and Arrival of Beebee Kwaiczar,” “The Eight Incarnation of Pascal’s Fifth,” già pubblicato come stand-alone sulla rivista Huizache, e “Black Alice/White Treemonisha,” ossia i tre racconti più complessi e che iniziano a dialogare con temi legati all’immigrazione, alle culture di confine, all’identità meticcia che poi Fernando Flores metterà al centro del suo primo romanzo, il pur convincente noir con elementi fantascientifici Tears of the Trufflepig (di quel libro ne parlo un po’ qui.)

L’idea di pubblicare una serie di racconti a metà tra la cronaca di una realtà sommersa e un bestiario surreale su dei reietti marginalizzati nasce dalle tante liste di band texane che si possono trovare in giro da quando esiste internet. In un’intervista per Texas Monthly, Fernando Flores nota come quella stessa rivista avesse da poco pubblicato una di quelle liste (qui: https://www.texasmonthly.com/list/the...) e avesse sentito il bisogno di una “lista alternativa,” una che contenesse “le grandi band underground del Texas che nessuno conosce”: questo è esattamente quello che ha fatto Fernando Flores l’anno precedente e si apprestava a ripubblicare tre anni dopo in una forma ampliata. Le band protagoniste dei racconti di Death to the Bullshi Artists of South Texas sono tutte finzionali, ma si può riconoscere l’attitudine punk e noise di Butthole Surfers o Millions of Death Cops dietro gli ERIKKLAPTON, e, per chi li conosce, non ci vuole molto a capire che i finzionali PInkbag siano in lì in rappresentanza dei reali gli Inkbag, così come i Crispon Glover Death Wish lo sono dei Charles Daniels Death Wish. Pare anche che proprio gli Inkbag, non esattamente adulati da come sono stati ritratteggiati come Pinbag, abbiano promesso vendette violente a Flores nel caso si fosse fatto vivo a uno dei loro concerti.

Ma i gruppi rock ai confini tra punk ultraoltranzista, estetica fieramente DIY e sperimentazioni che spingono il suono ai limiti dell’accessibile, servono soprattutto per dipingere e tratteggiare più che un’estetica un’etica del confine, del migrante diventato emigrato, di chi vive nella nuova frontiera americana, che da ovest si è spostata per certi versi a sud, di chi ha il problema non di dover definire e adeguare la propria identità in un tessuto sociale che non si può controllare, ma di dover amalgamare e far convivere due diverse identità in un tessuto sociale meticcio e caotico, e con quelle due diverse storie, quella del paese dei genitori e quella del paese nel quale si trovano a vivere, fino a rendersi tragicamente conto che avere due identità può significare non averne nessuna.

I protagonisti sono anti-eroi, tutti in cerca di un mondo di esprimersi, come l’adolescente balbuziente e bullizzato che trova un modo di esprimersi solo urlando e strepitando in un gruppo hardcore su “The Lead Singer of the Short-Lived Unknown Band ERIKKLAPTON,” o come Liliana Krauze protagonista di “The Performance of Lilian Krauze,” che cerca di dare voce nella e con la sua musica sperimentale, bellissima quanto brutale, alla “sensazione di osservare e non essere capace di capire ciò che sta accadendo.”

Così i membri della band del primo racconto, “The House Band for the Hotel Corpo de la Paz,” è una band che non ha propriamente un nome, i cui membri vengono presentati non per nome ma per una loro caratteristica familiare: Il Figlio dalla Madre Single alla chitarra solista, Il Figlio del Meccanico a quella ritmica, Il Figlio del Pubblico Ministero al basso e il Figlio dell’Agente di Custodia alla batteria. Nessuno ha un nome e nessuno ha un’identità, non cercano l’approvazione di nessuno, finché uno dei membri del gruppo non “lasciò entrare dentro la luce del mondo esterno,” e i quattro ribelli smettono di cercare un’identità e finiscono “come scienziati soddisfatti di aver preso parte a un esperimento e di aver in qualche modo dimostrato qualcosa all’umanità,” anche se questo qualcosa resterà nascosto con loro.

La stessa ricerca di identità immune da ogni compromesso è palpabile nei Legalize Wino, ossia i protagonisti (fittizi) del racconto “The First Ever Punk Band in the World (Out of Raymondville),” cioè una punk band che come tutte le punk band che si rispettino vuole essere la prima vera punk band del mondo nella convinzione che tutte le altre punk band non siano in realtà punk, e che il punk era “qualcos’altro, anche se poi “quando gli chiedevano cosa fosse questo qualcos’altro non sapevano mai cosa rispondere.” E in piena e perfetta sintonia punk, passeranno nel tempo e verranno ricordati come una leggenda nascosta chissà dove.

