A Band: Pharaoh

Originally, this column was conceived as a way to direct a floodlight or two in the direction of a band (y'know, "a band") that rawked my world and yet, slipped beneath the metal mainstream sonar.  For no particular reason, I always saw it servicing bands of the moment.  That is, music that was happening right now underfoot.  Proggy power metallers Pharaoh have always been a band (y'know, "a band") that I've championed and tried to lug out of the ligature grip of obscurity.  Nonetheless, they are a band of battle-scarred veterans.

So?  Why should that keep me from directing a floodlight at their latest endeavor?  They're still too goddamn obscure.  If you don't know (ugh, I can't take you anywhere), they are led by tornado-throated singer Tim Aymar, he of Control Denied fame.  The first time that I listened to 1999's The Fragile Art of Existence, I couldn't believe that an unknown was damn near upstaging Chuck Schuldiner.  Ever since, I've been a loyal fan of the Pennsylvanian collective.  Aymar joined in time for 2003's After the Fire.  A solid debut, but the follow-up?  2006's The Longest Night?  Well, I'll just say that I consider it to be one of the finest albums of the decade, a decade that was pretty kind to our genre, all in all.

Needless to dribble, that has nothing to do with 2021.  I wouldn't be writing this if Pharaoh had not dropped a banger in the preceding twelve months.  I'm talking about The Powers That Be.  It bristles with an unruly, indignant energy, a choleric verve I wasn't expecting after nine years of radio silence.  But you're willing to wait after a record as gratifying as 2012's Bury the Light.  Pharaoh is cool.  That's what I'm saying.

As for where you should start (and let's assume that you want to start because you have a brain, stem included), that depends on your tastes.  Do you wave the flag for traditional heavy metal?  Try 2008's Be Gone on for size.  Maybe you're more like me and you're into technical stuff.  I started with The Longest Night.  What's good for the goose is good for the gibbon...no, the gazelle...no, the Galapagos tortoise!  I'll figure that one out later.  While I'm doing that, why don't you take a gander at Pharaoh's catalog?

Four out of five shovels?

If you'll notice, a new link has been added to the top of the website.  It was about time that I stored all of my Corpse reviews in one place.  Heh, that sounds like I review the condition of dead bodies.  Maybe I do.  Next week, we dig up Princess Diana!

Dead Review Collection #11 - KILL!

I've found that an armada of metal freaks cherish 2006's Kill.  In fact, they say it's their favorite.  Makes sense.  Personally, I don't think it quite measures up to The Wretched Spawn, but it's a raging cracker.  I say that its popularity makes sense because of the circumstances surrounding its release.  This is the record that introduced Cannibal Corpse to a new generation.  The video for "Make Them Suffer" was played on the modern, streamlined version of Headbanger's Ball.  And it didn't take long for social media (which was in its infancy at the time) to notice that George was an awesome nerd.  With an ogre's thumb for a neck.

Another music video and a viral clip of George panegyrizing World of Warcraft (fuck the horde!) later, the mighty Corpse was cool.  They had not been cool to the common teenager since The Bleeding.  This was a big deal, no?  Am I the only one who thinks it's noteworthy?  Granted, CC's quickening wasn't as grand or as far-reaching as the revivification that Aerosmith enjoyed, but The Eagles maybe?  They actually reunited for their comeback.  I guess...I guess not.  Whatever!  Kill was successful.  That's the crux of this provision.  Hey, is World of Warcraft still a thing?

Kill was produced by Hate Eternal's lead demon and Florida's death metal cynosure (what a badass word) Erik Rutan.  I don't love all of his production jobs.  His own band's Fury & Flames sounds terrible, what with the nuances being rubbed out by obnoxious mixing.  The drums are too loud, a verifiable truth that supports my theory - get ready - that the album was produced by Animal.  Y'know, the muppet?  That dude kicks ass, but keep him away from the studio when he isn't recording his tracks.  Right, so Miss Piggy has clearly fucked every slip of felt under the sun and I...

...I forgot which piece I was writing.  The production!  I dig it!  It retains the heft of The Wretched Spawn, while adding a dash of gloss.  I spun the piss out of Kill that summer, so I'm more than qualified to proclaim that it's a perfect set for the sunlight-achromatized season.  The energy is up.  Way up, as Kill begins with the agile, riff-pitching "The Time to Kill is Now."  I hope to Satan you've heard "Make Them Suffer."  If you're a metalhead of a certain age, you would have heard it at some point.  I'm almost sick of it myself, although I realize it's not a radio fixture.

The crushing midsection of "Murder Worship" is so heavy, it induces a sinkhole in the parking lot of the venue where CC is playing that night.  The vocal patterns in "Necrosadistic Warning" are goddamn demented.  "The Discipline of Revenge" might be my most preferred number.  The opening stagger brilliantly utilizes Alex's bilious bass accents and a fidgety guitar harmony that brings the lyrics to life in the form of brutal death metal.  And Kill is brutal.

Flies in the ointment?  It doesn't strike me as a gravity-bending epic the way that its predecessor does, but I can't offer a categorical rationale.  It's a feeling; it's not a reason I can explain.  However, I do hold one more opinion about Kill, and it would never be confused for ambiguous.  The cover.  Okay, they wanted all of our attention to go straight to the songs.  They worked hard on Kill and they didn't want the material to be obfuscated in the distance.  I respect that, but goddamn it, if you're Cannibal Corpse, you better commission Vincent Locke to whisk a nasty, disgusting slab of artwork to jazz up your finished product.  Like a flaming baby.  Or a severed mutant penis skullfucking a zombie.  Magnifique!

