The Delectable Hearts
What a way to spend Halloween. Watching some second-rate pop punk band in a stinking downtown dive next door to a brothel.
“Go check these guys out tonight,” Bob Rickards, his merciless and increasingly jittery editor told him that afternoon. “The Delectable Hearts. Unsigned, but they've been creating quite a buzz on the local scene down south. We gotta keep our finger on the pulse”
“Never heard of 'em. Sound like a bunch of damn hippies,” Mick Dome, longest serving staff writer at Rock City Sounds magazine, replied. Where music was concerned he didn't pull any punches, it was his only passion in life.
“Now, now, let's not be judgmental,” Rickards said sarcastically, the same man who effectively blocked all favorable coverage of Screeching Weasel forever after Dan Vapid phoned him up and called him a prick. “These Delectable whatever's came from nowhere, might be the next Big Thing!”
Both as a music reporter and as a human being Mick hated the phrase came from nowhere. Nobody ever came from nowhere. Sure, they may suddenly hit the mainstream and achieve worldwide fame, but success rarely came without due effort and diligence. Months or years of writing songs in bedrooms, playing gigs to fifteen people including bar staff, and suffering the constant disappointment of having your Demo tape overlooked while all around you younger, better-looking and more talented outfits are springing up all the time.
Came from nowhere and got themselves a return ticket, he almost quipped, but held his tongue. If these guys hadn't paid their dues, and if they had Mick would have heard of them by now, then he didn't have time for them.
But he had to think of the big picture.
From a staff of fifteen three years ago Rock City Sounds was now running on a skeleton crew of eight. Circulation was down for the fourteenth consecutive issue, and there was water-cooler talk of yet more redundancies. The water-cooler itself was fast-becoming a metaphor not just for Rock City Sounds but the print industry as a whole; once a thriving, bustling epicenter of energy, it was now a lonely outpost populated only by the dejected and the damned.
If Mick wanted to keep his job as chief reporter, he would have to justify his salary and get out in the field more. Get his hands dirty. The problem with that, apart from all the public transport and general inconvenience, was that as much as he still loved music, he just found it hard to get excited about anything these days. He heard a hundred 'new' bands and artists every week, whether at gigs or on tape, disc, file or online. Some were good, most were bad, but the one thing they all had in common was that each and every one of them sounded like someone else. In the world of entertainment, nothing is truly original any more. Everything is derivative of something else.
He confirmed the venue. It was one he was familiar with, unfortunately. The Joint. Not exactly one of the bigger or more exclusive places in town. This charming establishment was situated in the middle of a maze of back streets in the part of town where you didn't want to linger too long after dark. Mick was required to venture out there a few times a month in the line of duty. Over the years he had probably seen hundreds of bands play the Joint. With a capacity of only two hundred, the size of the venue suited both those on the way up, and on the way down.
The Delectable Hearts, hmm...
Mick entered the name into Google and hit SEARCH. It was a decent name for a band, as names go. It had an edge. On the surface it was cute and safe, but the way the words sounded when thrust together made it sound dirty, tainted. A little dangerous. If there were such a thing as a rock band made up entirely of vampires it would probably be called The Delectable Hearts.
Surprisingly, he could find no mention of them online. Anywhere. They were not listed in the usual directories and had no website or Facebook page. He couldn't even find a mention of them in the music forums perpetually haunted by anoraks the world over where everything was discussed at length, from Taylor Swift's preferred brand of shampoo to ZZ Top's guitar picks.
Still, if these guys really were hot shit maybe he could grab a quick interview for the next issue. Or at least a few usable quotes to go with the gig review; make it a double-page spread. Put a strap-line on the cover, maybe shift a few more copies. That would bag him a few brownie points with the suits upstairs.
He'd better get down to the venue.
After stopping for a quick sandwich and fighting his way through the crowds bloated with rush hour traffic, by the time Mick arrived at the Joint he was already running late. With the doors scheduled to be opened any minute it seemed he had missed his window of opportunity for a pre-gig interview, always the best time to grab one. Post-show, most bands were too busy signing autographs, partying or screwing groupies.
Adjusting the collar of his jacket against the biting wind he bypassed the semi-orderly queue of hoodie and Vans-clad teenagers lining up outside the main entrance murmuring and chattering excitedly amongst themselves, and hammered on the side door. Almost immediately the door was opened by a young Goth girl who looked like she would much rather be in a cemetery contemplating suicide than serving drinks from behind the bar. Goth girl looked at him quizzically, “Yeah?”
