Album Cover of the Week

Movie review tomorrow!
 

"You suck! You suck! You suck!"

After releasing Slow, Deep and Hard, Type O Negative realized that they owed Roadrunner a live record. They didn't want to put out a live record, so they went into the studio to fabricate a facsimile (or so the story goes).  I'll be dead honest.  I've only listened to The Origin of the Feces two, maybe three times.  For the most part, the songs are carried over from the debut.  Granted, they have been shuffled and modified, but I prefer the versions on Slow, Deep and Hard.  Notable accrual consists of a Jimi Hendrix jam ("Hey Joe" is shrewdly revised into "Hey Pete") and bogus heckling.  Hey, they paid fifteen American dollars to get in, so who's the real asshole here?

Feces is fun.  However, if you're in the market to buy up every Type O Negative disc, this is the least essential title.  Oh, yeah?  Fuck you, too!
 

TYPE O NEGATIVE - Slow, Deep and Hard

Aside from any albums that would have been "new" at the time (I'm pretty sure that Dead Again wasn't released yet), Slow, Deep and Hard was the last Type O Negative testimony that I swigged.  I don't know why, but I remember being surprised by its quality.  Could a band be this consistent?  Indeed.  It was a foregone conclusion that I would take to these fuming, cartilage-levigating grinds, but holy creepers, it blew me away.  I was toasted by the raaaage of "Xero Tolerance."  I was allayed by the oyster smoke gloom of "Prelude to Agony."  I was decked by the thrash incursion of "Unsuccessfully Coping With the Natural Beauty of Infidelity."  I was...well, you get the picture.

SDH - as it shall henceforth be known - is a towering affair.  Plain and simple.  There are strains of the melodic Lugosi rawk that The Drab Four would later adopt, but supremely, the material is a cranky extension of Carnivore.  The riffs are irritable.  Most of the tracks may be exceptionally lengthy (even the murmur of an instrumental takes six minutes to resolve itself), but they act like musical tantrums.  "Xero Tolerance," in particular, is an outburst of dyspeptic wattage.  Of course, Peter Steele was the main composer in both Carnivore and Type O Negative, so similarities were somewhat inescapable at the onset.

The lyrics have the same sardonic bite.  Catharsis is achieved through brutal honesty.  Personally, I feel rounded after shouting "I'll kill you tonight!" at the heavens.  Dare I say, liberated!  SDH will spike your adrenaline, but it also has an emollient effect.  It almost becomes hypnotic during "Glass Walls of Limbo" and the sixty-four seconds of silence that compounds "The Misinterpretation of Blah-Blah Songtitles."  If I had to levy a fine or register a complaint under duress, I would request an increase in tunage.  There are only five real pieces of aggro-clatter here.  Yes, a couple of compositions are twelve-minute epics, but...damn it to Hell, I crave more speed sludge(?)!

I'm in no position to vent, I suppose.  I'm happy with Type O Negative's debut because it just so happens to be one of the best debut recordings fucking ever.  Slow, Deep and Hard is incredibly unique when you take its surroundings into consideration.  How many other groups managed to pool New York-style hardcore, Sabbath-style doom, Beatles-style harmonies and Munsters-style goth trappings together in 1991?  And before you go there, Limp Bizkit didn't form until 1994.  I'm a laugh riot, ain't I?

I'm putting the power in your grubby hands...

dickstarr.deviantart.com

Remember when I said that I was going to let you pick an adult-oriented book for me to review?  Well, the time for an epic power struggle is now.  Stop spinning in your desk chair.  You won't get free reign.  I've selected a handful of books that I'm interested in reading and put them to a vote at the Random Reviews Incorporated Facebook Fan Club.  If you haven't joined the fan club yet (or I haven't forced you to join yet), this would be an opportune time to do so.  Have at it!

Geek Out #112

Golly-bum, I love monster mashes from the 50's.  I watched this one recently, and it was better than anticipated.  The title gives off a charge of cornball electricity, but the death toll is tall.  Apparently, there was a redux in 1998.  No, thanks.