    

Halloween is almost here!

For obvious reasons, this has been a busy month for yours truly.  And not in a cool way.  I wish I could tell you that I've been super busy (like so many drone insects, perhaps drawn to pollen) writing a future bestseller and compiling material for this very website, but frankly, winter is a drag.  I hate it.  It's hard enough curbing seasonal depression.  Staving it off and remaining productive?  How the fuck is that even possible?  Fear not; I have...plans!

Plans don't see themselves to fruition, but I feel alright about fulfilling these particular plans.  I have a new feature (!) up my sleeve.  I don't know how often I'll be able to update it, but the prospects are exciting.  I'm still ploughing through my Cannibal Corpse discography review.  Expect a kill within the week.  Oh, and I'm gonna watch some movies!  Yeah!

Album Cover of the Whatever

Blackened death metal.  That's what you're getting.  Oh, you ordered the blackened salmon?  I don't give a fuck!  You're getting blackened death metal.  Thankfully, Vahrzaw is a cool, accomplished band.  From the looks of things, Husk is a concept album about a spooky skeleton who is terrorized by...hands and stuff.

Rassle Inn #25

Gimme an F!  Gimme a U!  Gimme an N!  What's that spell?  I can't hear you!  C'mon, your current  location, you can do better than that.  WHAT'S THAT SPELL???  That's right.  We're having fun, although it used to be easier to garner a cheap pop in this intermediate cornfield of nihility.  Heh, I called the world wide web a cornfield.  That's how you know I'm playing the heel.  I'm still having fun, which is the subject of tonight's concursion.  Are you having fun yet?

I don't keep a running tally of professional wrestling programs.  I don't rank every episode of Raw or Dynamite.  Nevertheless, I feel that this past Wednesday's telecast of AEW's Dynamite was one of the best yet.  I bring up fun because it's an elusive element of entertainment that seems to enjoy slapping me around.  I kid you not; I haven't had that much fun rubbernecking rasslin' since my high school days.  Everything from CM Punk's heel (!) promo to MJF working against type put a dense, doltish beam across my face.

The wrestling landscape should be exclusively chipper right now, but Ring of Honor is holding a PPV event on the brink of certain uncertainty.  The strait-laced promotion is closing its doors, kinda-sorta.  Starting next year, ROH won't have any contracted talents.  I'm not sure how that's going to go down as it relates to the champions (poor Rok-C just arrived), but chum, um, vector sum, net income, ummmmm...

...pond scum?

Blood Capsule #118

MURDERS IN THE RUE MORGUE (1932)

I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I had not seen this particular Universal classic until last night.  Perhaps the absence of an iconic monster persuaded my subconscious to sidestep Murders in the Rue Morgue (I'm an insipid polliwog, after all).  It's unimportant.  I am righting my wrongs, as I'll be investigating a separate infraction at the very same Morgue.  The murders are decades apart, but I suspect foul play.  Then again, the cast is different.  These transgressions may be...movies.  Gasp!  So that was nice and stupid; why don't I encapsulate this Lugosi-starring spine-tickler for you?

I was expecting the story to tarry over grave robbers, but to my pleasant surprise, a considerable portion of Rue Morgue is occupied by a brainsick, off-his-rocker "mad scientist."  Yippee!  That's where Lugosi earns his pay (which wasn't enough).  Most horror fans agree that Dracula and The Black Cat contain his best performances, and I will co-sign on that dotted line.  However, his raving turn as Dr. Mirakle is no straggler.  The scene in which he tortures a prostitute is grisly stuff.  Yeah, the studio extricated twenty minutes from the initial cut, and technically, that was before the Hays Code was officially adopted by Hollywood.

A black-and-white medalwinner.  I don't believe that it won any actual medals.  I just mean, watch it.

Geek Out #153

It's a movie!

Hard Rock Nightmare

Just when you think you've discovered every "heavy metal" horror film from the 80's, an unsung ruby of corundum(b)* falls into your lap.  I feel like I've used that introductory sentence before.  Switch out the sub-subgenre (say, seaside creature features), and yeah, these are well-worn galoshes.  As for this sub-subgenre, I've settled on an exemplar model.  The peak of the mountain, a crag of riffs and spooks.  Good Lord, that's cornier than Jim Cornette shucking an ear of corn while fucking a member of Korn...with a corn cob!  Don't ask what Colonel Sanders did with the kernels.

My pick for the top "heavy metal" fright flick?  It's clearly Black Roses.  You may disagree.  That's fine.  However, if your pick is 1988's Hard Rock Nightmare, we have a problem.  I strongly doubt that we could ever be friends.  This isn't the worst oddment I've pulled from the dustbin (a.k.a. the metagalactic void), but it's not honest with the viewer.  Hell, forget the viewer; it's not honest with prospective consumers at large.  Abrupt left turn!  I struggle with spoilers.  Meaning, apart from twist endings, I never know how much of a film's storyline to unveil.

