Stuff I Burned From TCM, Part 9

A number of movies I’ve written about for the past few years have finally seen the light of day on DVD: Overexposed, Rancho Notorious, The Glass Wall, and a few more, so I’m pretty sure this will be the next to last installment of “Stuff I Burned From TCM”. I’ll probably move on to something else movie-related, but until then here are a few more movies that need to see a proper DVD release:

Heat Lightning (1934): Classic hard-boiled Warner Bros. crime film about a pair of sisters working at a motel in the Mojave Desert. Olga’s a frilly girl waitress and her older sister, Myra, (Ann Dvorak) ia a pretty butch auto mechanic. Her cover as a mechanic’s blown once her ex-boyfriend, a sleazy gangster on the run exposes her glamorous gun moll past. Similar in tone to “The Petrified Forest”, but I actually liked this better. A lot of stock Warners players, like Glenda Farrell, Frank McHugh, Ruth Donnelly, and Lyle Talbot are on hand giving their usual great support. Ann Dvorak is brilliant, and this film deserves a decent release.

Ladies of The Chorus (1948): One of the few Marilyn Monroe movies that still hasn't been released to DVD, this low-budget B picture clocks under an hour at 57 minutes. In spite of its brevity it still has tons of padding with several music numbers, some which have Marilyn crooning. Many people have laughed at the casting of Adele Jergens as her mother, probably three years older than Monroe with an unconvincing gray streak dyed into her hair. The plot basically consists of Monroe and Jergens playing a mother and daughter showgirl team and Mom’s reluctance at having her daughter date a millionaire’s spoiled son. The film has all the production values of an old Three Stooges short, no surprise because Columbia Pictures released this film.

The Unholy Three (1930): Lon Chaney’s last film and the talkie version of the Tod Browning silent classic. The talkie version is similar in tone to “Freaks” and Harry Earles is even on hand to play Tweedle Dee the midget. Chaney plays half the film in drag disguised as a kindly old lady pet shop owner, and it’s always amusing watching him tear off his wig, pop a cigar in his mouth and chew out Goliath the strong man. The last line in the film would be his last, “That’s all there is to life… a little laugh, a little tear”, while waving goodbye from a departing caboose. It was as if he’s waving goodbye to the audience, because he died a week after the film wrapped.

Primrose Path (1940): Just like "Heat Lightning" this movie was originally a play, but it moves fast and doesn't seem too talky. Ginger Rogers is a shack-living tomboy from Venice who falls for Joel McCrea, a motorcycle-riding burger flipper down PCH way. He likes the "Portuguese gals" (is Mexican a dirty word?) but falls for the tough dogtown girl. Ginger's mom and stinkbug grandmom, however, are sleazy gold diggers who want Ginger to carry on the family tradition of banging rich bums for their dough. Rogers turns in a performance reminiscent of Barbara Stanwyck in "Stella Dallas" and McCrea turns in another great big galoot performance.

The Out Sound of Psych Jazz

During the late Sixties/early Seventies the psych music scene opened up a jazz underground featuring bands like Blood, Sweat & Tears and the Chicago Transit Authority, who unraveled into some of the worst music ever recorded. One listen to a piece of dump like “Spinning Wheel” is as good evidence as you can get. Fortunately the European music scene had a much more exciting take on psych jazz that spawned many cool bands that only lasted a few years, but left us with some remarkable records. The fact that psych jazz has remained a virtually unheralded genre is a mystery to me, so let’s take a quick look at the best of the beast:

1. Chapter Three – Manfred Mann helmed this big band in between his English Invasion group and the Eighties-driven Earth Band. They only released two albums but the music has a seething, quiet intensity that’s compelling. The horn charts are simple to the point of being linear, but when they stretch out and solo all hell breaks loose. Recommended tracks are “Time” and “One Way Glass”. The whispery vocals wear thin after awhile, so it’s no surprise they had such a short shelf life.

2. The Flock – The only American band in the bunch (from Chicago, even), but pretty cool. Their big gimmick outside of having a badass biker looking-horn section was introducing Jerry Goodman on electric violin to the world. Fred Glicksman’s superfuzz acid-rock guitar is pretty amazing, too, but they veer into comedy territory when they employ opera falsetto backing vocals delivered with a scary earnestness. For coolness listen to “Store Bought Store Thought”, for comedy listen to “I Am The Tall Tree”. They also had the balls to take composing credit for The Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting” (complete with operatic falsetto backing vox!). Another band that lasted for two albums.

