A FEW (STRANGE) WORDS WITH ODERUS.

Way back when, during the mammoth nerd expo that is San Diego Comic-Con (circa 2009).   


At one lofty point during the course of my Comic-Con immersion I found my self locked in one particularly cramped and unsanitary men's restroom with none other than the morally ignorant, gloriously inhuman Oderus Urungus, front man to the world renowned 'Scumdogs of the Universe', GWAR. I put myself in this potentially suspect situation (think prison sex with less hygiene) in order to obtain some nuggets of wisdom from perhaps the greatest rock persona since...uh, that guy with the chainsaw from Jackyl.

We begin with a warm up, just to get the juices flowing.
I ask the esteemed Mr. Urungus to share his thoughts and musings on the  impending 25th anniversary of his band, the accompanying tour and (most  importantly) the arrival of the latest and potentially greatest GWAR record to  date, 'Lust in Space'.
'Basically what we got going this year is GWAR's 25th year on the planet since we've been dethawed via the copious overuse of hairspray. 25 years is not a heck of a lot to an eternal god, it's more like half of an eye blink, yet in human terms it's a long time. So we have decided to declare the onset of a two year celebration of all things GWAR. Our new album, 'Lust in Space' drops on August 18th. We will have a two year celebration because, quite simply, one year is too short. Two years is twice as long! We might even take it up to 3 or 4 years if it's going well.'

'GWAR will go down in history as the band that took 25 years to break. It's a lot like jacking off for 25 years and finally getting your nut, which is what I will be doing at every show.'

Every  one?

'At every single show I will share my filthy load upon your faces and together, all you freaks out there who have supported GWAR for all these  years will be paid back in full. GWAR is not an easy band to support, you've got to take the slings and arrows of ignorant assholes that don't understand our majesty. It's a whole new level of commitment. What other band asks you to sever your mother's head, core out her genitals with a daisy cutter and then have sex with the family dog? Not many, but GWAR fans are all over it.'

About this new record, where does it fit in reference to your earlier works?
'I would say that it is a new level of GWAR's super awesome-nasity (sic). If you took all the GWAR albums and melted them down into mush, it probably fits somewhere in the middle. It's got the thrash of 'Hell-o', the epic metal of 'America Must Be Destroyed', the Dungeons and Dragons on LSD of 'Violence Has Arrived' and it's got the  title of 'Lust in Space'. It is the greatest GWAR album since the last time  we did an album.'

'GWAR at its' worst destroys Slipknot at its' best. Even when Cory what's his face is crapping into a solid gold toilet right onto his fans' faces. We've got a relationship with our fans that is beyond insidious, it's not rape, yet it has something to do with dentistry. I'm not sure what that means but I know that Monty Python would understand.'

Let's talk about your re-signing with Metal Blade Records and also one particular track on 'Lust in Space' that appears to have heavy radio airplay written all over it, 'Make a Child Cry', what inspired you to write this little gem?

'On this planet, there is this whole idea that children are to be 'cared for'. They are to be fed, they are to be given presents and so forth. In outer space, children are used as power units for cybernetic war suits or sex aids and the like. The children of your planet are your  future and if we can destroy them all you will have none, and that is kind of the idea behind  that.'

As for Metal Blade........?

'We're back with Metal Blade, we were on some other label for awhile that didn't make any sense what so ever, they went broke or something. So we're finally back with the ultimate metal label in the world, it was just the perfect time, with the 25th anniversary thing and all. The cosmos, the planets, they're all in line to make this the most successful year in GWAR's history. Metal Blade, they are very much like us, they've been out forever and gone through highs and lows, yet they've hung in there. Brian Slagel (the label's founder) is fat and bald and I love the man. Bringing GWAR back together with Metal Blade is like Laural and Hardy, Charlie and Chaplin, it's like 'you got your anal sex into my carburetor!' It's a wonderful thing.'

Huh?

'They're putting out the new record, it's really the  story of GWAR's final escape from earth. We travel through space, we run out of crack, we have to go back to  earth, that's pretty much the story.'

How about this epic new tour? Any surprise guests?

'Well, we don't wanna give anything away. We got Sleazy P. Martini with us this year. Now that he's solidified his control of the crack industry and the world porno industry, he's back into erecting solid gold skyscrapers and managing the band. We got a lot of off-planet people, back from the old days before GWAR came to this world. Like our old General, General Zod.'