Bookworm Infested #6

GOOSEBUMPS: CALLING ALL CREEPS (R.L. Stine)

The main character in Calling All Creeps is a dweeb named Ricky.  Like most dweebs, he is bulldozed by bullies at school.  For this scenario to work, the reader must give quarter to the goober in oppugning jeopardy.  We should feel pity for this hapless son of a hussy.  See, that's the first problem.  I don't give a soggy, throat-drilling blumpkin (resist the urge to reference Urban Dictionary) about Ricky.  In fact, I want the bullies to obliterate his little bitch ass.  I know, I know...I should "be a star," but if I knew this kid in middle school, I would have eaten his lunch money and pissed on his homework.  And I would have raped him in his own locker!  Don't ruminate on the integrity of my strategy; I could have figured it out.

Tampon contessa.  Fucking dick fart.  Woah, I don't know where that lump of hatred came from.  I have repressed issues, don't I?  I would never, EVER condone bullying, but Ricky is such an urchin.  His idea of a prank involves editing derogatory muckraking into the school newspaper.  His idea of an insult?  "So-and-so is a creep!"  Did he honestly think that no one would catch it in time to send that shit off to the presses?  Naturally, the intended target catches it and replaces her name with Ricky's (she also includes his phone number).  His antagonizers call his place late at night claiming to be creeps.  If it's a joke, they're committing to it in a major way.  They even go as far as to defer to Ricky, their "commander."

So what's the deal?  Well, they are creeps.  Creeps can shapeshift into purple (it's closer to mauve, really) reptile beasts of prey.  One of them eats a squirrel, but apart from that meteoric display of sadism, their wicked deeds amount to nothing more than strong-arm tactics.  It's a tweener book, I get it, but Calling All Creeps needs a fat dose of ferocity.  Is a drop of gore asking too much?  Why should the reader be scared for Ricky, you know what I mean?  Ricky isn't a squirrel!  The rest of the characters are insignificant, and the parents...ugh, the parents are cocks.  In their defense, their son is a sniveling pussy, a human birth canal.  Piece of asshole.

Of course, Stine has his lead dope whine to every adult that creatures are planning to poison the cafeteria food.  While Calling All Creeps defecated on my strawberries, I did like the ending.  It was actually clever.  I'm gobsmacked, too.  A sequel would be interesting, but clearly, that's not going to happen.  Yeah, fans barked for three goddamn Monster Blood sequels.  I'm totally sure.  Can you tell I'm a tad irritated that I haven't reviewed a decent Goosebumps folio yet?  I know they exist.  I'd cover Egg Monsters From Mars if I owned it.  Jordy Verrill says, "Calling all creeps?  I wonder if my daddy will ever call me.  I'm a creep."

Album Cover of the Week

I don't know why most of these have been black-and-white, but this concludes Christ month.  It was nice knowing you.

We Use Swear Words #6

We use (a moderate amount) of swear words to delve into unsung horror flicks, Ronda Rousey and the fact that Tyler NEVER visits this website.  Click HERE if the widget is too lame to show up.

Voo the Doo

The Blood Capsules page!  It has finally been re-archived!  Check it out!  Sorry, I shouldn't be screaming.

PS-Sugar Hill is top-drawer blaxploitation.  Check that out, too.

Blood Capsule #48

TALE OF A VAMPIRE (1992)

Julian Sands enjoyed a prolific run in the early 90's, starring in a strand of mid-level genre films ranging from the cordially crass (Warlock: The Armageddon) to the duteously fatuous (Naked Lunch).  He's popular among horror freaks, and it's easy to see why.  Dudes respect his bold chops, especially as a villain.  Chicks get off on the vulnerability he brings to a character.  That sounds boorish, but ladies, you know it's true.  I don't mind telling you that he made my undergarments curl in jocundity as Alex, a vampiric centenarian who develops a sexually tense rapport with a grieving lass.  She is the spitting image of a lost love, a lost love who may have been involved with more than one creature of the night.

We're talking about Tale of a Vampire, a modest movie that must have had foresight.  It prognosticated the pseudo-romance we find in today's weepy, lachrymose epics where an unbelievably handsome wolf of a charmer lights up a sad girl's vagina.  As a general rule, I don't care for those pictures.  But this puppy has Julian Sands.  And it's shot incredibly well.  Unfortunately, it's slower than a glacier wearing ankle weights (hmm).  I mean, it's really, really fucking slow.  No kidding.  I'll go ahead and recommend it anyway if you're big on pale gentlemen and fruit bats.

*snores*

Taking the day off, sucka.  That's how you celebrate Batman Day.

Take As Needed For Pain

I haven't been able to review all of these records, and with the Type O Negative tribute forthcoming, my Abbath ratings will be preoccupied.  But check it...