I have gathered you here today to spoil the ending of Hard Rock Nightmare.  If you don't want to know how it sews itself up, point your browser elsewhere.  Back to sewing!  If this churlish cheapie were a surgeon, it would suture wounds with shoelace and blue raspberry bubble tape.  Eek, that's one wretched vasectomy.  In any event, we are told that the main lad's grandfather was a total prick.  He delighted in scaring the shit out of his grandson (whose name is either Jim or Charlie) by saying that he was a vampire.  He was going to drink Jim's/Charlie's blood and kill his whole family.  Yeah.  Told you he was a prick.

I guess that he also claimed he was a werewolf?  We are led to believe that Jim/Charlie fucking stabbed him and spent the rest of his pre-18 days in therapy.  We cut to the present, and Jim/Charlie is rehearsing with his band in the peace of a remote cabin.  Before you can say "this band sucks," ancillary characters begin to drop off.  They are gashed to death by a...monster.  We are shown a silhouette and a ghostly shot of feral, saffron eyes.  The poster image, indeed.  We get a good look at it.  Repeatedly.  Boy, it's impressive the first time you see it.

Hard Rock Nightmare climaxes with the surviving nobodies removing the monster's mask.  It's an episode of Scooby-Doo!  And it's not even a cool episode.  The cast is interchangeable, the kills are trite, and the cheesiness of the rock 'n' roll cheese is mitigated by the fact that - again - the music sucks.  I realize that I said it's not the worst of its ilk, but that's only because it's relatively short.  Robert Z'Dar says, "Is this what Billy Corgan dreams about?  No wonder."

* A ruby is a type of corundum, a common mineral.  I almost went with "rhinestone(r)."  Laughs were heard for miles...

 

Cherry Pop's Ice Cream Shop

Fucking Blogger is being difficult at the moment.  It won't let me upload ANY images, which will be a quandary tomorrow when I write my next movie review (it's a doozy).  I'd like for you to see the cover art, at the very least.  As for tonight?  Ice cream, comic books, and soda pop!

Yo!  I just wanted to recount my visit to Cherry Pop's Ice Cream Shop(pe), a snazzy joint that opened in the past year.  It's located in downtown Catawba, thirty minutes from my abode.  That's a "special occasion" distance.  This time, the occasion was...well, I had never been there before.  Dude, this isn't just any ice cream vendor.  The 50's throwback theme may be old hat, but who cares?  This place offers delicious sundaes, bubbly water in glass bottles (both Pepsi and Coke), a superfluity of candy, and comic books!  You read that right.  I bought a couple of Marvel titles from 1990.  The selection is limited, but I'm not going to complain when I'm enjoying a lollipop and reading a random superhero comic from the 90's.

That's filed under "fuck yeah" between the ridges of my brain (no, this isn't a paid advertisement).  Blogger is filed under "fuck you" until they can get this image problem fixed.

Dead Review Collection #10 - SPAWN!

I have too many things to say about this album.  2004's The Wretched Spawn is my favorite Cannibal Corpse outing.  To my ears, it's the perfect distillation of every element that makes this band...this band.  Since I'm not stopping at three sentences (don't tempt me, Satan/Jesus), I'll have to whip out the bulleted list.  I'm sorry!  I tried to avoid this route, but if any record is suited for an itemized index, it's this badass daughterfucker.  A scanty digression, if I may; that's my daughter on the cover.  Mary Mary Sue Coccaro (I named her Mary twice because she was conceived on a merry-go-round on Christmas Eve) died during childbirth.  The winged gentleman behind her gurney?  That's me.  As you can see, I was racked with grief.

~ Production!  This one was doctored by a returning Neil Kernon.  I thought that Gore Obsessed sounded adequate, but Spawn fucking blows it out of the cemetery slush.  The guitars are full and massive.  Alex's rumblings are represented well in the bottom end, especially for the grinding riffs in "Cyanide Assassin" and "Nothing Left to Mutilate."  And "Slain."  And the others.

~ The songs!  Songwriting has never been a weakness for these chaps, but variety and the thorny matter of dynamics have been elevated.  The first seven tracks are astonishingly multifarious for death metal carols.  Heh, wouldn't it be funny if all Christmas carols were replaced with CC tunes?  Anyway, "astonishingly multifarious" may seem excessive, but dude, they aren't just seven tracks.  They are seven different approaches to composition.  No theme or concept is repeated.

~ The songs!  Specifically!  "Severed Head Stoning" is an ideal opener.  It's a barrelling blackjack to the cranium.  "Psychotic Precision" cranks up the speed and technicality, which are graded back down for the caveman grooves of "Decency Defied."  A studio video of "Frantic Disembowelment" went viral because fucking holy piss, it's fast.  "Festering in the Crypt" is an all-timer (remember, it's my review, not yours).  The melodies are sickly, and the languid tortoise pacing allows George to enunciate, to really dig into each syllable.  Speaking of which...

~ George!  Individually, the members of CC are operating at full tilt.  There isn't a weak link in the bunch.  But man, Spawn is the album that made me fall in heterosexual love with Corpsegrinder (and his neck).  His vocals are unreal.  The low growls are so brutal, I would believe you if you told me that George was part-chicken.  For the uninitiated, chickens swallow small rocks and gravel for digestive purposes.  That's a stupid way of expressing it, but the guy's voice sounds inhuman, okay?  And the high screams!  This is the last CC set where George uncorks loooong shrieks (he comes close to hitting 13 seconds on "They Deserve to Die").  They were giving him intense headaches, so he had to retire most of his upper range.

~ Smash the scrotum!  The lyrics to "Blunt Force Castration" are hilarious.  That's all.  I'm immature.