3. If – This band consisted of a bunch of session guys gone wild, so their music occasionally sounds like an orange juice commercial, but when they tear loose on “What Did I Say About The Box, Jack?” the horns twist and unravel like a bed of snakes. Their first album cover showing a bold, iron “IF” will forever be imprinted in my mind and sold the band for me. After two albums they went kinda snoozy fusion with the ugliest New Age LP artwork ever designed, so I recommend the first album only.

4. Nucleus – Ian Carr, ace British trumpeter, put together this great jazz band featuring Chris Spedding (!) on guitar. They’re heavily influenced by the new electric sound Miles Davis was toting in 1969 with a slightly rockier edge. Sans vocals, the band’s horn charts alternate from linear to complex. The great thing about the bands mentioned here is that they’re very democratic and allow every player to stretch out, a true rarity in these days of massive rock egos, so the soprano sax player gets to rip some scorching solos, too. “We’ll Talk About It Later” is the recommended album, actually once Chris Spedding left the coolness left with him. Big surprise.

5. Colosseum – Love the early records by Colosseum. If you can imagine Cream with a screeching organist and a wiggy sax player you get a basic idea of what these guys did. The Cream connection was completely intentional as their lyricist Pete Brown wrote many of their lyrics (the amazing “Jumping Off The Sun”) and they even covered Jack Bruce’s “Rope Ladder To The Moon” before he did. The band included the Ginger Baker-sounding Jon Hiseman (from John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers) and the legendary Dick Heckstall-Smith (from the Graham Bond Organisation). Their version of “Bolero” is the only one I can listen to, and once you hear their art school meets carnival fairground sound you’ll be hooked.

6. John Mayall – For a few years John Mayall got tired of losing drummers, and they were too loud, anyway, so he dispensed with them for a few years. He added the excellent John Almond on sax and flute and created a completely original style of electric jazz-blues that was compelling. Around that time his lyrics were about fucking chicks in Laurel Canyon, fires in Laurel Canyon, getting stoned in Laurel Canyon, so imagine this weird, spooky music with hedonistic hippie words floating around, sort of a hippie Suicide. Guitarist Jon Mark and John Almond later formed a band with the same sound, but Mayall did it better. Because he’s John Mayall. Recommended is “The Turning Point”, and “California” is the best song, and there are many tunes about Laurel Canyon you can listen to, heh!

Several bands became famous and made millions playing their take on psych jazz but pretty much descended into blatant progressive rock, like Jethro Tull, The Soft Machine, and King Crimson, but for my money the marginal ones provided the best sounds you’ll hear. Enjoy.

Rock & Roll Confidential, Part 3

Guitar Center (7425 W. Sunset Blvd.) - The last time I went to Guitar Center I saw a Japanese kid posing all slumped on an amp, playing Jimi Hendrix riffs letter perfectly on a Fender Strat, xerox riffs of "The Wind Cries Mary" and he was loud. VERY LOUD. There were twenty other guys doing almost the same thing, so the main room was almost as loud as a speedway in full tilt.

The only reason Guitar Center works for me is because it's a quick place to get guitar accessories, and they have a good selection of guitar stands, straps, strings, etc. Got a sweet Pignose amp there, plus my all-time favorite, the belt clip-on Marshall stack you plug your guitar into so you can jam dirty, distorted guitar in the kitchen, at the parking lot, in the crapper, portable boogie is all yours!

Don't waste your time and money on guitars or amplifiers here, they're overpriced at a ridiculous mark-up. Your better buy would be from an e-tailer like Music 123 (look it up, ya lazy) because they have a wider selection and sell at lower prices. You can get a cool Johnny Ramone Mosrite guitar for only $300, way cheaper than Guitar Center would ever charge.

Oh, and if you walk by Eddie Van Halen's handprints on the Rock & Roll Walk of Fame, do the right thing and spit on it. That turd took Kurt Cobain to task for having a black guitar player in Nirvana. He really ought to apologize to Pat Smear.