Will you make another stop at the Rave, in gorgeous downtown Milwaukee?

'We'll be back in Milwaukee or Chicago, it all depends on who gives us more money.' (The boys will be sharing the stage at the Rave with Lamb of God and Job For a Cowboy November 6th)

In conclusion, can you just throw a few words out there about what GWAR means to you at this  point?

'All I can say is this, GWAR is the greatest band in rock n' roll history. Nobody cares so much about their  fans that they would mouth Jello molds into a testicle.'

And with that last pearl of infinite wisdom, Sir Oderus wraps me in a sweaty, drunken embrace and we part ways. I stumble in my typical Menasha way out into a fitfully rank crowd to bare witness to the two-fold threat of GWAR and Canadian battle metal progenitors, 3 Inches of Blood, and I have lots of woefully under lit pictures to prove it.

Perfect.

GWAR BQ-2014. (R.I.P. ODERUS)

A PHOTOGRAPHIC REFLECTION ON THE EPIC EVENT THAT WAS, THIS PAST AUGUST IN LOVELY HADAD'S LAKE, RICHMOND VA.

 Meat, Beer, Punks, Mutants, O.G.'s and Bloody Bohabs all 'round.

Paying flaming last respect to the old while ushering in the new. 8-15+16-2014.

GWAR!  GWAR!  GWAR!  GWAR!

 

CONSUMED WITH DISTURBING BEHAVIOR

(or, Some Fits of art that belong to Harmony Korine.)





This is a throwback piece originally published in the Jan. 2010 issue of the Central Wisconsin newspaper The Scene.

Sometime this year I pray to hold the privilege of catching a potentially life corrupting piece of no-rent cinema by the name of 'Trash Humpers' (view what passes just barely for a trailer here, www.harmony-korine.com). The 'plot details', such as they are, involve the day to day misbehaviors of a small mob of apparently geriatric assholes (embodied by a cast that includes Korine himself in grubby old timer masks and wigs) as they seek to raise the bar on all out anti-social deviance. The film sports a deliberately dodgy aesthetic, like some kind of oft viewed VHS bootleg derived from a clandestine tape trading circle. This intriguing mess was wrestled together in a reported few weeks time for change by an erstwhile enemy of the mainstream named Harmony Korine.

Korine is a singular artistic voice out of Nashville, Tennessee that first left scars on the public conscious as the father of the script that became Larry Clark's unwavering debut 'Kids', a movie that addressed many of the darker truths of juvenile delinquency. That picture's critical and art crowd notoriety earned Korine the freedom to adhere to an unfiltered exploration of some of his own thematic whims and obsessions via a series of films, publications and exhibitions that would nurture a fervent cult status.

Among the films, the first (and, by far, finest) would be a one of a kind number, built to polarize called 'Gummo'. The first time I laid eyes on this glorious little eyesore, I was boozing it up proper at a house party that resisted in the hateful majority when I popped the tape in (circa 1998) convinced we would all be changed for the better. I found myself imprisoned in its' gut level fairytale ramblings and way left field visionary tendencies to the point where I became completely fixated, I couldn't tare my sockets away from the screen.

Korine's pseudo apocalyptic chronicle of a bleak living atmosphere in small town Ohio (post tornado) is like a trip through the most criminally endearing and car crash compelling hell the mind can fabricate. One lasting image follows another for one and a half hours and then it's gone, leaving one with the sizable task of processing just what has transpired. The very loose sketch of a storyline involves two bottom feeder protagonists (Nick Sutton, Jacob Reynolds) and their interfacing with peers and perpetrators in about the streets of what can best be discerned as an 'impoverished' neighborhood. To a manic soundtrack of droning narration, death metal and sludgy ambiance one can bare helpless witness to the loopy sights of redneck royalty drinking, fighting, sporting mullets, drowning cats, being gross, open heart confessing to a homosexually inclined midget and defying political correctness at every open opportunity.

Two specific moments that encapsulate the bent worth of the picture for me are; 1-a junkyard showdown of sorts between two grubby pre-pube cowpokes and a poor fella sporting large fake rabbit ears that they proceed to attack, rob and berate at beautiful length. 2-a portly retarded chick dressed in a Krokus t-shirt holding a plastic baby doll and reciting her 'A,B,C's'. That's not to mention the  shirtless wrestling match involving a fold out table or the guy who pimps his obese, half-wit sister or the kid eating spaghetti while bathing in filthy water or.....get the picture yet?

