“A quarter million years as a human stain.”

The opening of Dangers new album “Messy, Isn’t It?” is the track “Stay-At-Home Mom“.  It paints a picture of a mother that has “served her purpose” in the world:  she’s birthed a child, raised it, and now he no longer needs her.  The song screams the question, “Why didn’t you kill yourself today?”  Lemme explain further before you shoot the judging eye at me or the band.

“What cross, what coupon, what cathode ray
Put the joie de vivre in your diseased heart?”

Even though I got beef with the French, the use of it in this song sprinkles some beauty (yeah, it can “sound” pretty every once in a while) over exclamations of anger and distaste.  ”Keen or buoyant enjoyment of life” is what “joie de vivre” translates to and that lovely question is proposed because this “mosh pit son” – us stupid kids – have ruined this woman.  Someone who had near limitless options to what could happen in their life, one option stole them all away: a child.

“See, I know your children
Because I’ve been your children
And us children, hopeful children
Ain’t worth the stretch marks baby.
‘Cause we may sing these songs of protest,
Cast our ballots, too
Forgo meat and
Ride our bikes and
Get our band’s stupid tattoo
But it means nothing,
Nothing,
When we get eaten by the sun.”

We’re fucked and it’s as simple as that.  Our planet is falling apart from the inside out and we’ve pretty much set out our lawn chairs to watch it all happen in comfort with a tepid can of Bud Light in hand.  As children are snatched away from their families, force fed drugs, and told to kill the enemy with an AK-47, we’re Tivo’ing a whole season of Top Chef.  In no way are we trying to fix the problems of the world, so why waste time with reproducing when there’s going to be no world worth living in very shortly?  Why should a woman throw her body and dreams away for a child that’s going to eventually stop loving her in a world that’s going to end?  Bleak, huh?

“So what’s wrong
With a song
That asks wherefore and why have you lived this long?
A purpose?
You want a reason?
Stop believing.
Or stop needing the answers.
There are no answers
Except the sun, the sun, the sun.
While you sit on your couch
And wait up for your boy
We’re polluting his mind with this
(noise).”

This is where we get the answer to the problem.  The problem is the answer and the vicious cycle continues.  Dangers isn’t one of those bands that is trying to entertain, even though they do a damn good job of it.  They got moralistic stories to tell and a satchel full of messages that they want you to hear.  As Earth turns to shit with the young and old caring a little less every day, some of this “noise” that our parents, teachers, and neighbors pulled the plug on year after year is just trying to help.

“Stay-At-Home Mom” spouts out all these reasons to give up on this, this, or that, whether they be for selfish means or for the better good.  Hopefully what the listener can take away from that is a sense of mild disgust, so as to avoid allowing ideas like that to flourish.  This song is nothing more than a giant PSA to the masses.  Parents:  don’t let your dreams or what makes you happy disappear due to a child, yet don’t take away something from your children that you may not understand, instead learn about it because it may be something positive.  Kids:  if you’re involved in something that is trying to do good in the world, simply learning all the lyrics to a song and buying band merch ain’t gonna cut it; take those lyrics you learned to heart and physically attempt to change things for the better.  Holy shit… I just got deep.  That’s a weird feeling.

A few years ago was when I first listened to the demo Dangers put out that was floating around in the hardcore scene.  I don’t remember how I got it, but after hearing songs like “We Broke The P.A.” and “We Have More Sense Than Lies” I was head over heels.  They were one of those bands that halfway through the first song I knew I was gonna like them.  There’s only been a handful of acts that have done that for me like At The Drive-In and The Murder City Devils, which are two of my all-time favorite bands.  Now that was summer of ‘06, so I’ve only had a demo, EP, and LP to sate me until this one coming out the first of the new year.  Goes to show that they’re doing something right.

Now, I didn’t expect to delve so much into just one song.  I was hoping to do a semi-review of the new album, but that obviously veered off the road to somewhere else.  Instead I’ll give some quick recommendations on tracks of theirs to check out, so hopefully you’ll be wanting to pick this puppy up in 2010 from Vitriol Records.

Saved By The Buoyancy Of Citrus:  A quick little number that’s fed up with rent checks and getting older just as much as you are.  It’s also a tip of the hat to Mitch Hedberg

Check, Please:  It questions love and slings some hate at the bullshit that can be dating.

“‘You clean up nice,’
she says to me with this
smug ass grin that means
she knows just how much
porn that it takes to get me off nowadays.”

It’s lyrics like that set this band apart from all the garbage that sullies the airwaves.

Goliath:  Al Brown (lead singer) willing to believe in Jesus if he could only be presented his skeletal remains.  This one makes me laugh.

No Vonneguts, No Glory:  An anti-war track that pleads for peace, but until that happens we’re better off taking cues from Kurt Vonnegut and turning the world to ice via Ice-9 (read Cat’s Cradle).