The Cinema Bar (3967 Sepulveda Blvd.) - Eve knew her apples. Adam knew his women (well, he only had one) and I know Culver City. Duller than dull, but here's tons of action at The Cinema Bar.

As everybody else has said the bartenders rule and last Friday my friend's band played, as opposed to the biker jug band fare they usually put on. The space was scary because the club is as small as a cat bed, add the bandstand, the bar and a few tables even! so racing off to the cool patio in the back was a good option.

The crowd was a mixture of aging chunky biker barfly, Ultramega OK metal heshers and confused creeps like me. There was a black tweaker with Afro pigtails trying to sell me crank and I said no. If he was taking what he was selling nobody wanted in. The brother was splayed.

I just wish they had the gigantor TV on with footage of the X Games with Travis Pastrana making with the freestyle MX jumps. It would have enhanced the hesher factor. But no matter. Culver City is redeemed by this cool saloon.

Carvin Amplifiers (7414 W. Sunset Blvd.) - Nice change of pace from the screaming in-your-face vibes of Guitar Center across the street. The Carvin store looks quite cave-like from the outside, craggy rock entrance and all. You step in and it's pitch black with little spotlights over the amplifiers on sale. It's like buying your gear at The Batcave.

The amplifiers sound sweet, better than Marshalls IMO, but they're damn pricey, but what the hell did you expect? You're buying your gear from The Batcave.

The Cat Club (8911 W. Sunset Blvd.) - "So, how's your love life?"
That's the greatest pick-up line I've ever heard. Not very clever, I know, but the girl that asked was wearing nothing but a baby diaper and cowgirl boots. That's the kind of memory you take to the grave. What does any of this have to do with The Cat Club? Absolutely nothing, but there's nothing terribly relevant about The Cat Club, either.

Saturday night: At the club we ordered drinks at a jaw-dropping $10 apiece. I didn't know a bottle of Bud was worth ten dollars. My Scotch and Soda was so watered down you could have poured it into Lake Arrowhead and the fish would have felt cheated. The bartenders were hard of hearing and surly because they were up past their bedtime. God, they were so old they probably pissed sawdust.

The band Goo Goo Deville acted like Eighties glam metal was still rocking like gangbusters. The singer was so ugly he looked like he fell off Ugly Mountain and didn't miss a boulder. He flipped the dirty bird at the audience every 30 seconds. What a repertoire. Look out, Tony Bennett.

While they were chugging into their most excellent power ballad my girl tried to use the ladies room, a sliding metal door with one toilet inside, but there was a line. Just to speed things up she banged on the door to wake the dead (or at least the geriatric bar staff, hyuk!) and two metal strumpets marched out with sheepish looks on their faces. They'll have to engage in their Free Clinic Frolics somewhere else.

A lot of the kids loved the band and had a great time, I must confess, sloppy butt dames shoulder shakin' and tossin' their hair like a Pat Benatar video. I drained my $6 water, ahem I mean cocktail and headed for the exit. Halfway out the door someone yelled, "ANDY FUCKEN SEVEN", and I thought I've been here for an hour plus and now somebody feels like yelling my name. WTF?

But that's The Cat Club for you. Everything about it's a day late and a dollar short.


Musician's Institute (6752 Hollywood Blvd.) - I don't know why, but there's a twisted symbolism in Musician's Institute being next door to the Church of Scientology...hmm, robotic lifestyles, robotic music, it all fits.

I don't know how these suckers cram for finals..."Dude, I got graded on a curve playing 'Crazy Train', I barely squeaked by"...do they realize the people that created these songs never took a class in music? It's weird seeing these kids from Sweden with their expensive, non-scuffed guitar cases studiously racing to class.

Musician's Institute started out as G.I.T. (Guitar Institute of Technology), then expanded to P.I.T. (Percussion Institute of Tech), and then B.I.T. (BASS! Institute of Tech), and then K.I.T. blahblahblah same S.H.I.T. different Hollywood money-making scam.

Speak Of The Devil

Every day when I drive home from work on the way home I see this teenage couple locked in a passionate embrace kissing against a fence, making out against the bars like its a matter of life and death. They're always at the same spot making out at exactly the same time, you could set your motherfucking watch to it, it's uncanny. It got me to thinking, what if they actually missed a day together, would one of them snap, would the boy snap first or would the girl snap? Will they eventually quit making out and marry, or will they just die like dried out flowers? But I digress...