“Hi there, Mick Dome from Rock City Sounds, here to cover the gig tonight.”
“Oh, RCS. Cool,” Goth Girl said, obligingly stepping aside. “Got a few journos in tonight.” She seemed surprised that anyone playing the Joint could generate such interest.
Mick entered the shabby venue and the familiar stench of sweat, urine and stale beer assaulted his senses. He thanked his lucky stars that despite its steady decline, Rock City Sounds was still the kind of magazine held in such high esteem that it was quite literally able to open doors. “Sold many tickets?” Asking this question had become customary when he arrived at a venue. It broke the ice with the staff, helped build up a working relationship. Plus, knowing the anticipated size of the crowd helped him gauge what kind of evening he was in for.
Thinking about it, he was sure he's asked the question of this same girl several times before. Maybe she remembered, maybe not. She was just doing her job. “Sold out early,” she said, cocking a pierced eyebrow smugly.
“Wow, congratulations,” Mick cooed. “So where's the band?”
“Which one?”
“The one I guess we're all here to see,” Mick replied. “Called The Delectable Hearts or something. I wanna try and grab an interview before it gets crazy in here.”
“Oh them,” the young girl's interest was piqued. “They're backstage in the dressing room. They were the first to arrive tonight. Seem so professional. Cute, too. They just did their sound-check and their merchandise guy is setting up his table right now. They'll be on last, being the biggest band and everything. Also got a local group. I was in college with the drummer.”
“Cool, maybe I'll give them a mention,” Mick said with a wink. Damn it, he had missed the sound-check. Wait a minute... merch guy? What new band had their own merch guy? Somebody somewhere, probably a wealthy parent, was obviously bank-rolling these guys.
Mick's amazement turned into astonishment when he saw the array of Delectable Hearts paraphernalia on sale in the tiny lobby, all emblazoned with their DH logo. There were posters, t-shirts, badges, stickers, pens, key rings, mouse mats and other assorted trinkets, spread all over a large wooden table literally buckling under the weight. They had a larger range than Bon Jovi. The operation was manned by a single enthusiastic-looking guy in his mid-twenties sporting a Mohawk and, predictably, wearing a DH t-shirt. As Mick watched, the side-door opened again and two more guys came in carrying yet more boxes of stuff which they neatly arranged behind the merch desk. They were also clad in DH t-shirts.
Mick struggled to suppress a chuckle. Must be a very new band. In a world where nobody paid for music any more, lots of young upstarts tried to extort as much money as they could from the public by other means, like raising ticket prices and expanding their merch range. But you needed a following for that to work. Here was a new band employing a road crew of ten on wages they'll never be able to pay having just blown their wad on half-a-warehouse full of shit, not knowing how hard it is to sell that stuff. They'll be carrying it around the country for the next three years. If, of course, they were still gigging in three years.
The tiny raised platform that passed for a stage ( calling it a stage was being overly generous) was a hive of activity as a handful of people ran cables and plugged in instruments and amplifiers, jostling for position as they made last-minute adjustments and alterations to the set. As Mick watched the men work, the front door of the Joint was opened, allowing the seething mass of bodies that had previously been pressed up against the doors to spill forth. Amusingly, even after spending hours standing outside in the cold drinking supermarket lager, on finally gaining entry most of the kids made straight for the bar, fake ID's at the ready.
Despite their shortcomings Mick loved places like The Joint. Real, down-to-earth dodgy rock clubs that plied their trade supporting actual live music by local bands. There weren't that many left these days. It was at this venue, in those very dressing rooms, way back in 1990 that he had interviewed the Manic Street Preachers, just before Generation Terrorists made them huge. He remembered the hunger and self-belief he saw in Richie Edward's eyes that night. His band was going to be huge, and somehow everyone sensed it at the same time. It was like being in the presence of punk royalty, part of history as it was fashioned out of the endless scope of possibilities that lie before us.
That was a few years before Richie disappeared. Mick liked to think that warped genius was still out there somewhere, shambling around off the beaten track, but knew it was unlikely. A realist from an early age, despite his profound love for music he never wanted to be a musician. He wasn't inclined that way. However, he still longed to be a part of the scene. As a music journalist he could be involved in the industry and have a tiny measure of influence.