Well, today is this kids birfday, so do me favor and listen to the new Dangers, call somebody stupid, and buy me stuff.

“I live in a highly excited state of overstimulation.”

I’d say at least three times a week I browse through nearly everything offered instantly from Netflix.  Typically there’s a heavy glass of red wine sitting next to me on my floor – that needs to be vacuumed with something of industrial strength – that I’ll get to once I put my X-Box controller down.  My intention is to see what is new on “instant watch” and then start buffering up a movie that hopefully doesn’t suck.  A good lot of the time I browse for too long then flash through my queue and can’t decide on any one thing.  Why?  Too many options.  I’ll even work together with my roommate Jordan to widdle down the choices, but usually I give up and head to my room for a comic or two before bed.

Sometimes too much is just too much.

I was born in ‘84 and I’ve seen the Super Nintendo (de)evolve into the Dreamcast then grow wings and become the 360.  Without having to read and recite a book about science, I’m saying that I’ve witnessed technology grow exponentially.  Today I have the option to watch hundreds of movies with the flick of joystick and a little pressure applied to a brightly colored button.  Oh, Band McMusic just re-released their live EP from the secret show they played in Hungary – circa ‘98 – during that accidental aerial bombardment from NATO Y-Wing.  ”Type type type” then “click click click” and I have that album sitting on my desktop.  It’s obvious that we’re spoiled when it comes to the entertainment that’s a hyperlink away and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

X-Box Live just added Last FM as an application for it’s fancy Gold Members – who pay 40 some dollars a year – and are given many more reasons to never bask in natural light.  Not that this invention is anything new to the interwebs, but I can pick an artist, make a station via that artist, and listen to music within the same vein of said artist.  I know, this sounds like the radio if you were able to put it under the microscope and manipulate what you wanted from it.  It is, but sometimes it’s just too much.

When I was a kid I had the radio, a small book of CDs, and the local Video Barn for entertainment.  I was content too.  As the years have passed and I now put onions on nearly every sandwich I make, it’s obvious my likes and dislikes have expanded.  My Mom would slice onions in our kitchen back home and just the scent was enough to keep me away from our downstairs for hours.  What used to sate or deter me as a child isn’t the case anymore.  Now I need three new movies in the mail twice a week to keep me from clawing at the walls.  There has to be a refresher from some new band I’ve never heard – or given any time to – at least a couple times a month, otherwise I start biting my nails down to the cuticle.  I’m American, I drink beer out of the can, and I need to be fucking entertained 24 hours out of the God damn day.  Yeah, it’s true.

I think I kinda lost my train of thought at some point in this rant, so I’ll get to some kind of point.

We used to worship idols made of stone and wood then men who said they were actual gods filled in that spot.  After that we started to hear these stories from wise elders about these powerful beings that have always been and will always be, so it was the smart choice to praise them.  Now we have the internet.  The internet knows all, tells all, and does all.  What else do we need?  If this laptop I’m typing on had a vagina built into it, could pour alcohol out one of it’s many ports, and ejected the makings for a sandwich from the CD drive… yup, wouldn’t leave the house.

I could go on with this, but I’d probably end up running my words and thoughts into solid wall of nonsense, which would most likely drive me to making dick and fart jokes.  Let me save you from that and tell you about some music you should be listening to.

1. Bang Maiden, they’re from San Francisco (make some unjustified generalizations from that fact alone because that’s what I’d do).  On Halloween last month they played their first show at The Parkside in the Misson and they definitely fit the bill if you wanna drink, dance, and bang your head.  They just uploaded a three song demo EP for download and I’m a fan.  Hardcore  - and whatever sub-genre within the same realm you babble about – is one of those sounds that’s in a bit of a slump as of late.  Don’t get me wrong, there are many greats acts currently putting out original and good tunes, but the majority is nothing more than the same old riffs that started in the ’80s, got reworked in the ’90s, and has continued the same cycle into the 2000’s.  What do these guys have that sets them apart from the fodder?  They don’t have drums, they got beats.  Patrick is the programming wizard in the three-piece that mixes the backbone of sound , which gives the group an artificial rhythm that is danceable… like boner-jams danceable.  It’s not too often you can listen to something that cuts a rug all Samurai Shodown 2 (I suck at that game), yet urges your veins to replace some of that red with drunk and maybe punch some random, all in good fun of course.  It’s dirty and fun, so give it a listen, go get tested afterwards, and pay me the ten bucks you owe.

