Well yeah, Quentin Tarantino stole plot points and images from "Lady Snowblood," but what people don't mention is that he vastly IMPROVED on it, quadrupling the action even if he ignored much of the back story. So "Kill Bill" fans will be mildly disappointed, because the gushing blood and giant martial arts battles don't happen nearly as often in "Lady Snowblood," which is a much quieter, more emotionally intense film. Its importance should be measured in far MORE than just "Kill Bill" - the Japanese have had a female revenge Jones for the past 35 years since "Lady Snowblood" - Female Convict Scorpion, Zero Woman, Sympathy for Lady Vengeance, Battle Royale, Machine Girl and just about any "Pinky Violence" movie - so really, when it comes right down to it, Quentin got to the party really, really late.
OH LOOK, THEY'VE MADE A CUTE LITTLE POSTCARD OUT OF IT ALREADY!
"Lady Snowblood" isn't a 5-star movie by any means, and it wasn't meant to be. Japan was cranking these movies out like SAW sequels back in the early 70's (Sex and Fury, Female Yakuza Tale and Female Scorpion 701: Beast Stable (huh?) all came out the same year), so go rent 'em all but don't treat any one of them like they're masterpieces. They got no Chiaki Kuriyama, and no 5.6.7.8.s. You WILL miss them both.
She's not in LADY SNOWBLOOD. That's bad for LADY SNOWBLOOD. No GoGo, no go.
Dick Domane's daughter adds her own touch to the final album cover design.
DICK DOMANE, Dick Domane LP (1970, Map City)
Ignore the horrible cover, which looks like half the cast of Sigmund and the Sea Monsters threw up on it. And ignore Dick’s muttonchops, which beat up Mike Nesmith’s in a fistfight. It might not look like its got anything going for it (which is probably why it’s been ignored for nearly 40 years), but Dick Domane’s 1970 LP on the Map City label is actually a pretty nifty little slice of sunshine pop psych, if you can believe it. Your first clue is that label – Map City, home of such well-regarded (and rare) albums by the Yesterday’s Children, the Purple Image and the Blue Jays - who, by the way, back Dick up on this one. Yet those albums have been reissued, while poor Dick himself has gotten…well, Dick. Only one of his songs, “Bad Dreams,” made a compilation (Mystic Males), and that ain’t even his best song. Yet everyone who’s heard his album compares it favorably to other big orchestrated baroque popsike solo masterpieces like Del Shannon’s Adventures of Charles Westover, which, by the way, has also been reissued. So why is everyone Dicking around on Dick Domane?
Maybe it’s the green jello mold cover. Or the Mike Nesmith-on-steroids muttonchops. But it ain’t the music, that’s for sure. “Hey Don’t You Know” is a killer catchy pop song riding a whirlybird calliope rhythm, much like Tommy Roe’s “Dizzy,” and that was a big hit. “Sane One” is the kind of slinky soul pop number that would work magic on a dancefloor, while the orchestrated ballad “I’m Only Dreaming” sounds like a cross between a big Bee Gees number and a 1967 single by British freakbeat champs the Creation, thanks to a half-asleep swaying fuzz guitar which adds a bit of credence to the title. Let’s face it - the boy really does do a lot of dreaming.
So the next time you get up in front of the crowd at the Des Moine Bowl-a-Rama and someone yells out, “You’re a Dick!” – say thank you. And tell them if you can be only half as good as Dick, you’d consider that a compliment. Then, as you’re leaving the stage, dump a bright green Grasshopper on him, smack him on the head with a Mike Nesmith album and say, “Hey! Now who’s the Dick?”