As can be easily gleaned from the above rambling, this is a particular work for a particular mind set. If you ever find that you are growing impatient with the big budget, formulaic narrative standards long established as commercially viable, if you have trouble forcing yourself into caring for Sandra Bullock and her forced good Samaritan routine with some poor homeless football prodigy or John Cusack outliving the end of the world, then I think Mr. Korine has the antidote for your wayward soul.

With 'Trash Humpers' still lingering on my 'as yet to see' wish list, I will have to lend passing nods to the rest of Harmony Korine's directorial efforts.

'Julien Donkey-Boy' came close on the heels of the almighty 'Gummo' and suffered immediate letdown syndrome brought on by over zealous expectations on my part. It just goes to prove, one can only be taken aback the way Korine's crazed debut did me once, all coming after begins to feel redundant. So with 'Julien' there was an initial impression of 'seen this sorta thing before', as the film indulged in many similar themes and ideas though with a nod more to the linear in terms of the narrative pattern.

Repeat visits to this sophomore effort after I managed to vacate any pretentious expectations allowed me to extract the jewels of eccentricity that help 'Julien Donkey-Boy' triumph on its own malformed terms. This saga of the manic titular individual (played by 'Trainspotting' alum, Ewen Bremner) his quasi-militant pops (the great German director Werner Herzog, who dives in full force) and the sister (Chloë  Sevigny) with whom he is expecting an offspring actually rests upon a basic domestic drama outline, adhering to more linear terms in juxtaposition with 'Gummo'. But, if you think Harmony Korine is about to safely coast through this thing on formula alone, let me tell ya folks, not going to happen.

Korine and his cameraman, Anthony Dod Mantle, have conspired to rep the obvious mental shortcomings of dear Julien care a multi layering of the initial footage. They've taken it from digital and dumped it onto 16mm film stock and blown the result up to 35 mm to really grain drench the imagery into a remarkably erratic level. Never, to me, has such manic delirium held this type of dreamy appeal. The employment of heavily distorted visuals and even the occasional sharp switch to still photography and random blurring effects at first may come off as pure stunts of artsy self gratification, but, upon further digestion, read more as the spill over of the warped energy emanating from the eccentricities contained herein.

Korine even manages a fair collection of stand alone moments (though markedly less so then in 'Gummo'). Prime among there are the sight of a group of blind people getting down at a bowling ally and Julien's heavily put-upon brother (Evan Neumann) wrestling viciously with a plastic garbage receptacle (this director sure digs his humans battling inanimate objects). Oh, I cannot disregard the diminutive Black Albino ('straight from Alabama, way down south and you know that I'm a...') busting loose on the freestyle.

The film was created under the guidelines of the Dogma 95 manifesto (which can be retrieved here-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dogme_95#Goals_and_rules) set forth by Danish mavens Lars von Trier and Thomas Vinterberg, though Korine managed to take liberties when it suited him. The finished film ended up in the loving arms of cult cinema nerds after some scattered play-dates (mostly fests) and Korine stepped away from features for several years to focus on various other outlets (shorts, music videos, a script for another Larry Clark film-'Ken Park', photo exhibitions and a dabbling in substance abuse and depression) before landing his biggest scale project in 'Mister Lonely'.

The problem with this tale of love, angst and endless daydreaming shared by a commune of celebrity impersonators is that its higher end production values and semi-name actors work at some opposition to the Harmony Korine methodology in favor of the stranger things in this here human race. There is a measured stifling quality on hand as we follow a faux Michael Jackson (Diego Luna) and Marilyn Monroe (Samantha Morton) and various others as they struggle to mount an ambitious performance piece for the locals in a remote section of Scotland (!!). Yes, absurd, but played far too straight too much of the time to truly work. Only an altogether out of place side plot involving Werner Herzog (again, a scene stealer) as a priest flying relief missions in Central America with a handful of fearless, sky diving nuns provides any true link with the inventive retardation of either of the director's previous films.