2. Now these guys just got dredged out of the dungeon – I call it my iPod – and put a real dumb smile on my face.  Since the mammoth performance I witnessed a while back at the West Seattle Legion Hall, Giant became Brave Young, but the sound hasn’t changed a bit.  I’ve been allowing my music to grow a little more grand these days (drugs are bad), so the music I’m seeking needs to consume me and wall me up inside of it.  Brave Young is an undertaking that weighs on your ear drums with its heavy guitars and bass.  The sound becomes one looming entity that is lumbering with each bang of the drums and it’s one voice roars just far enough from the instruments before it melds back into the mass of noise.  This is one of those bands that I may never see live again, but from that one show – whatever summer it was ago – I feel lucky.

3. Oh yeah, I’m doing it.  Oingo Boingo has been the musical “first ice cold beer of the day” for me lately.  It’s fun, it’s upbeat, it can get a little spooky, and it’s one of those aspects of the ’80s that I don’t hate.  I’m not saying the 80’s were horrible, I mean come on, Earth Girls Are Easy?  You don’t have to say anything, just try not to get lost in Jeff Goldblum’s eyes, even though he does have mind powers.  There really isn’t any reason for me to explain any further.  Fire this shit up and let Danny Elfman do the rest.  Watch this too:

“What I’m going to need is your standard flame thrower.”

I think my 2nd All Freakin Night truly solidified my love for Olympia.  Drinking tepid rum and cokes out of Dasini bottles while leaning forward to throw trash off a 2nd floor balcony, all the time attempting to slur out a quip at a theater screen (as loud as fucking possible), which is playing a movie about space slugs that turn people into zombies; I even turned down taking mushrooms that night.  The funny thing is that there were at least four more movies afterwards.  What I’m trying to expertly transition into is my love for Night of The Creeps.

.

This is one of those movies I always saw sitting up on the rack at the local video/liquor store when I was a kid.  I’d go into the stagnant shop once a week with my Dad to rent a NES game and if I’d been good that week I could maybe get a movie too.  When my Dad would browse the “walk-in closet” sized section of ever so fine spirits (always coming out with rum) I could be found gawking at whatever creepy or crazy VHS caught my eyes.  Some of my favorites that I can still remember today are:  Dead Alive, Evil Dead 2, and Nightmare On Elm Street 3. Of course I was never allowed to rent any of these movies and probably didn’t see most of them until I was 18.  My Mom told me about seeing The Exorcist in theaters when my oldest brother Andrew was a toddler (he just turned 40).  The movie fucked with my Mom so bad that she sped home right when the end credits started to roll, convinced my brother was most likely speaking in tongues and telling the babysitter that his/her mother sucks cocks in Hell (he does love Motorhead).  Anyways, it makes sense that I wasn’t priviliged these gems as a child.

Sci-fi horror is the basis of many of my nightmares growing up.  Once Andrew blossomed into the old brother that wished to enlighten/terrify his uncultured sponge of a sibling, I found – very bluntly – the ingredients to being frightened via film.  Let’s all give a hand for John Carpenter at his cinematic raping of the senses: The Thing. Even to this day I can’t think of a movie that hucks bundles of dynamite at the caveman side of human nature as his remake did.  I know at some point in my youth Andrew threw on what would become a film that rests comfortably in my top ten favorites and I couldn’t shit right for a week.  No joke; my Dad had to sit in on all my bathroom endeavors for a bit because I was afraid of Charles Hannahan’s detached spider fuck-me-I-never-ever-wanna-see-that-thing-whether-in-real-or-fucking-Oz head.

Aliens is right there with The Thing when it comes to a movie that caused me to always run and jump on my bed when it was lights out.  How was I to know there wasn’t a facehugger under the box spring;  didn’t fuck about.  It also spawned my HATE for Paul Reiser even though I know Burke was just a character, but I don’t care.  Every time I watched Mad About You (don’t even ask me why, I don’t even know) I would stare at Reiser and think, “You lied to Ripley and so many good people were killed because of it.  I wish I could have punched you to death before that alien got you… prick.”  Guilty by association:  I hate Helen Hunt too.  Whatever, she sucks.

So when my parents would leave me home alone I’d dig through the pile of copied VHS tapes (my favorite had The Great Mouse Detective, Wayne’s World, and Addams Family on it) and usually end up with Aliens because The Thing disappeared once Andrew left for college.  Between the releases of these two sci-fi horror titans I was missing out on the teen/college equivalent:  Night of The Creeps.

Doofy college freshmen – whose best friend has polio – attempts to take out his dream girl for the formal, but of course zombie jocks/bros who are afflicted with space brain slugs derail the evening.  Solution?  A shotgun, flamethrower, revolver, lawnmower, and Tom Atkins.  I know for a fact I would have grown up to be a better person if I had this movie in my possession as a youngster.  I probably would have been nicer to people with disabilities too, but my parents insisted I play t-ball.  Thus it’s not my fault that I love Christopher Reeves jokes, but Mom and Dad’s.

