Album Cover of the Whatever

Yes, another one.  I normally wouldn't post album covers back-to-back, but I wanted to share my latest discovery with the rest of the class.  Female-fronted death thrashers Dracena bring the artillery with 2017's Cursed to the Night.  I'm digging the Giger-esque artwork.  It's a scientific fact that bat wings make any creature more appealing, though boobs help.  Boobs always help, don't they?

Album Cover of the Whatever

I'm man enough to admit that Bathory's discography is a bit of a blindspot for me.  Truth be told, I wouldn't know which album to start with, but I do know that 1996's Blood on Ice has a sick cover.

Space Monster Wagmagwi

I did the unthinkable.  I found a kaiju flick so obscure, I had never heard of it.  To be exact, it's a South Korean title.  Initially, 1967's Space Monster Wangmagwi (exclamation point optional) seems direct, but the sinuous plot bobs in and out of rhyme, ultimately settling as a quaint, yet anfractuous (!?) stretch of celluloid.  The script goes through the sci-fi motions.  Aliens with toaster heads are devising a full-scale invasion of Earth.  Their designs preclude them from getting their hands too dirty, as part of the plan involves dropping a monster into our orbit.  I'm not making this up; when we first see the titular varmint, he (I don't think I'm overstepping the bounds by assuming its gender identity) is handcuffed and behind bars.  That's when I knew this was a "special" film.

Wangmagwi abducts the wife of an Air Force pilot.  I would call out the subtle allusion to King Kong, but the movie beats me to the punch.  That has to be one of the earliest examples of wry, self-aware humor in genre history.  Well-played, Korea.  Well-played.  Before you can predict the next move, a child crawls his way into the fiend's colossal nasal cavity.  We follow Spider (I'm just now learning his name) as he stabs Wangmagwi and - again, I'm not making this up - takes a piss inside his skull.  In another scene, a man defecates in the middle of a crowded room.  I can understand the impulse to aim for potty humor, even if I don't personally find it funny, but gee whiz.  Get it?  Whiz?  Oh, bother.

For the most part, the film plays it straight.  Once Wangmagwi reaches his maximum height, we ride a wave of miniature-demolishing action to the resolution.  I enjoyed the workaday special effects, although I've seen so many kaiju wonders, I should really withhold judgment on the technical side of things.  I mean, would you be able to spot substandard miniatures if you saw them?  Maybe you could.  Good for you.  Hey, here's some filler...the Guinness World Book of Records lists Space Monster Wangmagwi as having the most extras on a film set at 167,000.  Wait, strike that.  IMDb says that's bullshit.  That's what happens when you let alcoholics record world records.  Get it?  Guinness?  I'm done.

EDIT: I'm not done.  Three paragraphs is too long for a blood capsule, so I might as well add more filler.  Did you know that Space Monster Wangdoodle was considered to be a lost classic for decades?  It was only recently emancipated onto Blu-ray.  Give it a whirl.  It's as entertaining as most Godzilla entries, and in my opinion, it's actually better than 1956's Rodan or 1961's Mothra.  Robert Z'Dar says, "I once pissed in a guy's skull.  No one called me a hero, that's for sure."

   

Now Playing #4

Fires in the Distance - Air Not Meant for Us

It has been a full month since the last sighting of this column.  In that time, I've listened to scads of music, but usually, there will be a couple of records that stand out from the pack.  That's just the nature of things.  Your listening rotation probably operates in the same manner.  My May has been saturated with what I consider to be "autumn metal."  Fires in the Distance write songs about leaves and idiopathic despair, as illustrated in the track "Idiopathic Despair."  They monopolize the realm of melodic doom/death, a subgenre I know inside and out.

One could argue that 2023's Air (not to be confused with that Nike movie) relies too heavily on a lumbering gait.  And yeah, the tempo could stand to be kicked up a few notches, but this is doom.  That's what doom does.  Tack on a multitude of majestic guitar solos and you've got yourself a righteous album.  Favorite tune?  I'll go with "Psalm of the Merciless."

