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Lord Belial - Angelgrinder

Page views dictate content.  That's how the Internet functions, and it's why Yahoo's index page is inundated with tabloid fodder.  Random Reviews Incorporated dares to be different.  Obdurate in the face of dismal traffic, this website deals in topics that are determined by whimsy.  My whimsy!  I like writing about Swedish black metal, but if past numbers are any indication, very few souls will point their browser in this direction.  So be it.  I'm currently listening to Lord Belial, which means that I'm going to tell you about Lord Belial.

Most metalheads will sing the praises of 1997's Enter the Moonlight Gate, their second offering.  It's considered an arrant classic in the field, and for good reason.  For some unknown reason, it's rarely mentioned that the band continued to release stellar material until their break-up in 2009.*  2002's Angelgrinder is album number four, and holy flea-flicking Christ, it levels the competition.  There are plenty of epic guitar solos, meaty riffs, and well, that should be enough to sell you on this unholy puppy (I'm starting a band called Unholy Puppy).  Moreover, the production is clean without feeling aseptic.  Favorite track?  Probably "Satan Divine."

*There is an asterisk because Lord Belial reconvened last year to record the superlative Rapture.

Shores of Null - The Loss of Beauty

If you know me, you know that I love Alice in Chains and doom metal.  If you know Alice in Chains, you know that their sound danced on the periphery of doom (intercut with a bold helping of sludge).  Shores of Null combine that very subgenre with AIC-esque vocal harmonies.  To be indecorously specific, they meld "grunge" and deathly doom, a dysprosium* alloy that doesn't creep up as often as it should.  I'm surprised that more bands haven't taken this route.  The Loss of Beauty came out in March, and it proves that a heavy riff can pair well with a melodic chorus.  Favorite track?  Try on "Nothing Left to Burn" for size.

*There is an asterisk because I wanted to state that I only used "dysprosium" to be an ass.  It IS a metallic element, so suck it.

Blood Capsule #147

PRIMAL RAGE (1988)

Up until today, I would have told you that Primal Rage was a bitchin' arcade game.  I mean, I'll still tell you that (think Mortal Kombat, only with dinosaurs as the combatants), but I've learned that it's also a cheese-encrusted epidemic thriller in the same vein as 12 Monkeys or Outbreak.  NOTE: It's in the same vein, but we're dealing with a different arm altogether.  If optics help, I'm picturing the arm of a clammy, desquamated* heroin addict.  Too harsh?  This movie was co-written by Umberto Lenzi, so forgive me for passing judgment.  Actually, what we have here is a bait-and-switch scenario, so my allegory may not be harsh enough.

At first glance, I thought I was signing up for a braindead "killer monkey" flick.  Y'know, like Shakma.  Instead, Primal Rage anticipates 28 Days Later with a thin, timeworn plot centering around a baboon-spread contagion.  It puts the "zoo" in "epizootic."  Holy shit; that should have been the tagline!  Anyway, it's...meh.  I dug the streamlined effects, the pace is sharp, and the cast does take the script seriously.  It's just really easy to poke holes in this thing, which is what she said (those jokes don't read very well).  I'm all out of flowery adjectives, so I'll simply say that the ending sucks.  To use wrestling jargon, the third act is marred by a faulty false finish.  I'm sure that you could find another dirty joke in there somewhere.

*Why did I google image-search that shit?

Album Cover of the Whatever

I don't usually go for crossover-style thrash, but as exemplified by their artwork, U.K. maniacs Pest Control mean serious business.  I'm a fan.  If I were the tattoo type, I would have the cover of this year's Don't Test the Pest somewhere on my person.  Maybe I could tattoo my wheelchair?

Panels From Beyond the Grave #37

THE CREECH (#1, Oct. 1997)

Remember 1997?  I'm resisting the temptation to compose yet another love letter to my childhood, but no, seriously.  Remember 1997?  Marilyn Manson was still evil, Netscape Navigator was our web browser of choice (by the way, the working title of this blog was Dogpile Angelfire), and Spawn was the coolest superhero on stands.  For the first time, traditional babyface heroes were seen as flimsy and inadequate.  Superman was square.  It's hard to believe now, but Todd McFarlane seemed edgy for daring to suggest that Batman & Robin was too f*cking goofy.  For a brief moment in time (and I mean brief...it was more ephemeral than a nocturnal emission), Spawn was everywhere.

What does that mean?  It means that Spawn ripoffs were everywhere.  No, The Creech did not approximate Spawn in plot, but look at it.  This thing is so Image Comics, it hurts.  Luckily, it hurts in a sweet way.  About that plot...it's a bit muddy, but here is what I've patched together from available storyline debris.  A hulking beast is assembled from strands of alien D.N.A. and aborted fetus polymer fibers (???).  Basically, it's a mix of space cheese and dead baby curds.  It's a dead baby cheese curd from the stars!  There is lethal pushback from protest groups, but the extremists only succeed in mysticizing the...hmm, I suppose we can call it a monster.