SQUID POP METER SEZ: A somewhat queasy 6 out 10. BEST TAKEN WITH: Pepto-Bismol, Dramamine and Two Catholic Priests from Brooklyn
ALVIN PARKS, "Jumpin' Jack Flash" b/w "Sittin' on the Dock of the Bay" (Early 70's single on the Bedlam label)
Phoned in from another GALAXY altogether comes this completely INSANE rant of a single which makes Lord Sutch seem subtle and the Shaggs seem polished. I don’t know WHO exactly Alvin Parks is – the only other Alvin I know is a chipmunk (and equally untrainable too, by the way) – but the tiny subtitle under his name tells you all you really need to know about this galactic primal scream. It says “backing by BEDLAM.” And after listening to both sides, I honestly don’t think Bedlam is a band. I think they meant, literally, that Alvin Parks is backed on these songs by a whirlwind of complete and utter chaos. That would at least explain some of the backing vocals.
This shit is so over-the-top, it must’ve been created in a universe where the word “subtle” doesn’t even exist. Alvin’s take on the Rolling Stones’ “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” is simply to BURY the song in a flurry of reverb and delay, and reduce it to the simplest staccato guitar riff and metronomic Chambers Brothers drumbeat. After an opening drum roll reminiscent of the firing squad Alvin somehow avoided, Mr. Parks shouts out “Rock and Roll!” as if he’d already tried the Lounge and Zydeco versions in previous takes. Why he didn’t also yell out “Hello Cleveland!” remains a mystery. But just the way Alvin spits and strangles lines like “I was raised by a toothless bearded hag” leads me to believe that he might be speaking from experience. Meanwhile, the guy singing backing vocals, who sounds a bit like Professor Gumby from Monty Python’s Flying Circus, has absolutely NO idea what key the song is in, but really, does it even matter when you’re Bedlam incarnate? And when the words die out, like they always do, Alvin lets it be known how he REALLY speaks when he wants to be heard, letting loose an inspired Hendrix-worshipping buzzsaw FUZZ solo that’s absolutely LETHAL, even if he doesn’t actually remember to step on the wah wah pedal until the song’s already starting to fade. Back in the control booth, David Seville, now deaf, keeps shouting “Alvin! Alvin!!! AL-VIN!!!” while the crackling hot fire of molten bedlam envelops him and his sweater and his little furry chipmunks in the flames of hellfire and damnation.
Alvin's backup singer.
Oh, but if you thought that was great, just wait’ll you hear Alvin’s take on the Otis Redding chestnut “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay!” Now this, my friends, is a veritable Mona Lisa of real music. Like Hearing Impaired Night at the Karaoke Bar, or the Shaggs’ demo tapes, or the latest Rush album – it transcends both music AND comedy in the most ingenious way possible. He even manages to get in a couple of shout-outs to his homies back in Cali, changing the line to “just to make Long Beach my home” as thousands of Long Beach residents march like crazed lemmings straight off the dock and into the calm serenity of the Pacific Ocean, where Alvin’s music can’t reach ‘em. Planet Earth, meet Alvin Parks. And his recording buddies Bedlam, Chaos and Total Dementia. The Apocalypse now has a soundtrack.
THE SQUID INSANITY METER SEZ: Off the fucking charts. BEST TAKEN WITH: Tap Water, Salmon Mousse and a Brick to the Side of the Head
Don't cry, Anicka. The Hoffster doesn't sign for anybody.
ILLES, Ne Sirjatok Lanyok (Don't Cry, Girls) (Hungarian LP from 1973)
For crate diggers and the more adventurous psych funksters, the wonderful world of Hungarian rock has always been a daunting venture, kinda like renting a David Lynch movie. There are moments of pure brilliance; the trouble is wading through all the garbage to find ‘em. Illes has always been Hungary’s most rewarding band, probably because they were like big rock stars back home, the Budapest Beatles. They even released a White Album (technically called Human Rights), although they did it in 1971, long after the Beatles had ceased to be a working entity. And while none of Illes’ albums are as great as the REAL White Album, or even Rubber Soul for that matter, there are a handful of psych funk breakbeat gems on each one of ‘em. And since, through the magic of Ebay, you no longer have to book a flight to Budapest to rifle through Laci Bacsi’s smoke-filled vinyl storeroom just to find ‘em, it’s easier than ever to start diggin’.