With a last sympathetic look at the rapidly assembling crowd filling the cramped space behind him he ducked through the backstage door. This was bending the rules. In the music world the backstage area was hallowed turf, and nobody was welcome without the proper accreditation. Normal protocol would be to secure an interview through the correct channels, the artist's PR department or management company. But not many new bands had PR departments or management companies. Most of them were trying to make it on their own in a tough business, and welcomed any opportunity to grab some attention. In a world where people's entertainment is reliant on the results of other people's working endeavors, everyone has a job to do. Behind the scenes everyone was busy, too busy to care what you were doing as long as you didn't make a nuisance of yourself. The only people you had to avoid were the security staff, most of who seemed to be involved in some kind of steroid abuse and suffered from extreme anger management issues. Mick preferred to hang with more creative types, hence the life-long dual obsession with music and writing.
At a venue the size of the Joint, the only security personnel would be stationed at the front entrance, checking ID's. There was no backstage security; the popularity of the bands didn't justify it. All he had to do was find those Delectable Hearts, introduce himself, and get down to business.
As he prowled the corridor in the inner sanctum of the venue Mick heard hushed voices coming from behind a partially-open door. Sounded like a group of young guys deep in conversation. Must be them. Goth girl hadn't mentioned any other bands being back here.
He raised a hand to knock, then something made him hesitate. Eavesdropping and snooping wasn't very ethical, but an essential component of effective journalism. You just never know when somebody might let something slip and hand you a career-saving scoop. What if they were discussing future album titles? Mick could privy to the christening of the next Appetite for Destruction, the next Back in Black. Maybe some time after the fact he could write a piece about it. He listened...
“We summon thee, we summon thee to do our bidding,” a voice said. “Come forth, Aviza, chief demon of idolatry.”
Demon of What?
Mick frowned. What were they doing in there? Were they in the middle of a rehearsal routine? Or some kind of bizarre pre-show warm-up ritual?
Behind him the crowd was beginning to grow raucous. Wouldn't be long before the first band of the night took the stage. Fascinated, he leaned in closer to the crack and adjusted his position to allow the smallest peek into the room beyond.
He still couldn't see much. The room was in near-darkness, save for the flickering light of what must be a candle. One of those little extravagances popular among the almost-famous everywhere, along with Ferrero Rocher chocolates and Red Bull energy drinks.
“Aviza, we summon thee to come forth!”
The Delectable Heart was beginning to lose patience now. Mick wondered what the hell could be going on in there. Who could he be talking to? Assuming it was the singer doing the talking (and it almost certainly was, the singer always had to be the center of attention) his band-mates appeared to have temporarily fallen silent...
There was a sudden crackling sound like an electric current passing through the air and instantly, the atmosphere changed. A stomach-churning stench like rotting eggs began to emanate through the crack in the door, making Mick gag. He swallowed hard.
Suddenly there was another voice. This one deep and guttural, almost a growl. At first Mick could discern no words. It sounded as if the thing was just making noises deep in its throat. Or perhaps speaking in some obscure foreign tongue. Then he realized what he could hear was a low chuckling. It was almost child-like in its simplicity, but the voice had some unearthly quality. It just sounded... wrong.
Standing on the thresh-hold Mick knew on a primal level that here lay one of life's crossroads where choices must be made. Had he known what he would see in that dressing room would scar him, haunt his dreams for the rest of his life, he may have turned around and walked away.
But his journalistic instincts were rolling in high gear, and even at the risk of being spotted, he had to know what was making that awful attempt at communication...
Through the gap he could see only a small section of the chamber beyond. There were several shadowy figures visible, but he could see only one clearly. The reason he could see it so clearly was because it was bathed in its own ethereal energy. By the light it cast, Mick could see it wasn't human. The creature had some human characteristics, it was about the same size and build as a small child, but horribly mutated or deformed. It leaned crudely to one side, trembling visibly.
It looked wet, covered in a reflective sheen. The nose and ears were tapered and comically long, giving the thing an almost demonic appearance. Its hairless head seemed much too large for the scrawny body to support, so for the most part the creature's chin sagged onto its chest. It regarded the people from that bowed position with fierce, blazing red eyes, shifting its gaze around the parts of the room Mick could not see.