Heavies plan on branding The Creech as a weapon of war.  However, the scientist responsible for all of this gave his creation a nurturing spirit.  If this fragmented synopsis sounds generic, by golly, that's because it's generic.  Why, it's more generic than a nocturnal emission.  Correspondingly, the narrative doesn't have any forward momentum.  Very little actually happens in the first issue, and I hear that we don't learn much in the second issue either (then again, my source may not be trustworthy - it's me).  Characters are both faceless and interchangeable.  I could just be dumb, but I'm not even 100% clear on the identity of the narrator.

Before you empty your shopping cart (I'm imagining that you're at a comic book shop right now, cash in hand), I should mention that I had fun reading The Creech.  The artwork is friggin' awesome.  We get loads of gore, and despite substandard writing, I did want to find out where the action was heading.  I was reminded of MTV's The Maxx here and there.  Woah, remember The Maxx?  Man, the 90's ruled.  In any event, three Savage Dragons feels right.  As for this intellectual property, The Creech has been dormant for over two decades.  Someone like Steve Niles should renovate it.  Yeah.  Tell him to get on that.

  

Pulling Teeth

Man, this whole record was my jam when I was 10/11 years old, but "Pulling Teeth" really takes me back.  It's also apropos.  How so?  Yesterday, I had two teeth extracted, and I spent the next twelve-ish hours bleeding to death.  My gums are still sore.  I'm still grumpy.  I'm still medicated, so it's not a total washout.  Mainly, I'm posting this update to excuse the dearth, the paucity, of Random Reviews activity.  Expect cool stuff this weekend, however.  I might dredge up a long-dormant column that holds a special place in my heart.  If you need specifics, it's somewhere near the pulmonary valve.  Whatever you do, don't look under the tricuspid valve.  Never, EVER look under the tricuspid valve.

Blood Capsule #146

WOLFEN (1981)

Ordinarily, this capsule wouldn't pass muster.  I should explain.  I rented Wolfen on Prime Video, and in between bouts of catalepsy (or maybe it was willful brain fog), I took in...several conversations spoken just above a murmur.  That's what I remember anyway.  Wolfen has got to be one of the most boring films in existence.  I'm sorry, but how is this sedative regarded as one of the more agreeable werewolf romps of the 80's?  It's bad enough that the viewer is cozened out of a stopgap transformation sequence.  The special effects were available, but nope!  And you can forget about creature suits, as the film trades spectacle for "atmosphere."

If director Michael Wadleigh had any handle on his pacing, I'd be down.  Out of curiosity, I checked his IMDb page.  His resume is swamped with concert footage (his claim to fame seems to be Woodstock).  That actually makes sense.  Countless scenes - largely bereft of dialogue, mind you - are left to linger past any reasonable point of validity, much like a Grateful Dead song.  I could have referenced a Jethro Tull flute solo, but I take exception to Grateful Dead's sheer suckage.  They suck, you see.  Wolfen?  Also sucks, but if this were a full-length review, I'd extend a half-Z'Dar out of pity for the wolves on display.  They deserve better.

Midtallica

Ideally, I would listen to 72 Seasons ten times at the very least.  I would then proceed to write an erudite, contemplative review that effortlessly described the music contained on the album, and hey, who knows?  Maybe I would be forced to use the elusive 5-Abbath rating.  Yeah, that would be ideal.  In reality, I'm giving you my first impressions of the new Metallica disc (lolz) because I don't see myself listening to it more than once.  Okay, there are a few standout songs that I might revisit.

"Shadows Follow" is infectious on a pathogenic level.  The title track seems to be 2023's adroit, ill-tempered answer to "Spit Out the Bone."  Um, I prefer "Spit Out the Bone."  But it's fine.  Nothing here is incontrovertibly inferior or aggressively execrable, but I wasn't blown away either.  To borrow pejorative language from MJF, 72 Seasons is...mid.  Literally!  To be specific, most of this material is mid-paced, coming off like studio leftovers from the self-titled sessions.  Positive takeaways?  I am digging the guitar harmonies that creep in toward the end of the bulbous running time.  Yes, the album is too long, but what did you expect?  You have to pick your battles with legacy acts.*

*Is that a dig?  I mean, how are they not a legacy act?  And why is that a bad thing?  Fantastic, I'm talking to myself again.  Cut me some slack, as this is only meant to be a placeholder until the next movie review.  I'm really good at writing placeholder text.