Horror is the genre that I can’t get tired of and am always willing to watch.  If I wanna have trouble sleeping I’ll put on The Changeling (I’m actually a little uneasy right now just thinking about it) and keep thinking I see something just out of my peripherals.  How about bad people getting exactly what they deserve?  Then it’s Sleepaway Camp, just make sure no one spoils the ending for ya.  What keeps horror fresh is the blending of genres.  I’m trying to stay on the subject of sci-fi horror, but what makes a film watchable over and over again for me is the humor.  Re-Animator is a rare title that I could easily watch every day because it’s funny as shit.  A roommate justifies hiding a dead cat in his mini-fridge because he didn’t wish to leave a sticky note that read “cat dead, details later”.  Dr. West is a gentleman and don’t you forget it.

I’ve heard “splatter comedy” tossed around when talking about movies like Creeps, but The Return of The Living Dead was the first movie to be labeled by this sub-genre to my knowledge.  Without going off the deep end about it, they’re films that use gore and violence – not just funny dialogue – to heighten the comedic qualities as the story pans out.  To someone who isn’t big on horror it can sound perverse that laughter can come from someone being blown up, but with the right line delivered, piece of music used, or sometimes even the lack of both, humor can come spilling out in bloody abundance.

The real appeal in Creeps is writer/director Fred Dekker’s stew of a tale that involves so many aspects in cinema.  You got two buddies who are bumbling around a college campus and all they really want is some lady-loving, which leads to partying.  Apparently getting into a frat gets you laid, so just like any “sex comedy” whacky antics need to ensue; a prank.  The prank brings us to a previous flashback of the cliche 50’s that is familiar as Hell because of old throwback black and whites.  An object jettisoned from an alien craft streaks over make-out point and of course it lands nearby; it MUST be investigated.  It’s a perfect catalyst to the ridiculousness that object – a singular space slug – will cause years later.

Once bursting heads start spurting out legions of wiggly-jiggles that dart across tile floors looking for an open orifice (my God that was fun to type) we need a hero and we get one:  Tom “Thrill Me” Atkins.  His character Detective Ray Cameron easily sits alongside dudes like Reggie, Peter, and Ash at the big boy table for bad asses in horror.  He’s full of one-liners, a fucked up past, and finishes every sentence with a shotgun blast (I’m on a God damn roll).  That’s the issue I have with many hero characters these days, is that they can’t be fun and kooky.  The ones that are a little odd-ball are typically very young characters, but rarely are they the old-timers with age in their face and stories to tell.

And don’t let me forget J.C. played by Steve Marshall (he was also on 21 Jump Street, so you know this guy is big time).  Now I always say he had polio in the movie – even though there’s no mention of it – so maybe I’ll just switch to “handicapped”… even though I wanna say “cripple”.  Having a character with a disability for no good God damn reason does add some realism to a film that is so far passed the limits of normality.  I hate when every actor in a film looks like they just got done tanning in the OC and are on their way to getting frap-a-fucking-chinos at some coffee shop before they zoom off to blow each other while watching Friends. The characters in this movie look like normal to partially awkward people, just like every other random you pass on the street.  Dekker threw in a guy who should easily be a shut-in, but J.C. turns out to be one of the better characters in the movie.  He pushes his buddy Chris (the actor Jason Lively was also on 21 Jump Street; P.I.M.P.) to actually talk to a woman and not be such a pussy that bitches about everything wrong in his life, but actually assists him in fixing all the bullshit.

I don’t think I ever wanna have kids.  I’m already too damn selfish as it is and if I have to fork out cash to some free-loader that can’t even walk or talk; don’t think so.  But if I ever become “responsible” and “stop peeing in the sink” which – God forbid – leads me into parenthood, my kid would get a VHS tape (yup, just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I’m NOT poor) with three titles on it:  The Thing, Aliens, and Night of the Creeps.  Because isn’t the whole point of having kids so as not to be your parents or do I have that backwards?  I really don’t know.  Well I’m off to get a vasectomy; wish me luck.

“Reap What You Sow.”

Let’s do a quick music rundown then move on to something else:

1. The new Converge is blowing my fucking brain with the dentures removed and a satin hand cupping the metaphysical balls located in my minds eye.  Converge is one of those bands that I appreciate within the genre of hardcore and its offshoots because they’ve been doing their own thing for nearly 20 years, yet I’ve never been a big fan (don’t ask me why).  Axe To Fall is an album that infuses more metal into their familiar sound than I have heard before and it puts a big dumb smile on my big dumb face.  The later track Cruel Bloom features Steve Von Till from Neurosis doing vocals and I was convinced for this last week that it was none other than Tom Waits.  That song solidified my love for this album.  I’m a sucker for heavier bands throwing in something slow to the mix, yet still retaining the atmosphere and edge that at any moment they can break back into a breakdown, solo, or something that just makes me want to stomp a foot and slam my head around; this is one of those songs.  This album has also worked the magic of making me want to trek back to their earlier work and chronologically move forward until this release.  That doesn’t happen too often in my book, therefore I need to present a sacrifice to the Gods of Rock for bestowing me with this treasure.  I figure some corndogs and porno mags I found in the alley will suffice.  I’m so glad my Gods aren’t jealous Gods, just SUPER easy to please.