Sperimentalismo quindi: caratteristica comune a tutti i racconti c’è una tappezzeria fatta di storie, narrativa, vita vissuta, tenuta insieme dalla musica come elemento espressivo dominante, l’unico capace di rompere i codici in modo più feroce e efficace, e forse anche quello a cui il pubblico, abituato all’ordinarietà, ha la reazione più ostile e rigida. È la doppia contraddizione: artisti che cercano la rottura ma vogliono restare all’interno di un codice riconosciuto, e pubblico che vuole originalità ma nei limiti dell’ordinario abitudinario. Contraddizione che viene rotta da chi cerca “qualcosa di più di una hit per le radio” nelle esternazioni psichedeliche e oltremondane di artisti che vivono ai margini, artisti che “critica e pubblico descrivevano come talentuosi, impegnativi, ma profondamente inascoltabili.” Inascoltabilità che qui, in questi racconti, si traduce nel tentativo di raccontare una realtà che pochi vedono e della quale, probabilmente, non resterà traccia alcuna.

Il punk è musica che nasce per essere suonata dal vivo e ascoltata dal vivo, come le sperimentazioni elettroniche e avant-garde spesso assumono l’aspetto di vere e proprie “installazioni” da cogliere nel momento, tutto questo vive in ambienti labili a alta volatilità, dove niente può la “riproducibilità tecnica” invocata da Walter Benjamin. Quella musica sperimentale assume quindi le stesse caratteristiche dei miti tramandati oralmente, delle leggende che si perdono in tradizioni morenti, tracce tribali cancellate dal tempo e dall’entropia. Questo rafforza il carattere “favolistico” dichiarato in quarta di copertina, carattere che si fa mano a mano evidente, e prende il sopravvento forse nei racconti aggiunti nella seconda edizione, soprattutto “Black Alice/White Treemonisha” e “The Eight Incarnations of Pascal’s Fifth,” che diventano più surreali, fanno largo uso di tecniche vicine al realismo magico, senza scivolare in quei cliché, e si avvicinano ai maestri della narrativa sudamericana come Borges e Bolaño. Dead to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas non è solo una raccolta di racconti: è anche una raccolta di stili e modi di scrivere racconti, si va dal cinematico, al racconto di formazione, al post-moderno al surreale. Diversi stili ma con una voce distinta, una voce che cerca di dare voce a un mondo che nella sua transitorietà resterà vocazionalmente sepolto nelle piaghe della storia.

[Blake · Rating 5 out of 5]

Such a joy

[Scott Navicky · Rating 5 out of 5]

Being a member of CCLaP’s extended family, I fully expected to enjoy reading Fernando A. Flores’ Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas. After all, it’s not uncommon for writers who are published by the same press, like artists represented by the same gallery, to share an aesthetic sensibility. That said: I was shocked by how much I not only enjoyed, but personally related to Flores’ stories. How did this happen? Having grown up in Southeastern Ohio, I have only drunkenly stumbled into Texas twice in my life; and yet, Flores’ stories and characters were instantly recognizable to me. Such a collapsing of geographic distance is no easy thing for a writer, and Flores does it effortlessly.

Other than a publisher, what do Flores and I have in common? To begin with, we’re both serious music fans. And when I say this, I mean compulsive, downright fanatical music fans. To borrow a phrase from the story “Pinbag,” as a music fan, I pride myself on not wearing “that Ramones shirt everybody has (you know which one).” And as a writer, Flores doesn’t wear that shirt either. A flood of musical miscellany surges through every page of Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas. Here’s a very small sampling: Huddie Ledbetter, Blind Willie McTell, Charley Patton, Nirvana’s Come As You Are, Weezer’s “Pinkerton” (I loved that album!), Seven Nation Army (I’m a HUGE White Stripes fan), Cat Power, Iggy Pop, Tom Waits’ “The Black Rider” (an often-overlooked gem), Teenage Jesus and the Jerks (I’ve snickered over that name many times), Bill Haley, and Buddy Holly. (For the love of Peggy Sue, why didn’t Cambridge, Ohio have a Buddy Holly lookalike contest for children? That would’ve been mine for the taking!)

But before I get too carried away, I should pause to clarify something. While Flores’ stories are primarily about music, they’re not about the glamorous side of the music industry. They’re not about fortune and fame, national tours, magazine spreads, groupies, or champagne brunches. They’re about people who live in trailer parks, work dead-end jobs, and drink too much too early in the day. There’s a common appellation for such people: losers. Perhaps you grew up around such loserdom: I sure did. (And if you’re not sure, here’s a good way to tell: do you know anyone who has ever donated Plasma? If so, welcome to the club!)