He couldn't breathe. What he was seeing couldn't be real. Had to be some kind of prop they used in their show, like Alice Cooper's severed head. Or maybe it was a boy's toy, like those life-like plastic babies that shit and pissed like real ankle-biters. Yet as he watched in horror, the stunted creature began to speak intelligibly, its voice rasping and harsh. “I am Aviza...”
Judging by its tone Mick suspected this was one visitor who wasn't so impressed by the Delectable Hearts' imminent stardom, nor enamored with the Joint's décor.
Somebody in the room, probably the lead singer again, answered the question confidently and with a touch of the dramatic. It sounded like a practiced stage bit, something he said night after night to different crowds up and down the country. But this time, instead of “thank you all for coming, you guys have been the best crowd ever!” the singer said, “In the interests of spreading the word of Aviza in a wider arc we request that here, tonight, you grant this trio the power to command idolatry of our subjects so we may afflict them with our thoughts and sentiments. We want to inhabit their beings, stage a meeting of hearts and minds, so they may experience the euphoria and prosper.”
Mick tried to make sense of the prose the Delectable Heart was reciting. It was elegant, yet somewhat awkward English. And there were some unpleasant words in that little speech, sticking out like festering teeth in a diseased gum. Command, idolatry, afflict...
On the face of it, it appeared as if the young band of musicians were asking a demonic entity for help in making their music touch the hearts of their audience. A reasonable-enough request. They weren't asking for material riches or worldwide fame, they just wanted the same thing as every other musician who ever picked up an instrument. They wanted connection. They were prepared to go to any lengths to get it, even so far as selling their souls like Robert Johnson at the crossroads, and had found a short-cut to achieving their goal.
Or at least appeared to think they had.
Was it cheating? Weren't they required to make people like their music the right and proper way? By putting in the hours and paying their dues? With constant recording and touring, doing media interviews, meeting fans, signing autographs.
But countless witnesses would attest that in the music business it didn't really matter how you got ahead, just that you did. Of course, many in the music business, or any other kind of business for that matter, would change that to it didn't matter how you got head, just that you did.
Behind him there was a sporadic crash of symbols and a mass greeting from the stage. The sudden burst of activity startled him and he tore his gaze away from the dwarfish monster. He had better take his seat, or his spot at the bar, at least. It was show time, and he needed a drink. Besides, he wanted to get as far away from that squawking little freak as possible.
Thoughts tumbling through his head, he quietly retraced his steps back up the corridor, through the stage door and into the tiny auditorium where he joined the line at the bar, slipping effortlessly into anonymity.
The first band of the night sucked. If the drummer went to college like Goth Girl said then he didn't learn much about playing drums. The second band also sucked, they were so bad Mick didn't even bother making any polite enquiries as to what they called themselves. He didn't care. If he wrote about them at all he only knew what he would call them, and they wouldn't be very nice names.
In the last hour the Joint filled slowly with yet more misunderstood and angry teenagers until the kids were standing shoulder-to-shoulder and front-to-back. As the time for the headliners approached, the excitement level mounted. There was a sense of expectation and anticipation, as if he were among a select few let in on a particularly awesome secret. If only the punters knew...
Even if the punters did know, Mick doubted it would make any difference. The parents would hate it of course but if anything, dabbling in the satanic arts would only boost the Delectable Hearts' popularity still further. It certainly never did Jimmy Page's career any harm.
By that time Mick was on his third beer, and still trying to process what he had witnessed backstage. He tried to concentrate on the music. Music had always been his escape. For the first time in a long time, he found that he was actually excited to see this new band. If only because they were the first band he would ever knowingly see play live after they just sought a helping hand from hell, or wherever demons and such things come from.
There was a frenetic burst of activity on the tiny stage as a group of guys ran around taking things apart, and a different bunch of guys ran around putting their things together. And then, after an agonizing wait, the time finally came. To deafening applause and wild shrieks, one by one three tall, lanky individuals walked calmly to the stage.
The Delectable Hearts.