2. This is kinda old hat because I’ve been ranting about it for the last few weeks, but the sophomore release from Doomriders has been musical Viagra for me.  I’ve had this fit of impotence when it comes to new music in my life and Darkness Come Alive has brought the “umph” back for me.  It’s an album that makes me want to get up and do something.  I listen to it and wanna get into a fight, chug a damn tall beer, kiss some random hard on the mouth, or fight demons with a broadsword.  It has tracks that yell “FUCK YOU” at those helping hands out there that just want to assist in order to make themselves feel better (Knife Wound) and others that urge to keep a head up in a shitty world that just wants to take everything good and positive from you (Lions).  If I like something I’ll try to keep up to snuff with it – whether it’s a band, film, or the next release from Joose – and sometimes that ends up biting me in my succulent ass.  When you follow so closely to an interest in your life you’re bound to place it on a pedestal, hoping it’ll be the next best thing… that rarely holds true.  I’d been waiting for the next full-length from Doomriders since ‘05 and in no way, shape, or form was I let down with this new one.  Daddy like.

3. So much awesome has been oozing from Vol. 3 of the Comadre Mixtape I wrote about a little while back.  I’ve been taking every possible chance to play the fucker for friends and whoever lately.  From the track list I’ve been stumbling over some great new acts like Hour of The Wolf, Finest Dearest, and Glasses, but the group Heartsounds has nicked a place in my heart that rarely gets any attention:  pop-punk.  I remember buying Blink 182’s Dude Ranch in 7th or 8th grade and not wanting to leave my room as long as that album spun about in my twitchy CD player, the cordless house phone had enough battery to call a girl I liked, and there was Final Fantasy VII or Tekken 3 in my Playstation.  Heartsounds has that comforting sound I remember jamming along to in my middle school sanctuary, yet it doesn’t feel like I’m displacing myself to far from the person I’ve grown in to, which is nice considering they play music in a genre that typically works more like a time machine for me these days.  Broadway Calls is another recent band that has had the same affect on me.  Is this a sign that I’m getting sappy in my years?  Nope and to prove it I’m gonna go snort some razor blades.  Why?  Because I lost a bet with Nick Nolte.  That bastard doesn’t screw about when it comes to gas-huffing competitions.

After doing a wee spellcheck I remembered that this was supposed to be a quick little blurp about music and then I was gonna go on about something else.  Huh…  I guess I lied.

“You can’t kill us all!”

Coalesce has been one of those bands that I’ve listened to for years, but all that listening has been via one album that I can’t get tired of:  Functioning On Impatience. They have a decent discography, but I just haven’t been able to move on from that album.  Same thing with Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds.  Let Love In is one of those albums that hit my ears at just the right time in my life (going into a serious relationship and then getting dumped fucking hard), so it held some precedence in my life for quite some time.  Not until two weeks back or so was I able to jump ship with Murder Ballads.  Holy shit… Nick Cave is a storyteller to say the least.  That man has the ability to weave words with music and it creeps under my skin.  Like telling ghost stories and giving yourself goosebumps, that’s what Murder Ballads has been doing for me.  Let’s bring this around full-circle though.

Coalesce has the OXEP streaming from lambgoat (a great news source on heavier music, but sometimes you gotta sift through garbage soda-drinker bands to find the real meat).  It’s their new EP, which is following up the recent OX full-length that I’ve only put to my ears once – earlier today – and it jammed along just fine.  I gave the EP a run through twice and it seems like I may be making the move onto a new album finally.  The stream is only up for a short while, so don’t be lazy about it because you gotta do this “thing” for a friend, when we all know you’re just gonna get high and whack-it.  It’s obvious.

I found this in a book of illustrations at my buddies place today.  Kris went and saw Where The Wild Things Are at IMAX and apparently got a lot of free swag.  Skinner Davis is the man with the skills here and the work he has up on his site gave me a decent lot of eye-boners.  I’ve always dug bright colors in art, especially neon, dayglo, blacklight bullshit (beginning of Belly is the bees-tits, not knees) so it makes sense why I’d watch Busta Rhymes video for Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See countless times in middle school.  I doubt it had anything to do with the big, busty, bouncy, Black ladies though.  Oh Pam Grier, why won’t you return any of the imaginary phone calls I make to you in my mind.  She’s such a tease.