But the truth that reverberates out of every garage from Southwest Detroit to Southeastern Ohio to South Texas is that losers aren’t losers if they’re in a band. Being in a band is the greatest negation to loserdom ever invented. People who are in bands have something to be proud of. They’re not losers: they’re musicians. And their friends aren’t losers either: they’re bandmates. The collective feeling of being in a band makes people feel different, act different, be different. Flores captures this feeling perfectly in the collection’s opening story, “The House Band for the Hotel Cuerpo de la Paz,” when he says that the band felt, “like together they could have done anything…overthrown the government of a small nation…started a new wave in cinema or could have organized their own religion or cult or been professional gamblers or Wall Street prophets or valiant nights or the actual James Gang in the old west.”

A similar intense camaraderie is apparent within the band Bread8, whose unexpected involvement in a local election propels Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas to its crescendo. For the majority of Bread8’s story, the narrative appears to be accelerating towards a happy ending that involves a voter registration drive, a documentary film, and redemption. But near the end, as political chicanery turns into full-fledged political douchebaggery, any hope of a happy ending is dashed. Amidst the wreckage, Flores deftly ends the story by sounding a sad, realistic note of near-redemption and uttering a hilarious joke about a “male vagina.”

And while “Bread8 v. Copal Brandt (R.)” may be the collection’s crescendo, I suspect Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas’ overriding anthem appears within the story “The First Ever Punk Band in the World (Out of Raymondville).” In this story, Flores describes the short-lived punk band Legalize Wino, who sought to forge a career using “vague ideals and relying mostly on rawhide primitive instinct.” Such ideals and instinct are what fuels the youthful drive to create art; and thus, they’re the single most defining features of any artist’s aesthetic sensibilities.

(And by the way: how great is that cover?)

[Bradley Gamboa · Rating 5 out of 5]

Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas Vol. 1 by Fernando A Flores is not just a collection of short stories about the indie punk scene in South Texas. It is a ode to any one who has ever seen joy in listening, watching, or creating works of art anywhere! It gives a voice to those who brought joy to our lives even if it was just a short period of time. Long live the bunny man! Download & Buy here! Rate here!

[Houlcroft · Rating 5 out of 5]

Flores’ writing is playful, sparse and raw, the characters rich and detailed, with the stories seeming to trap just a moment of their wider lives, while the music vibrates off the pages. I loved the subtle nods to real bands almost as much as I loved the names of the fictional musicians and groups.
To list my favourite stories would do the collection disservice, (but they’re definitely ‘The House Band for the Hotel Cuerpo de la Paz’ and ‘The Exit and Arrival of Beebee Kwaiczar) Honestly, one of my favourite books this year.

[Markus Molina · Rating 5 out of 5]

This is an amazing book that really captures my home, south texas, the valley. It is all about musicians, or more generally, artists, and because of that, it really resonated with me. Fernando Flores really did the damn thing! He captured what it's like growing up and playing music there. I enjoyed all the short stories. I can't wait to read more from him.

[Ted · Rating 5 out of 5]

Short stories.. some are like Roberto Bolaño meets Donald Barthelme..

Leonora Carrington shows up.. but no Remedios Varos.

[Tyler McGaughey · Rating 4 out of 5]

Institutional centers of learning can teach you craft but they can't teach you heart, they can't teach you inborn energy. Just like with the fictional homemade punk CD-Rs this book ardently chisels in the stone annals of history, the frequent absence of polish in the sentences is easily overlooked in favor of the abundant passion and electricity, the snarls of the forgotten and oppressed, the sheer levitational power of creating something new. The first story in here - "The House Band at the Hotel Cuerpo de la Paz" - is one of the best short stories I have ever read. Beautiful Texas literature.

[Dylan]

I really wanted to like this, but it just didn’t click with me. Felt like a watered down version of David Keenan’s This is Memorial Device (another surrealistic love letter to a niche punk scene), so maybe go read that one instead.

[Tessa · Rating 5 out of 5]

I tore through this, the stories are so evocative and sweet and sad and funny.

[D2long · Rating 4 out of 5]

I really enjoyed these short stories about South Texas bands that never were but could have been, and definitely were, at least for a few minutes, in my mind. These stories, while largely set in South Texas, reminded me of my youth in Austin, TX amidst the live music venues and local bar scene. The afterword by the author said people who read this book go on to start a band, so I think that means it's time for me to find a bassist, lead guitar, drummer, keyboardist and some back-up singers!

[Mimi · Rating 4 out of 5]

beautiful prose, an immersive plunge into the realm of performance, a necessity for anyone whose creative juices need a stirring.

[Duarte Cabral · Rating 5 out of 5]

In ten incredible short-stories, Flores relays the best lyrical embodiment of music I've seen on a written page. Plug in your headphones and drown in its purple ether.

[Daniela Quirke · Rating 5 out of 5]

A few months ago I went to a recently opened indie bookstore called Alienated Majesty, close to the University of Texas campus. It’s a cute place with all kinds of cool stuff you might not find in a larger, corporate chain. The staff was helpful, and when I went to pay, the guy at the register confirmed that one of my selections, Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas by Fernando A. Flores was, indeed, a banger. Flores is a local writer I’d not yet read, and I was excited to jump in.

Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas is not a long book, but it took me quite a while to finish it, and that’s because whenever I really, really like a book, I find myself slowing down. (This is opposite of most people I know who get obsessed with the books they like and race through them.) I was immediately captured – mesmerized, even – by these short fictions described on the back cover as “10 punk rock fairy-tales” that take place in the Rio Grande Valley (where Texas meets Mexico at it’s southernmost point). The stories are strange and, at times, discomforting. They move in and out of the surreal with ease, carrying us along on wave after wave of the unexpected grace and vivid aspiration for being understood that flows through the blood of artists.

Each story feel like a dream. In fact, one of the stories – “The Performances of Liliana Krauze” – gave me such a powerful, painful dream that I simply had to put this book (and all other books) down for a week to recover. Not because the story itself was tragic, but because it called up ways of being I’d suppressed for decades, and reminded me of a time when I wasn’t afraid to put myself out there artistically (and otherwise), even when it made no sense to other people.

Flores’ style is highly aesthetic, but unaffected. He writes viscerally about artistic people with complex lives and relationships, but does so in a way that pulls our own creative power from deep within the psyche and unplugs the reservoirs of complicated, beautifully painful, and whimsically honest feelings that we’ve done our best to forget.

I’m in love with this book. I recommend it highly. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until it was in my hands.

[Tom · Rating 4 out of 5]

When I was in a band, my local punk and metal underground scene had long waned out. Shows were scarce, and whenever we got the chance to play one, more often than not it'd only be our friends and about a dozen other people in the audience. Still, that shared energy that erupted once the first chords were struck is unparalleled. It's always been, for me, both as concertgoer and as performer. We were fortunate enough to play a few shows for about two hundred people while opening for more established bands, and for me it was heaven. Whether we played well or badly, it didn't matter. It was commitment. When you get up on that stage, that feeling of brotherhood is a deep, piercing feeling.

It was a fleeting experience. Most local bands stay local bands and that's just the way it goes - strangely enough, I wouldn't have it any other way. Reading these short stories reminded me a lot of those times, the band practices spent talking shit about whatever subject came on, the mischief that ensued when we decided to play football indoors in neat and tidy backstage rooms, the cringey jokes spout at the microphone in between songs at live shows.

It doesn't matter if people remember it or not, as long as I do, much like the artists depicted in 'Death to the Bullshit Artists of South Texas'. To read these short stories was to swim in a pool of nostalgia, where the water's temperature is comfortable enough to linger still, almost aimlessly, just floating.

That being said, I'll always curse myself for not being born earlier. To grow up in that underground scene must've been something.

[Ronald Koltnow · Rating 4 out of 5]

An interesting look at the mostly Latino subculture in South Texas, Flores collection deals with performers, mostly punk rockers, experiencing different levels of success. The first story deals with a band who, after achieving a point of near perfection, never play again. In the longest and most complex story, a performance artist, who feels she is the living reincarnation of Montgomery Clift, tries to replace experience with art. None of these engaging characters are what one would call bullshit artists; they play out and succeed, gain notoriety or failure, and deal with the vagaries of life. Truth be told, I would never enjoy sitting through any of the performances described, but I enjoyed meeting every character. A major accomplishment for Flores. [PS. This could use an editor: it's overalls not overhauls.]

[Mark Whittington Jones · Rating 5 out of 5]

A very elegant collection of short stories about youth, small town life, and punk rock. In an odd way, it captured some of the same feeling of the film The Last Picture Show. I look forward to his novel.

[Rodrovich · Rating 3 out of 5]

This is a front-heavy collection of fictional stories inspired from the punk scene in South Texas. Front-heavy in the sense that I generally liked the stories on the first half and didn't end up caring as much for the rest of them - they were just okay.

The central themes revolve around the experience of being migrants to a new place, discovering ways of expression, and of course, the explosive and short-lived punk spirit that gets so vividly reincarnated through different people and described throughout each story. The realistic backdrop makes the stories read like alternative historical fiction.

My three favorite pieces were:

Pinbag - This story embodies the short-lived punk experience with character portraits that read like they took 20 pages to develop but Flores does it in a span of 8 pages - incredible.

Bread8 - It’s a compelling tale of the youthful tenacity of punks vs. the establishment politician, and the way it ended was powerful - I don’t want to spoil it but it moved me.

The Performances of Liliana Krauze - a tight, focused narrative following a woman who has trouble expressing art in her own way, and in another way, it’s a journey of self-realization and self-actualization. Her final performance at the bookstore was fulfilling, Flores’ description of ambient field recordings is compelling, to say the least.

7/10