The drummer took to his stool, while the bass player and guitarist took stage left and right respectively where both had microphone stands positioned. They didn't look very special. Just another bunch of Blink 182 wannabes in combat trousers, and black hoodies. So far as Mick could tell, they weren't even wearing any make-up. On one hand this demonstrated a band who cared more about music than image, which was admirable, but would they go to a job interview looking like that? He always thought it good manners for a band to actually make an effort rather than turn up for a gig looking like they had just slept in their clothes. Which, of course, most of them had.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd as nods and queues were exchanged amongst the band members. Then the one holding the guitar addressed the crowd. Mick recognized the voice, it was the one he had overheard earlier summoning the demon backstage. He was right, it was the lead vocalist.
“Thank you all for coming tonight. We are the Delectable Hearts, and it is our wish that you enjoy our music. Leave all your problems and worries outside. Let's have a meeting of Hearts and minds and above all, have a great time tonight!”
There was a deafening cheer, a count-off, then the Delectable Hearts powered into their set. The wiry drummer thrashed at his kit with such fury it was almost hypnotizing, and his partner in rhythm pounded along with the beat, never missing a note, whilst simultaneously providing perfectly-pitched backing vocals. Mick listened for a tape. There must be one. Surely a trio of scruffy kids this young couldn't be this technically proficient?
But no, so far as Mick could tell, it was all live. Right here, right now. A tingle ran down his spine. This band even made the feedback sound meaningful and deliberate. Make no mistake, they were a tight unit.
The stand-out performer was the lead vocalist and guitarist, who was also the tallest, best-looking and most charismatic of the trio. He produced a near-flawless display of singing and playing edged with a brittle flame of intensity Mick hadn't seen in anyone since Kurt Cobain. The material they played was a joyous blend of pop, rock and punk, with the occasional obligatory power ballad thrown in for good measure. Performing with poise, purpose and passion, they had stage presence, star quality and even better than that: a repertoire of great, original songs. The Delectable Hearts were the full package, and the first label to get these guys under a franchise would surely make a killing.
Tearing his eyes away from the Delectable Hearts, Mick let them roam over the writhing crowd. He knew what he liked, but was acutely aware that was just his opinion. He knew his place in the grand scheme of things. The fact he was a music writer simply made his opinion more widely known than most other people's. It didn't make it any more valid. He needed outside help, a little guidance, especially as he grew older and lost touch with what was pumping the blood of the younger generation these days. At some gigs he spent more time watching the crowd than the actual performers, which said a lot for the standard of live music these days. Contrary to popular opinion the average rock crowd was a fickle bunch and could sniff bullshit a mile away. Nobody could pull the wool over their eyes. It may work on MTV, but not in an environment like this. He had seen many a crowd turn, and it was never pretty. They made performers earn each and every cheer, each and every clenched fist, and pay for it with sweat or even blood if necessary.
Mick had studied crowds up and down the country for more years than he cared to remember. This crowd was different. There was a look of bliss on every spectator's face. Some jumped along with the music, lost in reckless abandon. Some swayed from side to side as if blown by a gentle breeze, while others stood as still as statues, mouths silently agape, as if witnessing a divine miracle. And maybe they were. The one common trait each individual shared was the fact that they were bound together in mutual worship of those that currently occupied the stage at the Joint. The Delectable Hearts.
Mick remembered what he had overheard backstage, and how it mirrored the words the singer said at the start of the gig...
A meeting of Hearts and minds...
Did that simply mean giving a paying audience a good time? Using music as a medium and filling the beings of their mortal subjects with such joy and elation that all their fears and anxiety melted away into the stratosphere? That was the whole essence of entertainment. The Holy Grail for performers. Some of the lucky ones touched brilliance for but a brief moment in their lives. One great album, or even one smash hit single that would become their signature tune for the rest of their career. There are exceptions, but few are able to sustain consistent artistic and commercial success for any considerable length of time.
While every other new band trying to break through scrambled all over each other on the internet trying to get noticed, the Delectable Hearts had discovered an alternative route to imminent stardom. Even if black magic or devil worship were involved, where was the harm in it? Mick remembered reading somewhere that what we refer to as 'magic' can be treated like a commodity, like gas. You can either use gas to cook dinner or you could stick your head in the oven and kiss your sorry ass goodbye. The point is that the raw material is the same, it just depends how you use it.
Looking around Mick saw that much of the crowd appeared lost in ecstasy. He could feel the positive energy running like a current through the air. His foot tapped. No, pumped, in time with the beat. This was music! This was what he signed up for! Unselfconsciously, not caring in the slightest if 99% of the people around him were half his age or younger, he punched the air with a clenched fist.