Shit son, music and art all in one swing.  I’d call that a God damn success in culture if you ask me.  Don’t you feel better about yourself now?  You can pour out all that Tang you’ve been drinking and stop munching on partially cooked fish sticks.  Even though you say, “I don’t mind that it’s cold in the middle,” we all know you’re full of shit.  It’s kinda sad.  You needa’ head down to the corner store and pick yourself up a 40 of Steele Reserve, OJ, and peanut M&M’s.  Now that’s a meal for refined people, which you can now classify yourself into.  Just find a nice stoop to post up on and share what you learned with a stranger or two.  Hell, offer them some of your drink too.  I don’t know anyone that dislikes a good ol’ Brass Monkey.  Except maybe Canadians; they only like the band Rush.

“The zed-word. Don’t say it!”

Let this statement absorb into your mildly retarded to intelligent mind(s):  Shaun of the Dead is a perfect movie.  From second zero until end credits, Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg created a masterpiece.  Name me a scene in that film that they could have cut out… yup, shut up.

Centering a film around zombies in the last ten years is a simple way to start a movie, which has become the center of much critiquing and BITCHING from fans and fuckers alike.  Yeah, I will admit that screenwriters, producers, and directors need to adjust their attention a little in the genre of horror, but how easy is it to get an idea, name, or message out into the mass populace through the invention of zombies?  Easy as a girl named Breezy (ask me later).

“Rom-zom-com” was a genre coined by Shaun of the Dead.  It’s fucking silly, but I allow it.  A romantic-zombie-comedy is something we all wish we thought of first, but alas, we didn’t.  Closest pick that could be lumped into this genre is Zombie Honeymoon, but that flick is a bummer to say the least (rent it though).

George A. Romero is a man that horror buffs tip their hats to because whether you like it or no, he brought zombie films into the mainstream and did it well.  Some of his films look a little dated – for the obvious reasons – with all the undead cinema flooding the market now, but Shaun of the Dead took the schematic of rotting men and women lumbering about and feeding on human flesh infused humor, heart, and headshots.  In my opinion Romero has been rolling down a slippery slope of guts and flesh since Land of the Dead, but after watching Diary of the Dead I got a feeling the man needs to put the camera down and start penning some screenplays or producing projects that are up his gore soaked alley.  His new picture Survival of the Dead has the potential of bringing him out of this mass grave of shitty zombie movies, which he has directed himself into, but sometimes you just gotta pass the torch and move on.  Let’s get back on topic though, shall we?

Edgar Wright is one of those writers/directors who knows what he loves and it isn’t afraid to create something that is merely an homage to those things with a little something else added to it.  His sitcom Spaced even has a subtitle track on the DVDs entitled “Homage-o-Meter” that simply references anything within the realm of film, music, literature, and a bunch of random shit because that’s what compromises majority of the show.  Genius?  A little less, but leaning more towards prophetic.

The sappy – but good kinda sappy – that is strategically placed amongst the fart jokes and disemboweling in Shaun plucks on the heart strings so well because there usually isn’t a need for it within the genre.  Your typical horror fan that forks out $6.50 for Saw 23 (currently in pre-production) doesn’t need emotional substance within the film as long as the violence grows exponentially with each severed Achilles tendon.  Yet, when Bill Nighy – playing the stepfather – “death bed” confesses how hard it’s been raising Simon Pegg, I know I started welling up the first time I saw it.  And don’t get me started about the Mexican standoff involving Shaun’s mother.  Reservoir Dogs, you have now been trumped.

We’ve all seen plenty of slashers and the such where you can pretty much wave a finger at majority of the players and figure who’ll be letting out a sigh of relief right before the end credits roll and who’ll be dirt-napping ASAP.  Now if you can actually write a decent character then flesh them out as the camera rolls on them – whether they get the axe or not – we’re at least feeling for them as they attempt to survive through three acts.  But if you watch any trailers for movies within the last 10 years, Hollywood loves to show us EVERY FUCKING THING THAT’LL HAPPEN WITHIN 93 MINUTES condensed to a two and a half minute stream of clips, especially every dumb breeder that’s gonna fall on a dick or knife in I Know What You Did Last Summer With Your Dirty Mouf .  I remember watching the Episode I trailer in ninth grade and being so pissed off because it was obvious that Qui-Gon eats it.  Once again, thank you Mr. Lucas for perverting nearly everything that was holy during my childhood.  Sorry… I get kinda angry most of the time when I go off on tangents.