I guess that's it.  Spawn sits atop my personal pile of corpses.  By the way, "Skull Fragment Armor" is a bonus track on the digipak edition of Evisceration Plague.  If you're a trained fan (read: maniac), you'll be able to tell that it was recorded during the sessions for The Wretched Spawn.  Of course, it slams.

    

Wormface

How was your summer vaca--er, Thanksgiving?  Honestly, this is my least favorite holiday.  I realize that it's an unpopular opinion, but I don't care for most Thanksgiving food.  Turkey is cool.  It's an upstanding meat, but you can keep your mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce (seriously, what the fuck?), stuffing, candied yams, and your butternut squash (see my comment on cranberry sauce).  It wasn't made to infiltrate my paunch.  Worms on the other hand...

No, I only gobble gummy worms.  That brings me to today's subject, an extended player (or EP, if you're fussy) cast loose by Cannibal Corpse.  I've mentioned it before, but I won't be scrawling full-length reviews for the band's shorter releases.  I will piddle and put down words concerning 2003's Worm Infested.  When I bought my CC hoodie, this disc was included.  I was awfully hankful, as I doubt that I would have purchased it otherwise.  It's hard for me to justify parting with cash in exchange for twenty minutes (on average) of music.  I would have heard the songs eventually, but then I wouldn't own the artwork.

Typically, I try not to post explicit nudity on the site, even in cartoon form.  Vincent Locke's interpretation of the title is stomach-churning in a groovy way.  Nice color scheme, too.  As for the material, we get two outtakes from the Gore Obsessed studio sessions, three covers, and a re-recorded version of "The Undead Will Feast."  The outtakes make me super curious about other leftovers in the vault.  If there are one or two unheard threnodies for each CC album, holy shit.  Release them now!

At any rate, I'm curious because "Worm Infested" and "Systematic Elimination" kick tremendous ass.  The act of headbanging?  It was invented for these rippers.  The covers are fine.  I could take them or leave them, but they do display George's range.  So I've written more than I thought I would, but I'll be back in a few days to slobber on a long player.  That didn't sound incredibly right.

Blood Capsule #117

THE VISITOR (1979)

Did you catch the Lakers game last night?  It was a nail-biter.  With three seconds to spare, LeBron James jumped to dunk the deciding basket when suddenly, the damn hoop exploded.  Okay, that didn't actually happen in reality, but it did happen in The Visitor.  Replace LeBron with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and kablooey!  It's never mentioned again and no one seems to think it's a big deal.  Explosions are fixtures of your average basketball game, I suppose.  That scene is an unmarred reduction of the totality of The Visitor.  It's a kinky, whimsical bite of the 70's, although it's not as cinematic as The Omen or The Exorcist.

The Visitor wants to be as weighty as those genre paradigms, but it's deliriously tipsy.  In fact, if it were a person, it would be a falldown drunk.  There are redeeming qualities here, namely the actors forced at gunpoint to recite amphigory dialogue (I had to laugh at a prepubescent Paige Connor telling her mother to "make love" with Lance Henriksen so that she could have a baby brother).  Lance is detached, but he's still Lance.  John Huston gives the best performance as Jerzy, an interdimensional...warrior?  Wizard?  Shelley Winters, Mel Ferrer, and Glenn Ford round out the cast of confused onlookers.  Of all the "evil tyke" movies I've seen, this is probably the worst.  And yet, it's entertaining enough for a rainy Tuesday night.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Fuckin' Nazareth!  That's all I have to say.

Lamberto Bava's DEMONS is My Spirit Animal

That right there.  That image represents my interests in pop culture.  It's a three-ring hippodrome.  Venom symbolizes (symbiolizes?) heavy metal, Carnage betokens the horror genre, and hey, what are they doing?  They seem to be engaged in a struggle.  Could they be...wrestling?  It's my block of text, so I say that they are, in fact, wrestling.  To me, this ternion of hobbies makes logical sense.  If I loved ghouls (I do), wouldn't it follow that I jammed out to Ghoul (I do), a death/thrash band?

In recent years, it has become fashionable for raw black metal projects to write songs about vampires with wacky, pretentious titles (personally, I favor Forbidden Citadel of Spirits' "Moonlight Cast Upon Thy Waters of Sorrow").  Wrestlemaniac is a 2006 slasher that blends arm drags and arms being dragged from their stumps.  Point being!  Well, I guess my point is obvious, so why is it so hard to find like-minded folks?  I've met metalheads who can't stand horror films.  And vice-versa.  What gives?

Wrestling is an acquired taste.  I can understand not jumping into that cesspool, although I could make the argument that watching old episodes of Nitro is no different than watching a b-movie.  Still, I get it.  This business about metal and horror...guys, they are made for each other.  Peanut butter and jelly!  Burgers and fries!  Yikes pencils and blowjobs!

I had to get that off my chest.  I've got a Blood Capsule and another Cannibal Corpse review in the convection oven.  Stay fucked!

PS-I haven't actually seen Wrestlemaniac.  I apologize.