Kino Lorber Spring Sale

I was given a heads-up on something cool, so I wanted to pay it forward and potentially give someone else a heads-up.  Over at Kino Lorber, they are running an extensive spring sale on their DVD's/Blu-rays.  I just bought six movies myself.  One of them may or may not be Blue Monkey.  I'm not telling.  At any rate, I'm not receiving any kickback for sponsoring the link, so know it comes from the heart.  Aww...

Blood Capsule #145

FROSTBITER: WRATH OF THE WENDIGO (1995)

Without trying, I have gone over a week without watching a movie.  I haven't even thought about the cinema, but that's nothing new.  I've experienced similar dry spells before, some stretching for weeks on end.  I can, however, safely say that none of these barren periods were interrupted by a b-circus as bonnily berserk as Frostbiter (or Wendigo if we are to comply with the opening credits).  How is it possible that I had never heard of this doolally fruitcake?  First of all, 1995 is my favorite year, at least where pop culture is concerned.  But that's not germane information.  Here is what you need to know...I'll give you a second to grab a scribbling pad and your finest Yikes pencil.

A party of plastered hunters disturb the sacred sepulcher that quarters the Wendigo, a hollow-horned beast of urban myth that doesn't take kindly to wake-up calls.  Throughout the picture, our monster takes several different forms.  We see a quasi-Pterodactyl, a cobwebby crone hag, and a chili demon (sic) to name but a few.  The special effects are a blast.  You know you're in z-grade jurisdiction, but the low budget never takes you out of the moment.  Today, Frostbiter would be shot on sterile digital "stock."  Its release date guarantees something that newfangled technology simply cannot replicate - film grain!  Oh, how I love warm, ill-defined film grain.

Recommended for fans of Winterbeast and Spookies.  In other words, Frostbiter: Wrath of the Wendigo is kinda/sorta magical.

Geek Out #161

Here we find the super-rare metal Geek Out.  I love watching vintage interviews with cool people, so seeing raw footage of Cliff Burton just being Cliff Burton is pretty damn cool.

Album Cover of the Whatever

The last few (several?) album covers of the whatever have been new releases, an unintentional trend that continues with Lamp of Murmuur's Saturnian Bloodstorm.  The artwork is cool and all, but dude, you need to hear this record.  I keep seeing comparisons to latter-day Immortal, and yeah, that's about right.  Lamp has its own remorseless sound, though.  Get into it.

Rassle Inn #39

This might be the most scatterbrained edition of Rassle Inn yet.  What's a more appropriate word for how I felt after watching the main event of Wrestlemania (night two because this was just way too epic for one card)?  How about brainless?  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I could have sworn that Wrestlemania was supposed to be the period at the end of a protracted, much-ballyhooed sentence.  Not a comma, not a semi-colon, not an ellipsis...a f*cking period!  Listening to Triple H defend backwards booking at the requisite, yet superfluous press conference, it sounds like he's trying to convince himself that Roman's victory was the right call.  He knows better.

That's just it.  We are told that Trips is the guy in charge (with respect to creative anyway), and then, something happens that goes against everything in the unwritten playbook.  On a chromosomal level, he knows better.  So where do we pin the blame?  The father-in-law?  WWE's newfound dalliance with sports betting?  It has to be a decision based on finance, as we know it's not a decision based on logic.  Just picture over 80,000 frenzied fans waiting for the moment - the tacit permission given by storytelling - to explode into a quasar of cheers, only to be socked in the gut and left flat.  And for what?  A swerve?  Damn it, Cody Rhodes should be the champion right now.  If you disagree, you're overthinking it.  Oh, and you're wrong.

Common sense is easy.  Why doesn't it dictate all major booking decisions in professional wrestling?  My involuntary reaction is to say "money," but Christ, how many billions do these people need?  Before you toss the "m" word in my direction, I'm not exactly a Rhodes fanboy.  If anything, I'm a mark for wrestling that makes sense, and man, this whole angle was too good to be true.  Heh, I guess I answered my own question.  As for your question, well, I'm assuming you're wondering what any of this has to do with ROH's Supercard of Honor, which ran this past Friday.  It contained my favorite match of the entire weekend.

I know, I know...Tony Khan is a goofball.  I won't even try to sell you on lucha libre.  It's an acquired taste, but holy shit.  El Hijo del Vikingo and Komander leveled the joint with their AAA Mega Championship match-up.  It literally felt as though I was watching wrestling from the future.  In terms of rope work, these guys make The Young Bucks look like The Rock 'n' Roll Express.  Words will never do their moves justice, so find a way to cram this PPV into your belfry.  Final notes?  Snoop Dogg was the MVP of Wrestlemania 39 for cracking The Miz in his dopey face.  That made it worth sitting through all of the uncomfortable comedy segments.  Hey, Hollywood.  Stop hiring Kevin Hart.  In general.  Stop.