Every character in Shaun fits into at least one stereotype or more, which works as long as you give them a soul.  The token black guy wouldn’t be such a disposable character in cinema, but when does the “black friend in the group” ever get more than five lines that aren’t silly or just jive.  Stereotypes and cliches in movies work – especially in genre films – because it can create a familiarity with the audience that is comforting, but the fun and talent comes when the write and/or director abuses that comfort and throws you into oncoming traffic.  Sometimes you’re taken from your idea of what is safe and sure in your life or simply lead down a path you didn’t see coming.  I wouldn’t say that Shaun is abound with twist, turns, and surprises, but when you take the idea of the “bumbling idiot” (Pegg) and give him a family, friends, wit, and then hordes of zombies to bash his way through, you start to give two shits about him.  Stir in that drama I was talking about from before and what do you get?  A damn fine character.  Now let’s throw a bucket of blood over the whole mess and you we got ourselves a right good film.  Now me personally, I just need a rack of $7.99 failure ribs from Safeway and some Simply Apple Juice, then I’m in fat kid Heaven.  Moving on.

Shaun of the Dead may not be on the highest of cinematic plains, but for a film that panders to gore-hounds, drunks/stoners, those who still think farts are funny (real Americans), and people who hate bad kissers, it’s a work of art.  It’s a movie that reminds me of why I still love all the sentimental bullshit John Hughes put out or why constantly quoting the Cohen Borthers three bowling alley burnouts never gets tired.  It brings me back to why I shielded my  five year-old eyes from Carpenter’s shape-shifting alien in the Arctic or how Landis made someones dead bestfriend the funniest aspect of London.  Simply put, it’s a movie that makes me love movies.

“TK-421 where are you?”

He’s being an artist, duh.  I would love to give you – the interweb – a great long diatribe on the ins and outs of this picture, but fuck it… it explains itself.  There’s a lack of Jawas though… and werewolfes, jetpacks, and Jenny Agutter.

This is the guy who drew the comic:  Warwick Johnson Cadwell

Post Script:  Star Wars is life as is bacon.

“I am the devil and I am here to do the devil’s work.”

My love for Bill Mosley started some years ago when I first saw Texas Chainsaw Massacre II. His character Chop-Top made me laugh, but I felt a little dirty each time I chuckled at him.  He’d heat up the end of his scratcher with that metallic lighter, then go to town on his T-800 dome, and a little bit of nausea rose up in me with each flake of skin he’d gobble down.

\”Dog will hunt!\”

But just like telling spooky stories with friends late at night, the unnerving feelings are welcomed and even encouraged.  If an actor can honestly make you wanna feel a way that you’d adamantly avoid normally, they’re doing a damn good job.

Years later I went to the Lacey theater with a big group of friends and randoms.  The building always weirded be out when I was little because of its exterior; it looked like a fleshy melting sqaure.  I like to think  the idea behinds its construction was to pour concrete on a solid structure in the middle of a heatwave and let physics do the rest.  I digress.  The friends, randoms, and myself were going to see The Devils Rejects. I had seen House of 1,000 Corpses a couple years prior and hated it, yet I was super excited to see the “sequel” for some reason.

There’s no reason for me to go into details about the actual movie-going experience so I’ll just sum it up:  the girlfriend at the time almost vomited during the semi-truck vs crazed victim scene, my buddy Tate addressed some shusher as “bitch” then continued to explain how gore is funny, and Freebird from that day on held a totally different residence in my heart.

So many aspects are hitting all the right cylinders in the movie, but the characters standout above everything.  I’d assume the roles which carried over from 1,000 Corpses was what excited me about Rejects because otherwise the ladder had nothing going for it besides a budget.  Just how Tarentino is an expert when it comes to casting actors to actually fit a role as opposed to selling the film, Rob Zombie filled his sophomore work with people who make you believe in them and are capable of taking the audience through acts one, two, and three.  Otis Driftwood was the one character bringing home the fucking bacon, but he was actually going out and slaughtering the pigs with a big ol’ boot knife.

Bill Moseley brought this vibe to a character you’re supposed to hate, but more importantly fear.  His introduction into the film shows him laying in some mess of a room – stained tighty-whities the only thing covering his thin build – with his arm over the corpse of some dead teenage girl.  Now, unless you have a Teen Beat poster of Ted Bundy above your bed (come on, the man was a lady-killer, eh eh?), automatically you lump Mr. Driftwood into the “fuck-you-I-hope-you-choke-on-twenty-three-issues-of-Vogue” category.  As the film unfurls you start to laugh at Otis’ jokes and see him as some sort of white trash evil deity.  He’s the kinda guy that is SO much fun to go out drinking with, but every once in a while he gets the devil in him and pops you one… yet you keep going out drinking with him.  Just me?  Whatever pussies.

What I’m trying to get at is that Bill Mosley has this charisma as an actor, but his charm usually draws you to some deviant that got his seventeen year old girlfriend pregnant, crashed his Dad’s ‘63 Impala SS, and stole your piggy bank to buy meth.  That takes some talent, dammit.