This is Illes’ final album, 1973’s Ne Sirjatok, Lanyok (Don’t Cry, Girls). They’ve added synthesizer on this one, and finally turned to the funk (presumably to attract some young Lanyok), so there are some dancefloor-ready funk MONSTERS on here, along with some occasionally surprising robotic krautrock moves that we’ve never heard from these guys before. And if Illes’ earlier albums found them looking backward a lot, trying to catch up to what was done years before, Don’t Cry, Girls actually shows them to be ahead of the curve, at least when you consider the rest of Europe was busy making Jethro Tull and Emerson Lake & Palmer rich. The minimal robot-like funk dance beat of “Say What You Want” will remind you a lot of Kraftwerk, and you might even mistake the wriggly synth accents in the trippy minor-key psycho freakout “Yes” to be the work of some 60’s-obsessed neo-psych group like Bevis Frond.
But the best thing here by FAR is the utterly AMAZING “Crazy Girl.” It’s a blisteringly fast-paced freak funk breakbeat mother with fire-alarm synth and rolling T. Rex/Steve Peregrine Took hand drums, a big old fat chocolate sundae for percussion fans. Imagine an early 70’s Giorgio Moroder single mixed with the Normal’s “Warm Leatherette” and sprinkled with some Gap Band, and yeah, two of those references actually came later on the musical timeline! So how could a band trapped in the creative wilderness of Eastern Europe manage to be both behind the times and well ahead of them? Maybe because, in those years between 1971 and 1973, Illes stopped emulating their older heroes and started listening to their younger fans. It’s like the Knack once said. The old-heads might not like it. But the little Lanyok understand.
THE SQUID POP METER SEZ: A good solid KILENC BEST SERVED WITH: Goulash and Elsa Pataky. Or, better yet, Goulash ON Elsa Pataky.
THE CURE, "A Few Hours After This..." (1985 B-side)
As promised, another Cure B-side from the "Inbetween Days" single, and another lost jewel that probably should have made it on to an album. This one finds Robert Smith jettisoning his entire band and working with only a string section, as an experiment that he later claimed "wasn't entirely successful." Well, I think it was. And it makes me wish he'd re-record "Disintegration" with the London Symphony Orchestra. Well, Robert, how 'bout it?
...and his dog.
Incidentally, with lyrics like "We can roll around and find out upside down" and "Squeeze me till I'm dry," not only is our boy Robby still happy, but downright FRISKY, if'n ya know what I mean. It's the 80's Goth equivalent of Robert Plant's "Squeeze my lemon baby, till the juice runs down my leg," although the thought of Robert Smith barechested in a leopard skin codpiece just made me dry heave. But hey, they're both Roberts, and they both had a pretty substantial mane of hair. And one of 'em once said "Does anyone remember laughter?" although it really applies to the other. Go figure.
THE SQUID POP METER SEZ: Another 10 out 10 BEST SERVED WITH: Chardonay and Anti-Depressants. Or maybe a mud shark and a groupie.
A REAL exploding boy. No wonder it's such a feel-good song.
THE CURE, "THE EXPLODING BOY" (1985 B-SIDE) I wasn’t a nice person when I was a kid. I’ll be honest. I went to TWO Cure concerts back in the late 80’s and early 90’s (the Disintegration tour and the Wish tour) not so much because I loved the band, but moreso to make fun of all the freaky Living Dead Dolls who got dressed up in their black eyeliner Subbacultcha finest to be in the presence of the mummified corpse of their hero, Robert Smith (who, by that time, looked like he’d been feeding off several of his morguemates for a half dozen years). They put on a good show, sleepwalking through endless Kraftwerk trances like “Pictures of You” and “A Forest,” and Robert didn’t move much so he didn’t break a sweat. I think I wore a bright yellow shirt that day just to be different.
It wasn’t always that way with the Cure. For a period of about five years, somewhere between the bottomless suicide pit of “Pornography” and the creeping malaise of “Disintegration,” Robert Smith was downright happy. He wore fuzzy bear suits, glow in the dark paint, and sang practically giddy songs about cats, caterpillars and even going to bed with another HUMAN BEING! Our little Hot Topic boy was growing up, and even starting to mingle. Could a roller skating party be that far off?