Dead Space

Roger Corman produced 1991's Dead Space.  It's a remake of 1982's Forbidden World, which was produced by...Roger Corman.  It's common knowledge that the man revels in the act of cannibalizing his own exploits.  Perhaps he gets sick joy out of it.  How sick am I to rent and enjoy these c-movies?  If you use IMDb reviews as your barometer, it would appear that Dead Space is unilaterally seen as residual sheathing left behind by Forbidden World, the high-class pick of the two Alien riffs.  I wish I could stand alone and volunteer an adversarial viewpoint, but in this case, the plurality of nerds is comme il faut.*

However!  I reserve the right to dig trash.  Dead Space is flimsy, but it's not THAT flimsy.  It can be digested as rattlebrained entertainment.  There was a helix of sci-fi/horror cheapies crapped out in the late 80's/early 90's, and you could say that this whirlpool trend continued into the tailpiece of the decade (that sounded too sexual).  I mean, we had Event Horizon and fucking Virus.  The former was divisive as shit, and I still haven't seen the latter.  I should break down and allow Jamie Lee Curtis to transmit bacteria onto my removable, magnetic tape videocassette.  Speaking of infectious agents (that was the kind of segue your parents would love), a virus has blighted a research facility on the planet Phaebon.  Why did they invent a bullshit planet???

Anyway, a distress signal reaches Marc Singer and his trusty robot pal.  Singer's character has a name, but I'm choosing to believe that he played himself.  It makes sense.  The robot is Tinpan, and guys, this fucking bionic borg is the heart of Dead Space.  The nucleus.  The anchor!  He is as fleshed out as much as he needs to be, his morals are verifiable (I'm talking "lawful good" here), and I felt something when he perished.  Don't give me grief over spoiler warnings.  You don't care.  You never cared for Tinpan, not like I did!  Welpers, I'm using slathers of exclamation points.  I know better.

The acting is fine.  Aside from Singer, Bryan Cranston plays a slightly mad scientist, though he doesn't become a true antagonist.  Of course, he's flippin' awesome.  The special effects are typically gooey, and as a millennial might say, I'm here for it.  The creature is essentially a Xenomorph Queen.  I can't defend cribbing, but again, I'm here for it.  I'm not proud of my taste; believe me.  Logically, I look down on plagiarism, but at the end of the day, it's a rubber monster.  It's tacky.  It's great.  I should be admitted into a rehabilitation clinic of some description.

Dead Space runs for 72 minutes.  Pacing is not a problem.  Plot holes are a problem, but they aren't dealbreakers.  It's minor league stuff.  This is a minor league flick, so I didn't mind meeting it halfway.  Oh, the asterisk?  I don't know.  It's Spanish.  I don't speak Russian.

  

Rassle Inn #24

I'll get back to splintering horror movies soon, but I don't make the schedule.  Okay, I'm in charge of this website's schedule, dubious though it may be, but I didn't decide to run a wrestling PPV over the weekend.  Okay, I did.  I'm Tony Khan.  Holy shitting fuck, I'm exhausted.  No, but I am tired.  This is Dom talking again.  See that adorable labradoodle puppy being cradled by AEW World Champion (more on that in a sexual second) "Hangman" Adam Page?  I've had a stuffed animal for most of my life that looks exactly like...erm, Unnamed Hangpup.  Isn't it cuuuuute?

Right, so if you follow wrestling media or lurk on message boards (if those are a thing in 2021; I'm desperately out of touch), you have heard plenty of racket about storylines and how long-term prevarication - that's not the right word.  It implies deceit.  Certainly, you can't say that the brain trust behind AEW's main event programs was ever trying to deceive the public.  They basically laid it out three years ago.  Page was going to be their guy.  Omega would have a part to play, and by a punctilious fluke that wasn't really a fluke at all, the two box office attractions have great chemistry.

Page's first title reign should last for at least six months.  He hasn't been injury prone, so you don't have to worry that he'll trot out his impersonation of Kyrie Irving.  Is he photogenic?  It should be obvious, but I can answer that question.  Several female friends have commented on the "hot cowboy" on TV, and some of them don't even watch wrestling (pretty sure they do now).  Merch?  Catchphrases?  Real.  Cowboy.  Shit.  It's fucking brilliant!  Slap it on mugs, shirts, bumper stickers, and marshmallow dispensers.  And caskets.  I mean, why let Gene Simmons have all the fun?

I wanted to focus on "Hangman" Adam Page, but Full Gear offered a full card of exquisite pro-rasslin' action.  There were three Match of the Year candidates by my count.  M.J.F. versus Darby Allin was technically flawless, and I approved of the finish.  That's important.  I have to approve of this (cowboy) shit.  Eddie and Punk?  Wow.  That was a goddamn fight.  I loved every brutal, unfeeling moment.  What was the third epic encounter, you inquire?  The main event!  Do I need to spell everything out for you?

After close examination, I could see myself in a committed relationship with Mr. Page.  He has what I'm missing in my life right now.  Stability.  Also, cock.  Stability and cock.

Top 5: Best Death Metal From the Late 90's

There is a narrative in modern day metal journalism that the 1990's were unkind to our favorite genre of music.  To be specific, the late 90's sucked the muscle and virility out of metal altogether.  But let's get even more specific!  Starting in '96 (I have my reasons, which I'll enumerate later), death metal seemed to shrivel, to exsiccate into a teensy-weensy clump of crud.  Did it, really?  While thinking to myself (do not try that shit at home), I noticed that a couple of my favorite death metal records were birthed in the late 90's.  This warranted further scrutiny.