Redemption - Snowfall on Judgment Day

I love progressive power metal.  Can't get enough of the stuff.  I found Redemption through then-frontman Ray Alder, a throat you may know from Fates Warning.  This guy is steadfastly becoming one of my favorite vocalists.  Dude can write a chorus like nobody's business.  Apparently, this project now employs Tom Englund of Evergrey fame.  As an aside, I suppose you could slot Evergrey into the same bracket.  I dig them, too.  Anyway, Snowfall was Redemption's fourth long player.  It came out in 2009, and I can't believe I missed it.  The musicianship is preeminent.  Listen to "Walls" and tell me those aren't powerful melodies.  You simply can't!  Favorite tune?  I mean, "Walls," but listen to all of them.

Geek Out #163

Over the past few days, I've watched several episodes of The Last Drive-In with Joe Bob Briggs.  The man is a national treasure.  Here he is schooling human vaginal irrigation device (or douchebag) Jay Leno on the importance of Basket Case.  God bless him.

Transformations

I'm approaching this review as a writing exercise.  The question is, can Dom bullshit his way through what amounts to being a progress report on a sci-fi lime wheel?  NOTE: I could have said "lemon," but why limit myself to a single citrus fruit to describe a genre as colorful as the b-movie?  If anything, 1988's Transformations is a kumquat, as it's fairly insignificant and hard to find.  For what it's worth, I spotted it on laserdisc while riffling through eBay.  If that's your bag, knock yourself out.  Personally, I had a hard time believing that Transformations would live up to its VHS box art (see for yourself below).  Back in my days as an avid collector, this is a title that would spring up on occasion, but I neglected to take a gamble on it.  Did I make the right call?

Define "right."  Clearly, I threw an undisclosed sum of money at this thing.  In consequence, I do feel a little dirty, but that's a testament to director Jay Kamen.  He must have done something right.  Hmm, how the hell do I define "right" anyway?  Transformations is an omnium-gatherum of ideas, both good and bad.  NOTE: The band Omnium Gatherum is middling.  I just checked out of curiosity, and holy shit, they have issued nine albums.  I mean, they're fine if you're looking for basic melodic death metal, but I...I need to focus.  Our plot will track as familiar territory if you've seen as many Alien(s) ripoffs as I have.  An astronaut has a seriously close encounter with a succubus during one of his hypersleep cycles.  Basically, picture Ripley's cryostasis set-up in Alien, only without the sleek gadgets.

So right off the bat, we have a good idea.  I dig the concept of demons in space.  Sure, Lifeforce touched on these grounds, but here, the naked lady is carrying a pestiferous disease.  Slowly, Wolfgang - the astronaut at hand - transforms (take a shot of your adult beverage of choice) into an ooey-gooey monster.  I'm positive that it was unintentional, but Species II used some of these ideas, right down to a feisty, brazen sex scene that is more uncomfortable than it is arousing.  For the record, I prefer Species II.  And that is a sentence you will never read again for the rest of your life.  Moving on!  Actually, that's pretty much where the synopsis ends.  There is a forced love angle, but why go there?

Transformations looks like it had a budget.  That's primarily because it appropriated sets from Arena and Robot Jox.  Hey, weren't those New World releases?  Yes, and this flick was set to be plastered onto home video via the same company, but it went bankrupt before that could happen.  It seems that nobody was terribly happy with the finished product.  Even Charles Band removed his name from the project, which is f*cking astounding when you consider the stuff he's proud to associate with, y'know?  Transformations isn't monumental, but it's not exactly a hopeless situation either.  The acting is (inter)stellar, relatively speaking.  Professional cutie Lisa Langlois stands out as the love interest.  She's better than she needs to be, and I applaud her for the effort.

It's easy to dismiss the special effects as amateurish, but I didn't have a problem with the latex (or whatever) on display.  I did have a problem with the non-ending.  Come to think of it, Transformations is full of non-kills and non-suspense.  Eh, it is what it is.  How's that for a critic quote?

  

Blood Capsule #149

CURSE OF THE FACELESS MAN (1958)

Another day, another z-movie that isn't worth the punctilious scrutiny you've come to expect from me.  I promise I'm not phoning it in; I'm just surveying a barren landscape.  Today's landscapegoat (ha!) is from the late 50's, which means it's worth tracking down.  I know I sound defeated, but Curse is imaginative enough to watch on a slow weekend.  An archeological dig exhumes the petrified corpse of a noticeably robust slave, an unfortunate victim of the Mt. Vesuvius eruption.  His features have been obscured by time and erosion, but his heart...ah, his heart.  It still beats to a rhythm of terror (wow, I should have been a marketing consultant in the 50's).

Scientists are reticent to entertain the notion that our faceless man could still be alive.  Understandable, but how to explain the muckle of crushed skulls in the presence of the supposedly dead body?  The titular mugless chap is a fantastic villain.  Sure, he's basically a mummy, but hey, I'll play ball.  It's fun watching him cause havoc, and the slim running time makes it hard to stay bored.  Having said that, I did get bored.  Curse is a dull, long-winded sit.  Director Edward L. Cahn manages to cram a profusion of exposition into several tight spaces, resulting in fairly repetitive dialogue.  I prefer his other creature feature, the iconic It! The Terror From Beyond Space.  Man, 1958 was a banner year for horror and science fiction.  Animated courtroom dramas?  Not so much.

Tip Jar

Would you like to support the site and maybe, possibly receive cool stuff in return?  Click HERE to become a patron.  It's a neat thing that enables me to...well, write.  Believe it or not, jabbering on movies that most people don't care about can be a thankless gig, but my patrons remind me that one or two human beings read my nonsense.  Y'know, validation and whatnot.  So validate me!

Top 5 NOLA Albums

Quick disclaimer...these are my favorite "NOLA metal" albums.  This isn't a list for anyone hoping to plunge into the arcane depths of the scene.  You'll notice that my picks aren't terribly underground.  Reason being, I don't live in New Orleans!  I would make a list of the top five bands from Hickory, North Carolina, but folks, that would be one pathetic list.

5. FLOODGATE - Penalty

I'm going to cheat for this entry.  I already reviewed this record, and you can read that sumbitch right HERE.

4. GOATWHORE - Carving Out the Eyes of God

One of the self-imposed rules that I'm following bars me from enumerating multiple albums by the same band.  Unfortunately, I'm forced to leave out killer stuff.  On the other hand, you know that I'm listing stealthy, high-grade records.  I'm told that cream rises to the top.  That sounds like a lewd euphemism to me, but whatever.  Carving kicks ass.  It's actually what I'm listening to at this very moment.  It's my favorite concentration of Goatwhore's rectitude for a couple of reasons.  First off, it's their most diverse album in terms of mood and tempo.  Also, this is where Sammy started to play more guitar solos, which can only be an awesome thing.

3. CROWBAR - Sonic Excess in its Purest Form

I don't know that this is my favorite Crowbar platter (2011's Sever the Wicked Hand might have something to say about it), but I do know that it was my introduction to the world's heaviest sludge savants.  Sonic Excess is just massive.  The riffs pummel you.  They smite your vital organs, or at the very least, they lace into your neck muscles.  And the opening notes of "The Lasting Dose" are f*cking perfection.  What else can I say about this record that hasn't already been said about nuclear proliferation?  The production is fine-tuned to the point where you can practically see glass shattering in the recording studio.  To build a mountain takes a long, long time indeed.

2. ACID BATH - Paegan Terrorism Tactics

Well, what do you know?  I reviewed this album, too.  Click HERE.  I should note that you could just as easily slot When the Kite String Pops into this position, but hey, it's my website.

1. DOWN - NOLA

Doesn't this album have to occupy the top spot?  For my money, it contains Phil Anselmo's best vocal performance to date (post-falsetto, yet pre-heroin).  The riffs have reached near-mythical status, but the focus is on songcraft.  "Lifer," "Rehab," "Eyes of the South," "Losing All," "Hail the Leaf," and "Stone the Crow" are personal favorites.  You won't find a weak track in the bunch.  The fact that the line-up featured on this record is a veritable supercluster of stars from most of NOLA's heavy-hitters essentially cements it as the apotheosis of "Southern metal."

Album Cover of the Whatever

If plodding German death metal sounds like your cup of plasma, check out Atomwinter's Iron Flesh.  The cover teaches us an important lesson about perspective, friends.  Without perspective, I'd say there was a ginormous severed head hanging from that turret.  But no, it's a stock severed head in the foreground.  Either way, it's a cool visual that accurately represents the band's militant riffage.

Panels From Beyond the Grave #38

THE TWILIGHT ZONE (#1, Nov. 1991)

I've said this before, but when it comes to genre television from the 60's, I prefer The Outer Limits to The Twilight Zone.  It's a decision you have to make in the crib, much like the eternal debate over which family you want to join, the Munsters or the Addams (I'm a Munsters guy, natch).  Of course, I don't mean to suggest that I have some sort of acroamatic problem with The Twilight Zone.  Hell, I don't even know what "acroamatic" means!  I dig it.  Conversely, I'm all about The Outer Limits to the point where I've made it a religious persuasion to watch the first episode every October, which is usually when the mood strikes.

The Twilight Zone is cool, but it never turns me into a foaming fanboy.  I do like it enough to buy merchandise branded with the show's insignia.  A comic book, for instance.  Rod Serling's brooding, esoteric anthology series is so iconic, I could believe that there was a corresponding comic published in each decade since the show's premiere.  For the record, the book I'm reviewing was parceled out in the 90's.  You wouldn't be wrong if you said I was bound to enjoy it, but I approached it as an unbiased, yet ardent enthusiast for all things spooky.  Did it make the grade?  Yes.  Keep reading, though!

Our story is entitled "The Big Dry."  Stanley and Carla are always at odds with one another, discordant daggers drawn.  To stamp their relationship as rocky would be an understatement, but they stay together for the sake of their daughter.  It's intimated that Stanley isn't the biological father, but he has a genuinely great relationship with Corky (why they settled on that name is anyone's best guess).  The fissures within their family unit are put under a magnifying glass when they embark on a road trip.  Lost without a map, they find shelter in a big, creepy house.  I swear to God, I've never had car trouble or whatever near a big, creepy house.  How does this happen so f*cking often in works of fiction?  I digress.

I'll spare you the rest of the synopsis.  If I detailed every beat of the plot, I wouldn't be doing NOW Comics any favors, now would I?  That's partially because you need to read this baby for yourself, but it's also because the plot is a shade silly.  Believe it or not, that's a compliment.  The mystery of the big, creepy house involves a monster, and my stance on monsters is well-documented.  Deciding on the rating was relatively easy.  There are two prominent, eye-catching checkmarks in the "pro" column.  Checkmark #1: The artwork!  Everything here is bold.  Even talky scenes that don't feature a lot of movement are dazzling.  The cover is a fine example of the lustrous colors inside the pages.

Checkmark #2: The dialogue!  I was pleasantly surprised by the rich character development.  Kudos to writer Bruce Jones for keeping his interaction grounded.  I mean, he isn't Leo Tolstoy, but this is solid stuff for a comic book.  As for the "con" column, it's virtually empty.  Highly recommended for fans of ink and text bubbles.

    

Geek Out #162

Here's a chunk of my favorite episode of The Twilight Zone.  Consider this a harbinger of things to come.  We're about to cross into another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind...