DOWN - IV: Part II

CROWBAR - Symmetry in Black

GOATWHORE - Constricting Rage of the Merciless

EYEHATEGOD - Eyehategod

Four "NOLA" bands released music this year, and all of it kicks your ass.  You need to hear it.  Just wanted to point that out.

The Slayer

I wanted to fancy 1982's The Slayer more than I did.  I've been hoping to land it on VHS for the longest time, but I eventually caved in.  Since I don't have throwaway money these days, I am acceding to the palpable reality that I'm going to be leaning on the Internet as I sideswipe adulthood.  Goddamn adulthood.  Hey, I don't feel wonderful when I hit up ossified slashers on YouTube.  It is what it is.  War-ravaged maroons in Gaza City couldn't begin to understand the special truss of Gehenna that my trunk is tied to.  That's guilt, man.  I'm pretty sure that I just misused at least two words and downplayed a grave conflict in the Middle East.  That's pooh-pooh, man.

I'm going to take a break from jabbering inappropriate jokes to slay The Slayer.  It's not bad per se.  The vast majority of sicko cinephiles enjoyed the mulch out of it.  I enjoyed bits of it.  And pieces.  The premise is spring-loaded with latent excellence.  An artist named Kay is plagued with intense nightmares.  Her husband prods her into vacating to a remote island with her brother and sister-in-law.  The nightmares never cease, however.  Kay sees her compeers dying in her dreams, and almost as if it were scripted (hahaHA!), they begin to die off in the waking world.  Who or what is stalking these archipelago-bound motherfuckers?  I'm scared!

To the film's credit, I was itching to discover the root of The Slayer's tumult, but the payoff did not varnish my snoopiness.  I needed a better answer than that.  Hell, the script barely gave me an answer at all.  Was the toothy monster fellow supposed to represent Satan?  How was he controlling Kay's night terrors?  Did he broker a mutually beneficient deal with Freddy Krueger (or perhaps the dream demons)?  We only get one glimpse of this toothy monster fellow, but I will say that he looks fucking cool.  Why couldn't he play a more explicit role in the narrative?  If you would like to meet him, his countenance "videobombs" the trailer.

The gore effects are ace.  The version on YouTube is uncut, so I was able to catch the bloodiest of the bloody.  I can't bitch about the acting either.  Sarah Kendall is superb at portraying a jittery, ascetic manic depressive, although I wish she was allowed to explore her range.  I met her yesterday at a Chinese restaurant (no, I didn't), and we discussed The Slayer for hours (no, we didn't).  So this flick isn't horrid, but it's detained by a cadaverous pace.  There are too many instances where nothing happens.  Apparently, that's the calling card of a body count pic(ture) from the early 80's.  It doesn't help that the body count is distressingly low.

My advice?  Stick with the trailer, which I was kind enough to attach.

Let's Get Miserable

I haven't done a series review since late last year (something about puppets).  Well, I'm ready to try another one, but I'm having too much goddamn fun picking random flicks from random decades.  So!  Why not try muzak?  Starting this week, I'm going to review every full-length Type O Negative studio album.  I guess it's my way of paying tribute to Peter Steele and his blackened brethren.

We're going in chronological order.  It's worth noting that I'll be skipping over The Origin of the Feces and The Least Worst Of, at least with regard to long, wordy reviews.  I might do simple blurbs since those records still rule.  Stay fine-tuned!

Album Cover of the Week

Decapitated Christ!  Sure, the typeface is crude, but c'mon...that is a charming piece of art.

Matches That Time Forgot #62

I'm beginning to think that everyone has wrestled everyone.  I mean, I had no flippin' clue that The Iron Sheik worked with David Heath.  Who is David Heath?  Salted wrestling historians already know, but he eventually morphed into Gangrel.  Yeah.  That doughy, ugly-as-hagfish-ejectamenta* oof** found success as a Lost Boys-style vampire.  Go figure.  His early appearance here is surprising, although I was more surprised to learn that Sheiky Baby was employed by Ted Turner.  My crack research team tells me that he wrestled in WCW for a few seconds.  Actually, he was there long enough to challenge Sting for the United States Championship.

Heath would waft over to Stampede Wrestling where he became a Blackheart.  If you haven't been acquainted with The Blackhearts, my God, scan through a powdering of their matches.  My God.  Oh, and run a quick search for The Black Phantom, jobber to the stars of WWF's New Generation.  My God.