I posit that death metal was neither burgeoning nor tapering off in the late 90's.  It was holding steady.  Bear in mind, melodic death metal was stirring in Sweden, but I'll leave melodeath out of it.  Not to genuflect to derisive gatekeepers; it's merely for the sake of simplicity.  We can debate the credibility of In Flames all day, but there is no fucking doubt that Dying Fetus is a death metal band.  Because it's my site, however, I'll point out that The Jester Race is my numero uno melodeath album, and nothing comes close to topping it.

So why is '96 my starting point?  Why not '95?  Earlier, I interjected journalism under a critical light.  Those journalists...okay, I admit that I'm fabricating a character for the purpose of this list.  Oblige me.  The writer in my head (and he does exist) holds certain long players from 1995 in high esteem.  Suffocation's Pierced From Within, Death's Symbolic, Morbid Angel's Domination, Deicide's Once Upon the Cross, Vader's De Profundis, a few others that escape my marbles...do you see what I'm driving at?  According to the defeatists who enkindled me to write these words, death metal's dry spell lasted from 1996 to (roughly) 2001.

Thus!  I am playing footsie with those five years.  Obviously, these aren't the only records released during that time frame worth spinning.  I simply love them, and I went to the trouble of ranking them.  As always, my opinion is gospel.  If you don't agree with my picks, what the fuck is wrong with you?

5) Broken Hope ~ Loathing (1997)

Verily, my knowledge of these Chicago autochthons is limited.  I didn't start listening to them until - hold on, I must consult my calendar - the year of our lard, 2021.  Their discography is patchy.  Not every punch connects, but Loathing is a goddamn knockout.  The set immediately kicks your nethersphere with the fuming grooves of "Siamese Screams."  If you're new to Broken Hope, "The Cloning," "Auction of the Dead," and "I Am God" are worth sampling.  Expect gut-shuffling riffs, creative leads, and a nice variety of beats (thankfully, they don't rely on blasts).

4) Martyr ~ Warp Zone (2000)

Do you love latter-era Death as much as I do?  How about early Pestilence?  Early Atheist?  Principally, I'm sick of calling attention to a band and then specifying which version of the band I'm aiming to showcase.  It's not critically relevant.  I just felt the need to vent.  Anyway, yeah.  Martyr specializes in technical death metal and their material is sweetened by Canadian pluck.  It's impossible to describe, but it's there, mainly because Martyr hails from Quebec.  Songs such as "Virtual Emotions" and "The Fortune Teller" admix superlative musicianship with woeful melodies that cradle all four chambers of your heart.  Conclusion reached?  I'm pretty sure that Warp Zone gave me a stroke.

3) Dying Fetus ~ Destroy the Opposition (2000)

Never has a band's name been so damn appropriate.  Their music crushes the listener.  No, pounds!  No, it murders you!  And it's clear that Dying Fetus is behind the murder.  They make no effort to hide the evidence.  The riffs are bullets, and serendipitously, your head was whittled with exit and entrance wounds already in place.  It's no coincidence that those wounds contain drums.  How else can I stretch this analogy?  Okay, I can't.  John Gallagher's seismic growls are insane.  Each element is seismic, and I suppose you could consider the groups that DF influenced to be aftershocks.  I can't say with certainty that these embryo liquidators invented a microgenre, but for my money, they are the reigning kings of slam.

2) Morbid Angel ~ Gateways to Annihilation (2000)

This isn't my favorite Morbid Angel dish (that would be Domination, a classic that missed zero hour by a matter of months), but hey, my second favorite does gel with my purposes.  Pete the Feet's contributions are a trifle clicky, although that's bound to happen when chunks of your performance are replaced by a drum machine.  That's the sole cleft to be found.  These ditties are fucking perfect.  Everything from the monster solo in "Summoning Redemption" to the stuttering rhythm section of "I" rules, and you know it.  No one talks about "God of the Forsaken."  Guess what?  It rules, too!  I'm quite fond of Formulas Fatal to the Flesh, but in my book, this is Steve Tucker's finest offering as MA's bassist and lead throat.

1) Death ~ The Sound of Perseverance (1998)

I literally remember my first twirl of Death's swan song like it was yesterday.  It was my first Death record period.  I was slogging away at mindless homework when halfway through "Scavenger of Human Sorrow," I had to stop and pay attention.  Were these...humans?  I had heard technical metal before, but Jesus Christ.  Did I finish my homework?  No, I'm asking.  I don't recall, but I do recall being torpedoed through my bedroom window by "Spirit Crusher" and "Flesh and the Power it Holds."  Procrastination is the only factor keeping me from adding "Voice of the Soul" to my living will.  That's right; I plan on having it played at my funeral.  I would also ask that you play "Story to Tell" if you ever violate my corpse.

Eh...

It's taking longer than expected to write the piece I'm writing.  So, um, patience?  By the way, am I the only one who thinks that Season 4 of Stranger Things looks a tad boring?  It's just a trailer.  I get it.  But as far as trailers go, it's not very exciting.  And that's coming from a huge fan of the first three seasons.  Eh.

Oliver Reed Hates You

This isn't a review per se.  I got shit to do!  But I did feel compelled to make note of the fact that I watched 1989's The House of Usher (a.k.a. Oliver Reed is Inebriated and Wants Fuck).  There are eleventy billion adaptations of Poe's short story, but only this one claimed both Reed and Donald Pleasence in its ranks.  The latter gets to transort against type as a blackguard with a power drill for a hand.  Just like in the story!  The film is rated "R" for libidinous petting.  No, I have no earthly idea why it's rated "R," aside from Oliver Reed being himself.