Korine himself has suggested some dissatisfaction with both the greater demands of a more expensive (for him-$8-9million) project and the finished result. Thus we come full circle to the film he has created partly as an antidote to said misgivings and partly as an extension of the freak voice that made his freshman and sophomore pictures so worthy. 'Trash Humpers' could very well be the apex of Harmony Korine's love affair with the romantic abnormalities of human behavior and the ever crooked paths they nurture into the kind of storytelling he finds priority level film making material.

I hope I will not be the only fool waiting in anticipation for a shot to spend some screen time on some random Nashville street with a few filthy degenerates giving blatant irrationality a good/bad name.

One more thing, it should be noted in passing that both 'Gummo' and 'Julien Donkey-Boy' are available on the cheap ($5.79 each) at the friendly Internet warehouse Amazon.com.


Anything crude and/or impolite that anyone would wish to add can be submitted here-killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

CRUEL NORWEGIAN BLACK METAL.

There's one 'round every corner.

Within any so-called creative network, there always proves to be a heady handful of left of field types. Outsiders, creepy sons-a-bitches or 'fringe' players plying their indifference to convention and wrecking havoc on the safe and serene. These are the artistic marks on the human race that serve to set things off balance every now and again through both behavioral traits and tangible output, be it sonic, photographic, drawn out on any given material, whatever. This is the shit and these are the folks that work under the skin and into the subconscious, raping away at what the common man may perceive as 'A-OK!'

Now, I have sworn allegiance to both the bent dementia of the artistic outcast and the non-fiction form in moving pictures. I've been devoting ample time to both subjects in this here column of mine ever since day one ('tis true, just go dig through some moldy back issues at the Appleton Library), thus it would prove second nature for me to fully embrace and digest the coming together of inventive, yet bent, humanity and ace documentation.

A case in point........

The majority of the people I know and tend to run with address the scrappy hard rock sub-sub-sub genre of Black Metal as some kind of guttural train wreck clown routine drenched in quasi-medieval posturings straight outta some random B-movie redressing of deep-rooted Scandinavian folklore. Any average fool need not look further than established brutes Immortal and the layout imagery for their seminal record 'Battles in the North' as impetus to, either, bug your eyes way out in disbelief or let forth a torrent of savage giggles. Two dudes in corpse paint, all stone serious and posing dire with their guitars in a pile of bright, white snow, there you have it, black metal in a nutshell.

Not so fast with such simple, easy judgments, time to scratch just below the surface. Take a more explicit sampling of the recordings and press (and fanboy) response on through the years (in great particular-'Lords of Chaos:The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground' by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind and photographer Peter Beste's tome 'True Norwegian Black Metal') and one can discover a brutal, convoluted soap opera of double crossings, deceit, copious church crisping, murder fantasies (and realities), homo/xenophobic and barely disguised fascist leanings.

All of these handy, highly melodramatic nuggets find themselves dredged up to the surface yet again via an intertwining of dialogs and cultural samplings that make for the bulk of the meat in the newly presented study on this Norwegian Black Metal scene titled 'Until The Light Takes Us'. This rather earnest little slab of immersive reportage attempts to distill the epic scale madness and confounding (to the uninitiated) level of addictive appeal to those among us who've actually taken the time to 'get it' to a manageable degree. The two names behind this project, Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell, sought to gain unfiltered insight into the inner workings of this mini-phenom by uprooting themselves and moving to Norway to acclimate to the locals and generate trust and accessibility with many of the principles in the normally stand-offish Black Metal fraternity.



In the end, the pair have scaled their point of focus down to two primary voices. Gylve 'Fenriz' Nagell is a founding progenitor of the watershed genre outfit Darkthrone and Varg Vikernes established underground 'fame' via his hand in the notorious Mayhem and his own, one man, raw dog juggernaut Burzum. The choice of these fellas proves an apt one as they offer up sharply contrasting vibes as interviewees. Nagell resembles to me, the archetype death metal rat; skinny, disheveled, with stringy long hair and a mumbling, socially inept demeanor. Hardly an intimidating presence, Nagell is more reminiscent of the countless dudes in patch saturated black leather jackets I'm used to seeing skulking about at many a given metal gig. Vikernes, however, is as strong a persona as Nagell is shrug-shouldered and meek. Varg (sometimes known as 'Count Grishnackh' care, in part, of a predilection toward the works of Tolkien) is an alpha-male straight away, bold, articulate and unwavering in his apparent confidence as he attempts to address the depth of his pivotal role in black metal history from his pale, sterile cell in a maximum security joint in Trondheim.