*Shit.  Feces.  Excrement.
**An oaf, only simpler.

"I eat white sugar!"

I just finished watching I Am Divine, and I wanted to bang out a few words while it was fresh in my mind.  This is a fantastic documentary about Glenn Milstead (a.k.a. Divine).  Here lately, I've been on a feverish John Waters kick.  I've always admired the man's work, but for whatever reason, my interest in his early trash period has reached a high noon vertex.  Of course, that also means that I'm a Divine fan.  Yes, there was 1985's Divine Waters, but it only told a fraction of his story.  1998's Divine Trash - another fine doc - focused on the entire Dreamland crew.  Now, Divine has his day in the sun, as Jeffrey Schwarz's tactful film covers everything from his childhood to his cannonade of disco records.

You can expect to see interviews with the usual suspects.  While it's great to hear from Mink Stole and Mary Vivian Pearce, it's the sit-down with Francis Milstead (Divine's mother) that grants I Am Divine an emotional crux, an unerring poise.  It recently swanked its way onto DVD, so give it a whirl pronto.

Geek Out #111

Since I didn't show up yesterday, here is an extra dose of RR Incorporated insanity.  Early word points to Alejandro Jodorowsky's The Dance of Reality being another triumph for the Chilean-French tutelary saint of surreality.  Part-time contributor Bob Ignizio reviewed the film for his Cleveland-based blog.  Click HERE to trip on that shit.

Silent Night, Bloody Night

Revenge of the public domain stigma from outer space!  Here again, I am faced with a lost title that was everywhere in the days of Suncoast and Media Play (those were good days).  How can a film be considered lost if it was easy to find, you query?  Personally, I'm not going to pick up a DVD with a shitty cover disseminated by a company notorious for shitty transfers.  I ignored 1972's Silent Night, Bloody Night for that very reason, as did many others.  It didn't look particularly appealing to me anyway.  Brick-and-mortar entertainment chains are dead now, and I'm a grown goddamn man.  I'm more open to watching these motion pictures, even if I have to settle for dicey video quality.

After imbibing Bloody Night, I'm dumbfounded that it's treated like an ostracized waif.  It's never mentioned when the topic of "influential slashers" is adverted.  Of course, Black Christmas gets the (well-deserved) glory.  What you may not know is that the two algid, pine-scented processions have quite a bit in common.  POV kills, disturbing phone calls, Keir Dullea razing a piano...well, I can't confirm the destruction of ivory keys and felt-capped hammers, but Bloody Night does star Keir Dullea.  Just kidding.  God, what a stupid lie.  Who sits around and types out misinformation concerning the cast of an esoteric gland-chiller?  This motherfucker!  Hear me roar!

I loved this movie.  I loved it so much, that I'm not going to rehash the plot.  No synopsis for you (I became The Synopsis Nazi, apparently).  Go in fresh, but pay attention.  You'll be rewarded with a flutter of twists in the third act that rocks your cranium and effectively changes the rest of Bloody Night.  Replay value is high.  This isn't the kind of DVD you spin once and banish to a dust-doused shelf to be forgotten.  As a matter of fact, I'm eager to buy a legitimate, razzle-dazzle copy so I can discern detail during some of the darker parts.  When I say "darker parts," I'm referring to the bulk of Bloody Night.  The lighting is substandard, although I do appreciate a scare flick that takes place post-menopause.  That's what PM stands for, right?

I'm primed to penetrate the fourth paragraph, yet I haven't said much about today's subject.  I have my reasons.  I want someone else to be as pleasantly surprised by Bloody Night as I was.  In this case, underselling is my preferred approach.  I do want to call attention to the adroit acting, the grisly murders and the authentic flashback sequence.  Theodore Gershuny directs it all with a cool hand.  I am officially recommending Silent Night, Bloody Night with authority.  Man, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I might...MIGHT give it the edge over Black Christmas.  You need to own both.  And cutlery.  You need to own cutlery.

Raspberry Ripple

Random image is random.  Get it?  Ice scream?  Huh?  Nevermind.  Don't look at me.

Just checking in to say that for my next book review, I'll be returning to Goosebumps turf.  I'm reading that one now, but for the book review after that one (I seriously don't care for this sentence), I may take a poll in the Random Reviews Facebook fan club.  I'm putting you in charge!  It will probably be more "adult" reading material.  Don't fret; I'll post a link when the time comes to nominate a medalist.  I may rue this decision.  Yes, rue.