TRUE STORY: Oliver Reed once yelled, "Shit!  Bitch!" at waterfowl.  Anyway, Usher was halfway decent.  A 3-Z'Dar affair, if you're keeping count.  Currently, I'm in pre-production (lol) on a listicle.  I hate making lists, so this is a big step for me.  And for mankind.

Album Cover of the Whatever

Let's kick November off the right way.  Of course, that involves four pallid, bloodless chaps from the Czech Republic straddling broncos and looking...ugh.  I'm seeing a combination of aloof and beleaguered.  I wasn't tipped off as to where they are riding, but I do know that Barbarians is their debut long player.  Maniac Butcher play raw black metal.  If that's your bag, you could do worse.  As for the cover, it's adorable.  I'm cooing over here.  Cooing!

Bobbing For Motivation

I'm frozen to the bone.  I'm cold-natured anyway, but yowza!  I just got back in from handing out candy to trick-or-treaters.  To be honest, I wasn't expecting a prosperity of costumed squirts, but we were dealt a decent turnout.  I didn't actually DO much to celebrate Halloween this year.  If I can manage to save my duckets, I have a stupendous idea for next year.  I mean, shit.  I always say that I want to do something special for my favorite holiday, but those aspirations never survive beyond the talking stage.

My idea?  Procure a projector.  And a screen.  I want to hold an outdoor b-movie marathon and invite cool people (and kids, I guess) from my neighborhood.  Technically, the attendees could be from any neighborhood.  Refreshments will be served.  Clearly, I'm stargazing, but this could easily become a reality.  You'll split the costs with me, right?  Right???  Oh, I almost forgot...HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

Blood Capsule #116

PRINCE OF DARKNESS (1987)

I didn't intend on curating a John Carpenter-themed month, but if it was going to happen, I couldn't pick a month more apropos than October.  Prince of Darkness is an outlander among the auteur's classic 80's masterstrokes.  It doesn't get much prattle from horror hamlets.  It's held in high regard, sure, but where is all of the merchandise at conventions?  I haven't seen one person cosplay as Priest, nor have I heard a quip lifted from the film's quotable dialogue.  Like...um, that famous line.  I don't know, something about being shot six times?  Regardless, Prince is a creative, highbrow cut of religious frights.

You know the part in the Bible (the King Booker version) where Jesus shouts "BOO!" at his disciples?  If you thought that was scary, just you wait.  Okey-dokey, I'll try to be cold sober for this paragraph.  A priest (literally credited as Priest) solicits the opinion of a science professor at the local university.  It's revealed that a cylinder containing neon green fluid (no, it's not the reagent serum) has been concealed beneath a church for years.  It might be Satan.  In vapor form, I mean.  And that's approximately 12% of the synopsis.  The script is talky, but the subject matter is honestly fascinating.  I enjoyed the exposition.  It goes without saying that the cast is illustrious, from the marquee players (Donald Pleasance, Lisa Blount) to Alice Cooper.  Everyone is game.

Prince of Darkness burns slow (a little too slow at times), so demonstrate poise.  Your patience will be rewarded with a cool, creepy chiller to freeze your blood.

Dead Review Collection #9 - GORE!

I really, really don't want to rank all of Cannibal Corpse's studio albums.  I fear that in time, I may have to bite that bullet.  I'm going to stall as long as humanly possible.  I can't use my feet, but I can drag them!  Heh, I made a funny.  Right, so I have no idea where I would place 2002's Gore Obsessed in formation.  It's a favorite, yet I have said the same for five or six CC records.  Confound it, I believe I've even referred to Outback Steakhouse as a damn fine outing from the death metal stalwarts.  The Bloomin' Onion is no joke, friends.  The trick is to interlace the petals with bites of your steak.

Great, now I'm drooling.  As for the seasoning, the dish is never too piquant--oopsy!  I momentarily forgot what I'm reviewing.  Following Bloodthirst, it's clear that the objective was to obviate sterile production.  "Coffinfeeder," for instance, sounded so sanitary, I wouldn't be opposed to dining on the mixing board that was used to capture those unsullied riffs. Obsessed doesn't sound sullied per se; it's beefier, and devotees of Alex Webster will be merry to learn that it's bassier.  I dig the production (as twiddled by Neil Kernon), but some of the choices made pursed my temples.  The guitar solos are pushed way back when they should float atop the rhythm tracks.

Bassier?  Probably not a word.  At any rate, let's dissect the songs.  The songs!  "Savage Butchery" is a shot of epinephrine to the sinoatrial node that sets the metal in motion.  And look, if you're wanting a definition for every single medical term that I deploy, I'll be here all day.  Speaking of ill health, I remember "Hatchet to the Head" being an instant classic.  The addictive chorus drives George's near-staccato delivery into your skullcap.  This is also one of the more technical numbers, what with tempo shifts bobbing up at vital ticks.

"Pit of Zombies" is about a pit of zombies.  It's cool.  It was bound to be cool, on account of its title and the band playing it.  I suppose you could say that the album tromps over a downswing in the middle of its runtime, a slight slump in momentum.  You could say that, but I won't.  Cuts such as "Compelled to Lacerate" and "Sanded Faceless" are fucking fun, and I haven't mentioned the jerky, spurtive drumming in "Hung and Bled."  I swear, Paul must have lost weight pounding his kit for these sessions.