You see folks, Varg was a very naughty lad, he was tried and convicted for the offing of one time band mate Øystein 'Euronymous' Aarseth (from Mayhem) by way of multiple knife wounds. Vikernes was also heavily suspected as a participant in the then rampant outbreak of area church burnings (a symbolic burden that the black metal scene would prove unable to fully divorce itself from that point on). Varg claims the Euronymous homicide as a 'kill-or-be-killed' situation in which he bested a man who was out to do him in.

The filmmakers chart all this tension and turmoil by bouncing the words of their primary talking heads off footage (both new and archival) of the scene itself, from raw early band formations and alterations (like the shotgun suicide of initial Mayhem frontman, er, 'Dead') to present day evidence of outside cultural encroachment (7-11 and McDonald's do not warrant much affection from these gents). They also manage to wrangle a solid supporting cast of scene players from such essential collectives as Satyricon, Ulver and Immortal (sans makeup, sadly) to augment the topics at large. We learn the whole disaffected youth scenario that led the lads to seek out the rawest possible outlet to vent against their oppressive 'perfect' culture (Norway is not known for poverty and strife, you see). The film goes for a sort of drifting pace that veers between Varg and Nargell, twisting their now very separate paths back around into their shared origins and back out towards the open possibilities that await both men and the now more renowned musical outlet they both, in a basic sense, still embrace.

If the film itself is not at all perfect, it does meander some from time to time as it were an awe struck, slightly stoned youth with a taste of ADD, it serves well enough to guide the clueless newcomer though the bare essentials of why some folks grow rather nerd obsessive over all this raspy and seemingly unpleasant noise-making. It's about stepping away from the constrictions of mainstream metal brands and styles and indulging in the unfiltered, raw power and aggression coming through the music. For the previously well schooled and 'total brutal' completest (the type who pointlessly boast over a rare vinyl 7" pressed in someones cellar in Austria or something), there is that extra shade of persona revealed in the occasionally rambling and less polished discussions at hand (especially in the case of the fidgety Nargell). Plus there comes a few unexpected asides like the sudden two-cents commentary provided by 'Gummo' mastermind Harmony Korine who gushes love for all things Black Metal over appropriately low grade footage of him in corpse paint geeking out solid in some unfortunate gallery. Sometimes, things just sound more fucked the further you attempt to explain them.




A smaller, Brooklyn based distributor, Factory 25, has stepped up to make the film available to one and all on both DVD and Blue-Ray formats. The film can be retrieved in both single and double disc packages. With that second disc, the willing viewer may witness an additional barrage of interview footage (which gives much needed expansion to the Immortal interview as well as a certain Kjetil 'Frost' Haraldstad of Satyricon who ends the film proper with a self-abusive performance piece that does little to dissuade the commonly held notion that this is, indeed, dangerous music). There is also several deleted scenes (on disc one), a theatrical trailer and a long winded lesson in the step by step evolution of the Black Metal scene from the expected Black Sabbath kick start on into the modern era delivered in mostly listless monotone by Mr. Nargell. In total, a worthy project well handled, but for the troublesome way the discs on the DVD version are encased (I damn near snapped both of mine in two trying to take them out...beware!)

Genuinely interested parties are greatly encouraged to stop here (http://www.factorytwentyfive.com/until-the-light-takes-us/ ) to satisfy any and all further steps that need be taken to make this baby theirs.

Enough pure crushing blackened hate for now, stay, uh, 'Evil' why don't you?


killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com





FAITH NO MORE?

IT'S QUITE AMAZING. ACTUALLY, THAT I EVER EVEN SNAPPED A SINGLE SHOT OF THESE 'BASTARDS' AS I ONCE GOT THE BOOT FROM THE BROOKLYN BASED WATERFRONT VENUE FOR POSSESSING A MORE THAN DECENT CAMERA AND AS A CONSEQUENCE, HAD TO GO AHEAD AND SNEAK INTO A GIG THAT I HAD ALREADY PAID MY $60+ IN TICKETING AND FEES TO SEE.......AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH=LOGICAL.

I Shoot ROCK STARS.

No matter the size, shape, color or poise. They can sweat, bleed, tumble and vomit all over their drunken fan base for all I care, just as long as they feed my lens with the filthy delirium of the underground.


Respect the scene, respect the sound(s).