Buckshot Is My Bread

A couple of days ago, I bogarted Sheree's newest issue of Paste magazine (which is a totally awesome publication). In said bogarted issue, a dude named Matt Price interviewed Gnarls Barkley about their new CD (which is pretty cool, incidentally). He told the dynamic duo about the story that went on in his head while listening to their new album, titled "The Odd Couple," and it went exactly like this:

“I think The Odd Couple is the soundtrack for a tortured superhero.” They [Danger Mouse and Cee-Lo] look at me and nod politely. For reasons still unknown to me, I continue: “Yeah, when I heard the album this morning, I felt like I was listening to a story about a very lonely superhero who raced from planet to planet looking for someone to love. At one point, I even saw myself as the superhero, and I was floating underwater looking up at the moon through the water, and I was feeling overwhelmed by the pressure of being who I was destined to be and the sadness that no-one could help me with that.”

When I read this, I thought that it was cool how the interviewer wasn't ashamed of the story that shaped itself in his head as a result of this album. These kinds of things are usually too personal to reveal to just anyone, let alone the group that made the album. I mean, what if they punch you in the face?
This gives me confidence because I too have listened to certain albums and had a story develop in my brain. Allow me to share one such example:

The Band: Murder By Death
The Album: Who Will Survive, And What Will Be Left of Them?
Pt. 1 "The Devil In Mexico" On a piss-poor afternoon in some nameless hellhole of a bar, a grizzled Drifter sits at a dark table in the corner drinking shot after shot of whiskey. At dusk, a Stranger enters. The other patrons shift uncomfortably, trying to shake the feeling of eerie recognition that floods their veins and makes their neck hairs tingle. The Stranger sits at the bar without ordering anything, and strikes up an amiable conversation with the town smithy who happens to be at the stool to the Stranger's right. The Stranger's voice seems hypnotic, and a crowd soon gathers around him. After a few minutes, the entire bar has become swept up in the Stranger's masterful oratory--everyone except for the Drifter. He remained at his dark table, his gaze steadily fixed on the amiable Stranger. The Drifter's hand slid down to the six-shooter at his side and loosened it from his holster. The cold nights and unforgiving days he'd endured have led up to this moment. He was going to murder the Devil.
After money had changed hands amongst the patrons, the amiable Stranger got up to bid the place farewell. The Drifter's heart quickened and his breath grew short. As the Stranger walked out the door, he briefly paused, as if he knew what was going to happen next. At that moment, the Drifter drew his gun and shot the Stranger three times in the back. The Stranger lurched forward and hit the ground, coughing up dark blood. The other patrons were petrified and for some reason, nobody knew quite how to react. The Drifter reloaded his weapon and stepped over the stranger's dead body. As he left, he was heard to say, "Someone say a Hail Mary for this house."
Pt. 2 "Three Men Hanging" Following the events that transpired at that hellhole of a bar somewhere in Nogales, the Drifter's path became cursed. The sun never shined on the Drifter, and the road from Tucson to San Antonio was flanked by ditches overflowing with dead and rotting memories. He took to drinking only whiskey, as it occasionally helped dispel the ghostly faces from haunting the corners of his mind. He had thought that he'd done right by murdering the Devil. But now that his footsteps were tormented by the wails and coughs of dead sinners, he realized that he'd violated some incomprehensible law...and he was being punished for it.
The Drifter walked mile after tormented mile until he noticed a knotted sycamore tree off in the distance. He made his way towards the tree, crashing through the bone-dry sagebrush and kicking up clouds of dust. When he got close, he saw that three dead men were hanging from the ancient branches by their broken necks. Even after witnessing the horrors that had wandered from his nightmares and into his waking moments, the sight of these three hanging corpses filled the Drifter with cold and dread. A ghoulish wind swept through the brown sycamore leaves, and suddenly the three corpses were facing the Drifter. One of them lifted his head, and the Drifter winced at the sound of grinding bone.
"Get on with it..." said the first corpse in a hollow voice. At this, the second and third corpses raised their heads to speak.
"Put off the fuss, you chickenshit...."
"Can't you see it's time to quit?" The Drifter sank to his knees, and for the first time since he had murdered the Devil, took his gun into his hands. He knew that he was doomed to walk this never-ending nightmare for the rest of his life and thought to himself, "If I put this revolver to my head, will God also turn against me? Or will he find pity on this lost and broken man?" The Drifter pressed the barrel to his temple and pulled the trigger. He felt the gun go off, but he was still alive. He cocked his weapon again and pulled the trigger. Again, the gun fired, but the Drifter's head was still intact. He tried a third time, with the same result. That's when he felt a storm coming from behind him. A dark cloud of dust and flies was cutting its way through the desert, heading straight for him.
Pt. 3 "Pillars of Salt" The Drifter stood up to face the misty form that had now made its way to the sycamore tree. The amiable Stranger's voice emanated from inside the cloud of insects.
"I gotta hand it to you, boy...ain't nobody shot me in the back and lasted this long. Guess I gotta give credit where credit's due. But that don't mean you get out of this, boy. You think you've suffered? Well you ain't seen shit yet. The pain won't set in for a long, long time. I'll leave a trail of fire across this desert just to see the desperation in your eyes." The Drifter threw his gun down and looked upwards. He was heard to remark, "That crown don't make you a prince," before he was turned into a pillar of salt which was swept away by the cloud of flies.
Epilogue "The End of the Line" As for that town somewhere in Nogales, the amiable Stranger made one more appearance. The cursed ground that caught drops of his blood was swallowed up in the desert sands, and no records can be found of the town's existence. All that remains is a clay pot with a tree of barbed wire growing upwards to heaven, and even this (so it is said) is only visible to those who bear the burden of a cursed soul.