Ridiculously loud laughing aside due to my humor:  we love rooting for bad guys every once in a while.  If you watch enough Jason and Freddy movies you will end up always crossing your fingers hoping that the “annoying kid in the wheelchair” character gets it, because, come on… teenagers suck.  But from time to time we wanna let a little bit of that darkness in, whether it’s laughing at someone stubbing their toe or Scratchy chopping Itchy into pieces then shooting him to the Moon.  No one is perfect – besides me in 11th grade – so sinning through thought or action is necessary here and there.  Me?  I like letting Bill Mosley do the work for me.

\”I want lightning to come down and crash upon my fucking head!\”

“There’s always some stupid bullshit reason to kill your girlfriend.”

I have to send a “thank you” to Wes Craven for the movie Scream. I’ve seen my share of horror movies (surprising because sharing is communal and that makes you weak).  Besides that I’ve driven through enough slasher flicks to make me excellent at picking up chicks that are confused – whether their clothes should keep them warm or carpet a hardwood floor – and into edge-play.

At this moment Rose McGowan’s breast are telling me “turkey’s done” and that also deserves a stamped “thank you” letter to Mr. Craven and garage-doors.  Sidenote:  ”I Spit On Your Garage” is much better title than its former.

Before I get too sidetracked, Scream was the reinvention of the slasher film during the 90’s; that’s my point.  The problem is that many hardcore fans of horror – at the time – weren’t ready for this justified, yet blatant confession of secrets… for a lack of better words.  Scream was everything that horror fans discussed, mocked, laughed at, and still defended, but were simply pissed because someone made money off of it before they could; “I’ll be right back.”

As history repeats itself and we all follow in the footsteps of the people that we both loved and hated, we critique everyone and everything.  We eat, drink, shit, shower, sleep, and shave (yes even you); don’t deny it.  Slasher movies run us through the gauntlet of emotions and visuals that can both intrigue and repulse.  Just because you own a two-piece suit or lie very well during your book club, we can’t deny the fact that we’re animals that have become comfortable on the top of the food-chain.  A little bit of tits, gore, and a strong disposition keep us entertained whether we like it or not.

Drew Barrymore is disposed of in rapid-fire succession within the opening of the film.  That broad was one of the selling-points of this movie as its one-sheet spotted theaters around the globe in ‘96.  If Wes Craven had a direct hand in this casting process, well, his next “thank you” letter better be packed with a handjob.  A face like Barrymores (ET) is so recognizable within our generation (if you’re reading this and were born before ‘80 I want to apologize for your lumpy oatmeal) that watching her brutally murdered in the opening act spins shit around; that familiar face won’t comfort you in the slightest now.  When Entertainment Tonight was /film that point in the plot held enough water to rehydrate one of my decent hangovers; not the case since I’ve “grown up”.

I  dunno if it’s alright to dislike or even hate this movie still, but the red wine and unsalted peanuts surging through my veins (I’m more healthy than a healthman) obviously tell the better tale.  Why Neve Campbell’s frumpy self was allowed to be seen as a love-interest still baffles me to this day.  And like normal, there was a lack of werewolves and jetpacks in the film.  I’m also going to start considering how much of Jenny Agutter is in a movie and then deciding its ranking within the history of cinema based on that notion.

Damn… that’s one foxy lady.

Pump Up The Jams

Productivity:  that’s the name of the game.  Things have been on the decline when it comes to me actually contributing to the world (being awesome I’ve been told isn’t enough).  I think I can change that.

So if I’m gonna get serious with creating my new true identity (Videodrome is actually a documentary) I’m going to start with, but not limited to:  throwing in my two cents, discussing film and literature with less of the word “faggot” (it’s horrible how much I love that word), maybe publishing some actual new writings of my own on here and not a bunch of unfinished thoughts, while also getting the word out on music that doesn’t make me wanna kidnap the elderly and force-feed them thumbtacks.

In summary: let’s all go get tattoos of chimps holding straight-razors.

Comadre Mixtape Vol.3

Comadre’s latest mixtape is a little bit from column A, B, and Dangers (that’s the most important part).  I’m finishing up my first time through it as I type this; loves it.  Canyons and Acts of Sedition were the ear-perkers for me in my current lull on new music.  Finally hearing Marrow recorded puts a crooked smile on my face too.  I saw them play with Gorlock, Dangers, and Sojourner some time ago at a YMCA in downtown Seattle.  Given, members of Greyskull compromise Marrow (singer included) and that band could put on a fucking hoedown, but they had such great energy for a new band.  It makes me smile to hear that energy being carried over to recording.

I think this is a good start, how about you?  Wait, don’t answer that… let’s just tango.  I’m kidding, but can you grab be two beers?  “Utah, get me two!”