Somewhere during Robert’s happy period, there also came an abundance of songwriting, where suddenly Cure singles came equipped with not one but two or even THREE B-sides, and they were even starting to put some thought into ‘em. “The Exploding Boy” comes from 1985’s “Inbetween Days” single, and you can tell – the similarity’s obvious. Both have the same strumming Spanish guitar rhythm, both have short, choppy verses with repeating lines, and both deal with leaving someone. (compare “Knew if I turned, I’d turn away from you, and I couldn’t look back” with “Go on, go on, just walk away”). Yet as good as “Inbetween Days” is (and for years it was my favorite Cure song – how imaginative, right?), “The Exploding Boy” is even BETTER – and that’s because of that warped, distorted, fucked up drunken saxophone that weaves in and out of the song like a psychedelic hornets nest. You can tell Robert’s happy – he even gets off a few grunts after each chorus – which, for him, is the equivalent of Howard Dean’s infamous campaign-ending shriek. “The Exploding Boy” is pretty much “Inbetween Days” on acid, which is always an improvement where music’s concerned (how do you think we got through Doors albums?), and not only is it the Cure’s BEST B-side, it damn well might be their best fucking SONG ever, and hardly anyone but the most die-hard Cure fans and Hot Topic Club members have even HEARD the damn thing. I don’t think they’ve ever played it live – nor do I think they even COULD – and it would’ve certainly livened up the proceedings on “Head on the Door” (“A nightmare of you, of death in the pool” – how’s about swapping THAT one for starters?). Here, for three minutes, the Cure put aside their “black is how I feel on the inside” persona and just sing for the sheer fucking joy of it. For three minutes, “The Exploding Boy” is the closest the Cure gets to unbridled, mind-altering bliss. Why, I betcha Robert was so happy during the recording session, he changed into a dark brown shirt.
SQUID POP METER SEZ: A perfect 10 out of 10 BEST SERVED WITH: That's easy. Pop Rocks and Coke. Bingo!
This is NOT Lucifer's friend. It is, however, Lucifer's really REALLY annoying wing man.
LUCIFER'S FRIEND, "Ride the Sky"/"Horla" (German Vertigo label, 1970) Between the screaming Valkyrie battle cry that opens this little black slab of insanity and the mastodon-in-heat mating call synthesizer shrieks that circle above, "Ride the Sky" has often been cited as the inspiration for Led Zeppelin's Valhallan epic "Immigrant Song." The two of 'em certainly SOUND like they could both summon up their own personal Ragnarok easily enough, but musically, I gotta admit - I hear more of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" or early Deep Purple in THESE punishing psych metal grooves. The non-LP "Horla," meanwhile (not a tribute to the giant carpet-munching pinball-spewing mine demon from Star Trek's "Devil in the Dark"), is simply a good excuse to summon up a big ol' demon-worshipping guitar riff that's hairier than Fergie's armpits and then jam the living daylights out of it. Those searching for breaks will probably get some mileage out of a very cool bass and drum breakdown. Those searching for a cheap and easy way to peel the paint off your walls will find two sides of crushing hard rock that could only come from Satan's REAL friend. That sound you hear is the sound of Jimmy Page weeping.
SQUID AIR GUITAR METER SEZ: 10 out of 10 BEST SERVED WITH: Andechser Doppelbock Dunkel and a shot of Jagermeister, sipped from inside a pentagram drawn with the blood of Abe Vigoda.
I HAVE A DOCTORATE DEGREE IN MASS POP CULTURE, FILM STUDIES AND MUSICAL THEORY, AND HAVE WRITTEN MANY THESES ON THE COMPLEX INTERCONNECTIONS OF POPULAR CINEMA, MUSICAL TRENDS AND THE UBIQUITOUSLY TRANSIENT NATURE OF SOCIETAL NORMS. OH, AND I THINK THE OLSEN TWINS ARE REALLY HOT.