There's a disturbing, violent piece of work by Gilbert Hernandez titled "Speak Of The Devil", which attains a nightmarish tone that never lets up once. A creepy Peeping Tom wearing a monster mask stalks the neighborhood watching the neighbors having sex. By Page 13 we realize not only is the Peeping Tom a teenage girl, but the local high school gymnastics champion! Beautiful, talented, and admired by her peers, she leads a perverse private life. To add insult to injury, the couple she peeps on is her father with his girlfriend, Linda! Another window she peeps in is her emo boyfriend Paul's house, watching her love getting periodically beaten by his bully father, constantly chiding him for being a "pencil-neck faggot". If he only knew.

Things get sicker, though: Paul discovers Val's secret obsession, and they make love in a cemetery. Soon after Val injures herself out of the gym championships (a reversal on the Samson and Delilah lovemaking turning to vulnerability?), hobbling around on crutches and cheering on her physically inferior classmate, Patty. If that isn't demoralizing enough, she comes home to catch Linda making it with her boyfriend, Paul! Val loses it and tries to kill them both, but they surprise her by attacking her. They decide to form a terror-laden menage a trois, the first victims being Paul's parents, blinding them before cutting their throats.

The trio decide to relax after the killing by hanging out at the beach, but not without killing an innocent woman and taking her wallet. They cut the eyes out of more innocent people just for kicks, hiding in a hotel and pretending they were abducted to cover their tracks. Val, jealous of Linda's control over her Dad and Paul, tries to convince him that she has to be killed before she turns them both in. Val, sensing trouble, leaves the couple and spins a yarn on the TV news about escaping "The Abductors". Paul begins moping about her absence, so Val flips out and stabs him to death. Don't worry, there's more!

Val decides to confess to her estranged mother about her crimes and quickly realizes her psychosis was inherited from, guess who? Brandishing a steak knife, Mom screams, "It wasn't that cow Linda who took your father from me! It was you!!" "From the day you were born he stopped loving me!" "I'll kill you to get him back!" Val, after a wild battle with her mom, using her best gymnastics skills, kicks her to death; out of guilt for killing her mother, comes back home and cuts her father's eyes out. Linda, believing she accomplished the murder, kills herself under the delusion the police are breaking down her door. Back at the cemetery, Val confesses all to Patty, her gym classmate, who strangles her to death on the spot. The story ends with a girl saying she's going over to Patty's house to see her, with the Peeping Tom monster mask sitting in her handbag.

This is probably the darkest thing Gilbert Hernandez has ever created, and that's saying quite a lot. I don't believe "Love And Rockets" fans in general like this sort of comic, but it's such a chilling and demented tale of familial unhappiness, almost like some kind of modern Greek tragedy with a suburban spin. Hernandez's use of light is highly expressive and adds greatly to the creepy vibe throughout. The lack of attention paid to this slasher epic is surprising. I loved the Herschell Gordon Lewis vibe "Speak Of The Devil" struck, and think that this particular tale of adolescent love gone psychotic will stay with you for a long time.

There Are Monsters In My House

Rebecca made an appearance in an excellent compilation of female lowbrow artists called “Vicious, Delicious and Ambitious” a few years ago. A follow-up compilation on monster paintings was in the works, and Rebecca was asked to contribute. The book died on the vine, but fortunately Rebecca’s paintings didn’t. A few of her works that would’ve been in this most excellent comp (which would have featured XNO, Lisa Petrucci, and The Pizz, among others) are shown here for your enjoyment. They’re all on exhibit at our home.

Pick a favorite? I can’t, but I think Rebecca likes Medoozie more than the others, and party boy Sleazeball from the Black Lagoon (with gold tooth and herpes sore!) rocks the house. I like the fact that even though Rebecca’s monsters create havoc they never forget to party. Drinking seems to be a major component in horror. I agree!

To this day Rebecca thinks “Bride of Chucky” is the most romantic movie ever (next to “Beauty and The Beast”) and demands that we watch it on our Anniversary. I’m trying to get her to paint “Beauty and The Beast”, but I don’t think The Beast drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon.