It's a graveyard smash!

Holy mills (in a general sense), Batman!  The idea for Monster Mash cereal isn't exactly novel.  Didn't we all create it as kids? But the fact that it's a real, tangible thing in 2021 is pretty fucking rad, if I do say so myself.  I love the box art.  I've seen a lot of it today.  Apparently, our local Walmart was low on merchandise (!?), so entire rows were littered with horror-themed breakfast pickings.  It was a surreal sight.

As for the cereal itself, it's...okay.  First of all, does the item's intrinsic noshability matter?  It exists; that's enough for me.  I'm not going to complain.  If I were to grumble about something (hehehe), it would be the banal flavor.  All I taste is Frankenberry.  I've read that some consumers can only taste Boo Berry.  I dig the pink patchwork of strawberry-salted cadavers, but I was looking forward to celebrating all five characters.  Hmm, "celebrating" is an unfortunate word choice.  I am going to die alone SO HARD.

At the very least, we can begin to Halloween (which I am now making a verb) in August.  Three months down, nine to go!

Album Cover of the Whatever

I'm currently waiting to receive a certain film in the mail to review.  Couldn't I review a different film in the meantime?  Yeah, but I don't wanna.  Listen, you homewrecker.  It's my website.  And I don't see you lifting a finger around the house.  I come home from a rough day at the factory expecting a warm meal and YOU SASS ME?  The Slow Death!  That's the band behind today's cover.  I love how it conveys dejection and hopelessness.  This is a solid band, by the way.  They play funeral doom and they have a new record dropping on Friday.

It has been slow around here lately, but I have neat stuff planned.  Hints as keywords: gore, Shane Douglas, spacesuits, and rat lungworms.  Have fun, gumshoes!

Rassle Inn #21

"And she's named Sister Abigail.  What do you think?  Huh?"

For a wrestling nerd, this past weekend has been a cavalcade of clatter.  I can't comment on all of it.  Well, I can, but I'd rather knuckle down on a couple of scareheads.  AEW has acquired CM Punk.  Bryan Danielson is in transit.  And wouldn't you know it, Windham Rotunda is in talks to become All Elite himself.  Of course, you know him as Husky Harris (or maybe Bray Wyatt, his stopgap NXT persona).  Pretty cool, right?  I hate it when I do this, but the pessimist in me sees the dark cloud drooping within every silver lining.  At what point does AEW lose its alternative appeal?

Two of WWE's dinosaurs (in both age and size) have already jumped ship.  I'm referring to Mark Henry and Paul Wight, if you're not playing along at home.  I guess my concern is...eh, it feels like a roster swap.  When will the AEW mainstays get nudged out of their spots by appealing free agents?  Tony Khan would probably tell me not to focus on names as much as how those names are used.  Fair enough.  Malakai Black has made a bigger splash in two weeks than he did in two years under McMahon.

My advice?  Be careful.  I'm positive that Tony has solicited my consultation through a mutual acquaintance.  I doubt that we have any, but hey, what if he knows Kevin Bacon?  There has got to be a degree around here somewhere.  Hmm, I'm fresh out of complete sentences, so I'll leave you with these jacketed hollow point bullets.

*The Punk promo.  It was perfect.  I mean, it was "holy shit" perfect.  One of the best promos in wrestling history.  Such a claim can be made without it seeming sacrilegious, if that tells you anything.

*Over a million viewers strong for the second episode of Rampage.  The coals will cool, but seeds are being planted.  I wish I could peek five years into the future.

*Aside from Edge/Rollins and a much-deserved title win for Damian Priest, SummerSlam was humdrum.

*The first three bouts of Takeover 36 were badass.  Fucking Walter and Ilja Dragunov destroyed the world together.  The other two matches definitely happened.

Drought (is My Kink)

I hope this diatribe doesn't come off as petulant.  If I'm being honest, it's not really a diatribe.  It's a...spiel?  I'm soapboxing myself.  See, I'm going through a phase that every film fanatic encounters at one point or another (perhaps multiple times); I'm experiencing a dry spell.  Basically, I have next to no interest in watching movies.  This has happened before and it did elapse.  I'm still trepidatious.  I'm covered in figurative cold sweat, which mixes well with literal semen.  Who knew?

Why the anxiety?  It's no secret that our brains can fuck with us on a royal level.  What if this dry spell doesn't end?  I always "snap back" in October, but what if this is the year that I don't?  Goddamn.  I revere the horror genre.  That hasn't changed, and none of my opinions have been refashioned.  For example, I will always hold War of the Gargantuas in high regard.  But I don't want to watch it right now.  I don't want to watch anything right now.

I'm not closing shop.  In fact, I'll probably review a movie next week, but right or wrong, I felt it was necessary to let my quaint readership know why I'm not currently pumping out horror content the way I did in the site's younger days.  Hopefully, my nerd impulses will crash back into my gullet.  It's okay to cry, baby.  Baby?  That device wasn't meant for...God, no.  OH, GOD, NO!!!!!!!!!

Geek Out #151

Out-of-context cyclops.  That's the best kind of cyclops, baby!

Dead Review Collection #7 - BLOODTHIRST!

We have arrived at my first Cannibal Corpse studio album.  I was fifteen and I was beginning to dip my toes into the underground to get my musical fix.  I don't know why (I'm sure that science has an answer), but we don't form "pop culture" opinions until our teen years.  Who can honestly assert that they held critical, nuanced views of Jesus Jones in first grade?  I knew that I gravitated towards rock, but apart from desultory inclinations, I couldn't tell you why I loved Nirvana.  In high school, metal was sucking my innards (eww) into its orbit.

Again, I wasn't clear on why I craved heavier stuff.  I just did, and I'm glad that I did.  I was also exposing myself to Six Feet Under.  Technically, the Chris Barnes offshoot may have been my gateway drug into death metal, but with all due respect, I prefer to say that CC corrupted my mainframe.  I mean, they are closer to tr00 death metal.  Don't lecture me.  So "Pounded into Dust" initiates the proceedings by pounding the listener into dust.  It's a compact rotary hammer of a composition that falls in line with "I Will Kill You" as a charged opener.  From Gallery of Suicide all the way up to Kill, the first track is nitroglycerin.  Why break tradition, guys?

If you were a dyed-in-the-stool (hehehe) fan of the band in 1999, the production might have been a shock to the system.  Bloodthirst sounds sexy and streamlined.  The drums are crisp, the guitars are deep (the tuning was probably different, but I'm no gearhead), and George enjoys a clarity that he has never really had at his disposal before.  This is a heavy record, but in my feckless opinion, it doesn't strike as being bigger than Torture or The Wretched Spawn.  Does that make sense?  It doesn't feel MASSIVE.  Still, the riffs rip out your ribs and barbecue them.  Mine were dressed with kiwi and dusted with a chili spice dry rub.

Nearly every song is a highlight.  "Dead Human Collection" stomps a hole into the universe, its rhythm section merging with the vocal patterns to consummate a living, breathing motherfucker.  Also, it gave this review series a catchy designation.  "Unleashing the Bloodthirsty" is a blast.  I tried like hell to growl along with Corpsegrinder in my bedroom two decades ago, but my throat (and my parents) told me to cut it out.  "The Spine Splitter" contains my favorite CC guitar solo.  "Ecstasy in Decay" has a demonic, minacious vibe to its lurch.  Fucking "Blowtorch Slaughter" has an awesome title, and jeepers, that ending is brutal.  If you're not headbanging during that riff storm, fuck you.

I can admit that there is a skerrick of sentimentality attached to Bloodthirst.  Well, for me.  It was my introduction to my favorite extreme metal band.  I do have a couple of nitpicks, though.  The production is fantastic, as I propounded above, but it's a dash too fantastic.  I don't mind the music coming across as clean; it just...hmm, how should I put this?  I used all-caps to denote size.  By comparison, Bloodthirst is a lowercase opus.  Badass?  Yes.  Lightweight?  Yes, even though it's barbaric.  While I'm whining, "Condemned to Agony" is a weak closer.  It's actually better when you hear it out of context.

Robert Z'Dar says, "I listen to Foghat.  Leave me alone."

    

Dom, Slayer of the Gods

This is apropos of absolutely nothing, but I've been listening to a great deal of Nile lately.  In particular, I "discovered" Festivals of Atonement, their first EP.  Holy crunching Christ, it kicked a perfectly orbicular ellipse into my hypothalamus.  The songs aren't as fast or mechanical as Nile's later material.  That's not an issue if you're leading things off with "Divine Intent."  I'll be writing about more death metal tomorrow.  I hope to have it up by Sunday.  Gee, whatever could it be???

Tale of the Mummy

Known as Talos the Mummy in select countries, 1998's Tale of the Mummy came to fruition during an untimely phase in the genre.  Mind you, horror was hot.  Slashers, in particular, were hot.  Jennifer Love-Hewitt was hot.  She's still fucking hot, now that my cock thinks about it, but I have forgotten the kernel crux of my argument.  Oh!  The late 90's were only untimely in the sense that this flick's cries for attention were muffled beneath a boodle of other mummy-centric motion pictures.  No, the Brendan Fraser lark doesn't count.  You're forgetting a few.  Like that one.  And that one, remember that one?

I'm being an ass, but there are fluid ounces of truth in my perorated ramblings.  I was a devout Fangoria subscriber in 1998, and I distinctly recall confusion (on my part, natch) over which mummy movie would be released first.  The release dates kept tripping me.  I ended up renting Bram Stoker's The Mummy for two reasons: A) The cheap exploitation of Stoker's handle.  Give me a break; I was barely a teenager.  B) The box art!  That sweet, sweet VHS cover literally resembled Christmas wrapping paper.  How could I resist?  Anyway, the film was fragmented sewage.  I made the wrong call, but for a reason that escapes me, I waited a couple of decades to try out Tale of the Mummy.

Compared to The Mummy (the Stoker version, for lack of better identification), the story of Talos is less sleazy and less bland.  You're probably asking, "Isn't that a contradiction?"  Yeah, but it makes sense.  And I promise that's the last time I cite The Crummy as a reference.  The plot isn't worth recapping.  Archaeologists unearth the sarcophagus of a tyrannical prince, and against the wishes of cautionary text, break the seal in a bid to glom onto treasure.  The granddaughter of the excavator in charge finds blah blah, blahing the blah.  A mummy is loose!  That's all you need to know.

Christopher Lee stars in the prologue.  So that's cool.  For the most part, Tale is entertaining, and that's in the face of considerable flaws.  Looking back, I'm surprised that I came away from this sandy cenotaph with a positive opinion.  I was never bored.  That's a big deal, in my eyes.  What's more, the cast is comprised of such funambulists* as Jason Scott Lee, Louise Lombard, Sean Pertwee, Shelley Duvall, and Gerard Butler.  Tight performances, all.  I already name-dropped Christopher Lee, but that's a name that can be dropped multiple times.  Believe it or not, I don't recall him being milked in the marketing materials.  That was a job for Funnyman.

The flaws...where do I start?  I don't want this review to be eight million characters long, so I'll abridge my remarks.  The international version of Tale runs for two hours.  American distributors decided to snip 30 goddamn minutes, which is why the exposition feels hectic and subitaneous.  It's almost as if the first act is trying to jump straight to the climax.  I loved the practical effects.  Unfortunately, roughly 60% (the actual percentage may be higher) of the special effects are digital.  Hate to say it, but the CGI is patchy, even for 1998.  It's just bad.