I'll touch on Corpsegrinder's throat-rending screams in greater depth when I launch into The Wretched Spawn, but I did want to highlight the neverending wail towards the end of "Mutation of the Cadaver."  Yes, I tried to mimic it in my bedroom (I was seventeen...Daddy said I was too young, but I was old enough for Kip).  Yes, I nearly blew out my voice.  The trials and tribulations of being a Cannibal Corpse freak, y'know?  In summation, Gore Obsessed is killer.  It's undervalued, which is a shame.  The mid-period of George's era is worth a look, if only to prove that this band is more than Kill and Tomb of the Mutilated.

    

Rassle Inn #23

In late August, CM Punk concussed the wrestling world into a jouncing vibration when he debuted on AEW's Rampage.  It was big.  Big enough, in fact, that if the two leading promotions engage in a real war to secure their perch (and the adjuvant eyes of viewers) in the marketplace, the press will circle his debut date as the cannonade that opened said war.  And no, there is no war yet.  Give it a couple of years.  It's going to get bloody.

So four matches later, here we are.  As a wrestling nerd, I can tell you that all of Punk's skirmishes have been awesome.  There was a speck of rust, but it disappeared with a flick of his taped wrist.  I'm loving it.  However (don't roll your eyes), these columns I write tend to be transmissions from the command post of Satan's advocacy council.  You get it, right?  I'm playing the Devil's advocate?  Forget I brought it up.  Anyway, I was wondering...the die-hards who clamored for Punk to return to WWE, the same adherents who chanted his name during lulls (or otherwise disastrous segments) on Raw...are they satisfied?  How many of them tune into Dynamite or Rampage each week?

They probably became fans of Punk because he was the rebel standing up to authority.  Of course, I'm not talking about the folks who watched him in Ring of Honor.  I'm not even talking about the folks who latched onto him because of shared beliefs (straight edge, the DIY punk aesthetic, etc.).  I'm talking about the - sorry, I hate this term - marks who found themselves captivated by the "Summer of Punk."  If they decide to give AEW a shot, they will not find a sweeping storyline that pits Punk against corporate evils.  It's a completely different booking style.  Thus far, Punk has wrestled one-off matches, half of which have been against fellow babyfaces.

Like I said, it's a different style, but I didn't say it was better or worse.  Me, I'm cool with it.  I'm not the casual mainstream fuckhead, though.  How will fuckheads - er, I need to use a less degrading designation; how will non-nerds (there we go) take to this flavor of professional wrestling?  I'm playing the Devil's advocate, but in all candor, I think it will work out alright.  I simply don't have an intellectual reason for believing that.  Call it a gut feeling.  Punk's next bout?  Bobby Fish.  I'm already fangirling.

Halloween Kills

I wanted to have this review up earlier, but I was sick and bedridden all day yesterday.  That's not an excuse; it's...no, it's definitely an excuse.

Is there a general consensus on Halloween Kills yet?  I haven't found one, so I don't know which viewpoints to rail against.  No, I'm only joshing.  I have my own personal consensus, but in truth, reviews for this scrappy, pitiless sequel are mixed.  They are, shall we say, interdenominational in a panoptic way.  On second thought, let's NOT say that.  It's hard to believe that this isn't the final film in the franchise.  Characters have done everything to Michael Myers.  The Shape has been hacked, cleaved, set ablaze, severed, snapped, and downright demolished.  Yet our coterie of protagonists seems resigned to the fact that they cannot kill the bastard.

So what's left for Halloween Ends?  This speaks to a problem I had with Kills.  Well, the latter half of Kills.  It runs out of steam and relies on repetition.  The first half felt different.  Again, this is just my perspective.   I haven't seen too many fans share my attitude.  It actually feels like the film was directed by two people.  The opening fifteen (or thereabouts) minutes are framed beautifully.  The credits?  Badass.  The flashbacks?  I was convinced a couple of times that they crammed unused footage from 1978 into this bubbling cauldron.  Masks off to director David Gordon Green and...well, the whole damn crew for taking every measure to preserve the picture's timeless qualities.

As Kills nears its denouement, it loses a great deal of its visual flair.  Action and dialogue take precedence over prismatic pizzazz.  Maybe I need glasses.  This isn't even a big deal, but it becomes conspicuous when the pace slows and the script protracts the inevitable.  I mean, we know what's going to happen.  Either get there quicker or throw a gnarly curveball into the mix.  Man alive, this review is more negative than I had intended.  I dug Halloween Kills!  I'm giving both movies three and a half Z'Dars, but I do prefer the 2018 original by a cowlick.  Can everyone define "cowlick" or is that a southern thing?  Ack, look it up.

Mr. Myers is an incensed, forcefully vehement motherfucker, and I wouldn't change him for the world (aww).  The kills in Kills are brutal.  I can't remember for certain, but I'm pretty sure that I used the same adjective to describe the obliteration in 2018's Halloween.  Dude is not fucking around.  Of course, I appreciated the nods to previous installments.  If only they existed in this cinematic universe.  The atmosphere is ghostly, the acting is adequate, and the first half...I'm not kidding.  If Kills could have stayed the course, I would be gushing plaudits and proclaiming this to be the best Halloween picture show ever.  I know, right?

Alas, it trails off.  At some point, I'll give Halloween Kills a second whirl, and hey, who knows?  I may form a brand new opinion.  I must confide, this is easily the sharpest Rob Zombie joint since The Devil's Rejects.  I barely recognized Sheri Moon as Laurie Strode.