The Delectable Hearts finished strongly with a cover version of the classic Kiss track Rock n' Roll All Nite. Talk about brave! Not many bands dared pay homage to the mighty Simmons-Stanley Project these days, especially on this side of the Atlantic.
Just... Wow...
The crowd chanted... DH! DH! DH! DH!
Mick found himself joining in, the hairs on the back of his neck still bristling he clapped his hands together furiously and cheered for an encore. Something like a Ramones cover would tear the roof off this place right now. But it wasn't to be. Always leave them wanting more was one of the first rules of showbiz, and these kids knew it.
DH! DH! DH! DH!
The Delectable Hearts waved, thanked the crowd and moved to the front of the stage to accept the adulation being showered upon them. They bowed and smiled. Immediately before they left the stage there was a moment of complete unity, utter togetherness, everyone present basking in the almost post-coital glow.
Although the show couldn't have lasted more than forty-five minutes, Mick felt as if he had been through the physical and emotional trauma of a 3-day summer music festival. The warm, fuzzy buzz he experienced in the immediate aftermath of a truly great gig really was similar to the sensation he felt after great sex, though both were in critically short supply in his life these days.
He stopped clapping long enough to finish his beer and wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of a hand aching from clapping. He was trembling. He felt young again, full of vitality. The way he did during those half-forgotten teenage nights he spent travelling around the country following the punk bands of the day; the Clash, the Damned, the Stranglers.
He felt the same zest, the same charge and sense of purpose, but with none of the accompanying negative emotions. There was no angst or insecurity, no uncertainty or frustration. Now he was just filled with a raging sense of hope and optimism, as if the fire inside him had been reignited. His future, previously shrouded with doubt, was now a blank canvass waiting to be written upon. His life had been given new impetus.
He never got to see the Pistols. But never mind the Sex Pistols, here are the Delectable Hearts!
DH! DH! DH! DH!
Mike Dome had seen the future of rock n' roll, and its name was...
The Delectable Hearts.
They were going to be ALL OVER next month's music press, for sure. So how about an expanded full-page review, Mister Rickards? Or even a center-page spread? Come to that, what about a front page headline, National Enquirer style, about the Delectable Hearts conjuring up demons backstage at gigs?
That revelation could actually go either way. Sections of the public could seize on it as an authenticity-shattering publicity stunt and use it to beat them to death with. Or they could accept it as a necessary part of the package. Like Motley Crue with their legendary drug-taking exploits, or the Jackson family's penchant for cosmetic surgery.
But who would believe him?
And even if people did believe, would exposing the secret do more harm than good?
In that instant Mick knew exactly what he should do. A cog in the machinery of the universe seemed to slip into place and suddenly he realized his purpose in life. What he was here for. The reason for his being. Everything he had done thus far; every gig, every road he had travelled, every word he had written, had been leading him to this point.
For once he was going to be part of the solution, not the problem. He was going to make a stand. More people should be exposed to this. Everyone should know! Imagine a world where everyone felt this good; there would be no crime, no war. Just peace, love and understanding. He had to help spread the word. Literally. It was his role in life, he could see that now with startling clarity.
He would go away and write a glowing review. A long, in-depth review detailing as much of that glorious performance as he could remember. Maybe Rickards will deem it a center-page spread if it is written well enough, even without any earth-shattering revelations or salacious gossip. He would simply use his gift with words, if he could be so bold as to call it that, to craft a piece so powerful that the name the Delectable Hearts will be branded into the minds of every Rock City Sounds reader there is. Every last one of them. And they would tell their friends, who in turn would tell their friends. The revolution starts here...
Despite being in a hurry to get home to write up the review while it was still fresh in his mind, Mick stopped at the merch desk. Being physically bigger and stronger than most of the other people at the gig Mick was able to barge his way to the front of the queue to buy two t-shirts, a mouse mat, a poster, two pens and six key-rings, all emblazoned with the DH logo. He thought the key-rings would make good gifts for people. Especially Bob Rickards.
Carrying his bag of swag and wearing a faint smile, Mick exited the Joint and headed out in search of a taxi, thinking maybe the Delectable Hearts would sell all that extra merchandise, after all. And they might sell a whole lot more after people read his five-star review.