I respect the ballsy denouement.  I certainly didn't see it coming, but it's...it's weird.  Talos (the heavy) awakens, and as Satan as my witness, he is nine feet tall.  Why?  Don't know.  He wasn't a giant in human form.  To be honest, he looks like a clay figure from a Tool video.  Mummies roar, by the way.  Yep.  I do recommend Tale of the Mummy, as it occupies a space between "pretty good" and "laughably terrible."  You want to occupy that space, too.

*A funambulist is a tightrope walker.  It doesn't really fit there, but ever since I learned it, I've wanted to use it.  Woooords!

  

Album Cover of the Whatever

Faithxtractor!  Normally, I try to familiarize myself with the music of the band I spotlight vis-a-vis this feature, but...well, I haven't listened to Faithxtractor yet.  I will!  One of the members is also in Crucified Mortals, a band whose riffs I have jammed.  I'm familiar with Crucified Mortals because the vocalist/guitarist Reaper has a YouTube account where he posts entertaining chats with industry brass (read: regular metalheads).  I've watched quite a few of them.  Now that I have thoroughly derailed this entry, I'll point to the cover.

A forest green Cyclops, purple flames, deities tied to stakes...what's not to love?  And is that a horned alien?  It is!  I shall award Faithxtractor five bonus points for the space unicorn.  Shut up, that's what I'm calling it.

Rassle Inn #20

So what the fuck is going on in Stamford?  At a certain point, it becomes difficult to compartmentalize the product you see on television and close it off to the cold truth of the business behind the camera.  With WWE, it's nearly impossible.  I realize that I can only speak for myself, but I couldn't give a loaf of fuck about championship contenders when I know that the paleolithic node in charge doesn't give a loaf of fuck about me or the wrestlers under his employ.  The recent rash of NXT releases served as my tipping point.  "That does it," I trumpeted to an unforgivably empty bedroom.  The walls knew I was serious, man.

It's bad enough to fire someone who doesn't deserve it.  And yet, I understand that it's an unavoidable hammer blow in the real world.  But a couple of these releases boggle the mind.  They boggle the body!  Bronson Reed?  I guess we can assume that Mr. McMahon doesn't bother to watch the yellow brand.  Reed was the NXT North American Champion in July.  That's only the second most prestigious title that a man can win in NXT.  He was still being used, for fuck's sake.  Ditto for Tyler Rust.  I need a new paragraph for my rage.

Goddamn, mothercunting Rust was in Diamond Mine, a stable featured prominently on the show.  I was a fan of this guy, but this isn't bias talking.  You can't argue with his looks (he has them), his wrestling ability (technically sound, can work with anyone), his potential, and the fact that he's a fresh talent.  Why give him marching orders?  The fuck?  I hope that there's information being withheld.  Maybe he's a racist or a rapist.  Or both!  Of course, I don't want that to be true, but the alternative means that Vince is losing his fucking mind.

I already knew that, but still.  It's a teensy bit infuriating.  WWE is Big Wrestling.  Corporate to the letter.  While writing this harangue, I was naturally reminded of Big Evil, one of The Undertaker's many personas.  Specifically, I was reminded of his heel run in 2002.  Nostalgia brought him back to the mortuary and eventually, he was The Phenom that we all loved.  Can this company go babyface before it generates go-away heat with a shrinking audience?  Can I finish this piece before I shit my pants?

Blood Capsule #112

DEAD CALM (1989)

Are we sure that Billy Zane isn't an evil bastard in real life?  He's just too good at playing villains, even if it's a centuries-old demon in Demon Knight.  Oh my...is he a centuries-old demon???  Possibly, but if his roles reflect his corporeal existence, I'd be more inclined to believe that he's a creep on a schooner.  Dead Calm isn't an outright horror film.  It's an ichorous thriller, if I'm being honest.  IF!  Sam Neill and Nicole Kidman are a couple attempting to relax at sea.  They are still processing their grief after losing their son in an auto accident months prior.  They're nice folks, so they don't hesitate to help a stranded windjammer whose ship is sinking.  The crew?  Dead.  The cause?  Presumably, food poisoning.

Hmm...does that sound suspicious to you?  This isn't a "body count" flick, but it doesn't need hurry-scurry butchery.  It has a prosperity of suspense.  For most of the running time, our heavy-hearted lovebirds are separated by copious amounts of ocean.  There are multitudes of junctures where it doesn't seem like they're going to find their way back to each other (alive anyway).  If I were a shitty critic, I'd say that I was on the edge of my seat.  IF!  So yeah, you'll want to rent Dead Calm.  Great acting (Kidman is incredible, especially considering the fact that she was a flippin' teenager), resourceful camerawork, and au courant shots of the dinosaur animatronics.

Dead Review Collection #6 - GALLERY!

Dedicated fans recognize the above piece of artwork as the censored cover of Gallery of Suicide, Cannibal Corpse's sixth long player.  Why didn't I use the uncensored version?  Eh, I like this one better.  It's kool and kreepy.  With a "k," so you know it's legit!  As I make my way through this gangling, hematic discography, I'm beginning to view Vile as an outlier.  It's almost as if it doesn't belong to the band's classic, banned-in-Germany era or the modern, Corpsegrinder-shopping-at-Target era.  Because it doesn't.  It was a stage of metastasis.  It was an airport!  Y'know, a point of transition where you are sent hurdling to your destination, your next...um, death metal record.

Gallery is a mixed bag and my feelings reflect that heterogeneity.  Certain tracks accelerate my blood pressure; others devitalize my already inert pulse.  I'm headbanging one minute, then sitting surfeited and spiritless the next.  I'm also cussing because I hurt my neck (always stretch before attending a metal show, even if it's held in your bedroom).  None of the songs are awful.  However, there are various moments that fall short for me, whether it's an arrangement that doesn't seem to be explored to its fullest (see "Sentenced to Burn," which I'll dissect later) or a vocal choice that strikes me as odd (the high-pitched shrieks that begin "Blood Drenched Execution").

All in all, the boys have dialed back the technicality.  Just a smidgen!  The rhythms are jagged and asperous when the riffs call for it, but there are numerous instances of Paul bashing the fuck out of his snare without a care in the world.  It's beautiful.  "Sentenced to Burn" is a ducky example of this caveman approach.  It was chosen for the lead single, and at first, I wasn't digging it.  It was too simple.  I saw it as a trial run for "Decency Defied," a Jack Owen slugger that wouldn't rear its monstrous head until 2004.  Whatever.  In the present day, I would grade it as above average.  I still think it could have been fleshed out, if you'll pardon the mortifying pun.

Earlier, I implied that Gallery ushered in a new chapter for Styx.  While I wouldn't claim that Journey (wait, I mean Styx...wait!) switched on cruise control, it's clear that they found a comfortable sound that suited their talents.  George, in particular, locked onto a tone that he has been using ever since.  I suppose that an annex of fans turns their collective snout up at these strides, but it's not a lack of progress.  Do you know how fucking hard it is for an extreme metal vocalist to keep his/her chords limber and healthy well into a fourth decade on Earth?  It's really, really fucking hard.  Here, The Neck's growls are dependably brutal and his range is insane.  I'll go a little more in-depth on his screams on a future edition of the Dead Review Collection.

My favorite cuts are "I Will Kill You," "Disposal of the Body," the title track, "Unite the Dead," "Chambers of Blood," and "Every Bone Broken."  The riffs are unholy.  If they were people, they would be wanted on charges of assault with a deadly weapon.  Or arson of public buildings.  Maybe larceny?  You get my point.  The mediocre conjurations are at least heavy.  That's a given, I guess.  I can't even pinpoint why the lesser tunes are lesser.  The punches don't connect, so yes, I caution you to...ask a sharpened writer.  I have dulled.  I am discerning enough to tell you that Gallery of Suicide is somewhere in the middle of the stack.

Three ellipses?  My days are numbered.