I won’t lie to you; I’m a conceited guy. I probably possess an overabundance of confidence in my own skills. As I grow older, I try to temper this arrogance, because I’ve seen how it can drive others away; friends, loved ones, fans. But you must understand the importance of this feature (not a bug). In today’s world, you have to be crazy to get anything accomplished.
I have a “Messiah complex”, for which I blame no one but myself. My endless vitriol directed at the entertainment universe springs from the concrete belief that I can do better for you. I can give you what you really want.
I adore them. Their art, their culture, their contributions to the enlightenment of our world. Hate me all you want, but I never felt prouder of Donald Trump than I did when he refused to shake Angela Merkel’s hand for a photo op. Trump didn’t want to get France’s blood all over his hand, and Merkel’s mitts are positively oozing with the spilt plasma of Europe.
DIY stands for “do-it-yourself”. You knew that, right? It was once a point of pride in music production. People love DIY, because it lights that little bulb in the mind that signals “I can do that”.
Ideally, you should feel that way about anything people do, aside from brain surgery or bomb disposal (and you can learn how to do those). Shoot, you could change your gender if you set your mind and wallet to it, but that’s a personal matter, and not something you want to capitalize upon. Still, there’s a lot to be said for taking a grass-roots shot at an admittedly lofty goal. For example, producing a homemade movie.
Horror icons are sparse in the 21st century for a very simple reason. Horror used to be adults scaring children. Now it’s all about creepy children scaring adults, and adults don’t scare the way kids do. Hence, a decent slasher flick gets forgotten after four or five years, regardless of how many sequels it has (witness the interminable Saw franchise of torture-porn).
Two of the most enduring figures in terror are Freddy Krueger and Jason Voorhees, of the Nightmare on Elm St. and Friday the 13th franchises. Both are bogeymen; mythical killers of young folks, in familiar settings. Therein lies the key to their longevity and appeal. Continue reading →
I first saw it in the dormitory, in 1990. I knew the song, but I’d never seen the video before. Myself and about five other male freshmen, stopped cold in front of someone’s TV. Upon the screen of which, a voluptuous, thick woman rolled around in a fishnet that seemed to conceal everything and nothing simultaneously.
She sang about touching herself.
Even still, the tone of her voice felt innocent somehow, like it was a surprising confession. Also, the singer had very large breasts. It was a lot to take, for a music video.
In 1991, I used to hang out with these chicks. They were, shall we say, really into a band called Jane’s Addiction. Coincidentally, there is a band I violently detest called Jane’s Addiction. I actually spoke the words “if Perry Farrell comes over here, let’s sucker-punch him” to a friend, during set-up for Lollapalooza 2003 (Farrell luckily didn’t approach.) If you are listening to Jane’s Addiction, and the recording is distorted by a throaty, otherworldly moan, it’s a sure indication that I am within earshot.
Thus, in the spirit of diplomacy, I would engender discussion of music other than Jane’s Addiction that the girls liked. Agent Orange was an easy sell, but then of course they focused on the mushy late-80s stuff, like “Fire In The Rain”. The best album they introduced me to was undoubtedly Primus’ Sailing The Seas Of Cheese.