Blood Capsule #148

BLUE MONKEY (1987)

I was all set to write at least four paragraphs on this film.  That's right, folks.  I was going to put actual effort into this (forced) labor of love.  But then I realized what I was writing.  The awkwardly-titled Blue Monkey didn't give me a superfluity of material to work with.  For those curious, the title comes from a throwaway line delivered by a child actor who should have been thrown away at birth.  Egads, I need to reel myself in a bit.  Get this; the working title was Green Monkey, but that was scrapped to avoid confusion.  Ha!  Oh, the plot.  I'm getting ahead of myself.  A hospital is besieged by an economy-size insect that looks like a cross between a praying mantis and a postmortem Ellen DeGeneres.

I don't know why I'm being particularly brutal, but let's face it.  If any creature feature deserved a tepid, unenthusiastic review, it's this one.  It's almost as if director William Fruet was aiming for mediocrity, what with the largely apathetic death sequences and the sapless finale.  We do get a gratuitous decapitation.  That's...something.  If I'm being honest, the overgrown snippersnapper doesn't do much of anything, aside from occupy corridors and lay eggs.  So basically, Blue Monkey is about your mother.  Woah, sorry.  I'm just punching at the air now.

Rassle Inn #40

The draft.  It's over, but I don't claim to be topical.  Can we talk about how it's f*cking useless?  At one point in time, brand separation seemed prudent.  WCW had just folded, and ECW was heading down strikingly similar tubes.  Suddenly, Vince McMahon bequeathed a veritable toy box of roster additions.  It is now well-known that certain stars (*cough* Sting *cough*) were paid handsomely to go on staycations, but what to do with all those nugatory midcarders?  And Scott Steiner???

Some wrestlers would appear on Raw and some wrestlers would appear on Smackdown.  Okay, got it.  Where do you put your heavyweight champion?  Wouldn't it make sense to allow your top guy to roam wherever he pleases, his belt being the golden ticket that annuls the partition between your flagship shows?  Yes, so of course, Vince didn't do that.  It wasn't long before WWF/E accommodated two champions.  Coincidentally (I use that term loosely), it was right about that time when pro-wrestling lost its foothold in America.

I know that there are a vast multitude of reasons why ratings declined, but in my personal opinion, the awkward situation in the main event was chief among them.  Which main event am I referring to?  Exactly!  Let me put it to you this way; how many teams won the Super Bowl in February?  And the World Series last year?  Professional wrestling should always try to mimic legitimate sports, whether the public knows it's a work or not.  Likewise, rasslin' should appeal to outsiders.  That's the only way to augment your fanbase and ensure that the business will be around for years to come.

This past Monday night, WWE took steps to excogitate (I use fancy words to describe fancy bullshit) a new world champion that will stand apart from the Universal Champion.  This will do nothing to rope in the common man, much less the common woman.  And while I'm on my handicap-accessible soapbox, who the hell cares which "superstars" are on which shows?  Unless you're exceptionally committed to your favorite color, does it matter if, say, Becky Lynch is on Raw or Smackdown?  It would be one thing if these programs were drastically different from one another, but they aren't.  In fact, they're virtually identical!

Good point, Dom.  Thanks, Dom.  Okay, I'm talking to myself, so that's my cue to leave.  Stay tuned to find out if I'm drafted to Bleacher Report or PWInsider.

Sick Day

I was all set to write about wrestling when a wave of BLUGH fell upon me.  I'm not exactly sick, but I'm not exactly well either.  Let me rephrase that; I'm not well enough to blather about wrestling.  I'll do it later!  Tomorrow.  I'll do it tomorrow.  Maybe.  Probably.  Tonight, it's computer golf and funeral doom for me.  By the way, the new Mournful Congregation EP comes out later this month.  Start getting amped for it because I have!

Now Playing #3

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.